FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 16 - LES

Chapter 16

“The Dark Knight”

Godric awoke from his feverish, dream-filled sleep when the sun rose over the mountains in the east behind the island and lake. The small blanket he had used to cover his chest and arms was rumpled and damp with sweat, though his fever was gone. Godric looked around as if expecting to see the woman he had rescued, but all he found was the sword he had purchased with the last coin. The sword of fire and its purple scabbard were on the blanket beside him.

Aspen, he saw, was awake near the old oak, busy nibbling grass. Godric looked up and found the large crow flying down toward him. Philip landed on the grass beside Godric, cocked his head to look up at the Prince. “Morning, Boss.” Philip noticed the mended sleeve on the Prince’s jacket, decided that discretion might indeed be the better part of valor, and said nothing about the patched cut. “Sleep well?” your highness, he asked instead, trying not to look at the jacket.

“Well enough,” replied the Prince though he still felt somewhat disoriented, the after effects of the fever, he supposed. “You haven’t seen the woman who was here last night, I suppose?”

Philip looked around. “There was a woman here last night? I don’t remember that. Are you certain?”

“Yes. She had seven small caskets with coins on the lids. I had to choose three of them. Each took me to a different place. More magic, perhaps. I found the woman again in the last place, but I only have the sword I got there, some evidence of the adventure, that it was somehow real.”

“That the sword?” asked Philip, bounding over Godric to the far side of the blanket for a better look. “I can feel the magic of it. It’s a potent weapon, I should think, but do you really need two swords?”

Godric looked down. The sword he had brought from the castle had disappeared from his side in the night, replaced by the new sword. “My other sword’s gone. I have only one, it seems, though this one is as sharp and powerful as the other.”

“I hope so,” said Philip. “But now, what are we going to do about getting to the island?”

“First thing, a little food. Then you might fly out to the island and see if there’s any way to get there.”

“Sounds like a plan, Boss.”

The Prince rooted around in the knapsack, brought out a generous portion of food, which he shared with Philip. When they were done eating, Godric led the horse to the lake, took off his clothes and walked in, where he scrubbed the remnants of the night away. Philip followed the Prince to the lakeside and drank his fill. When the Prince was done with his bath, he stepped out of the cool water and used a portion of the blanket to dry himself. That done, he dressed, led the horse back to his camp, saddled her, repacked the food and supplies, buckled the new sword to his belt and looked around for Philip who had taken off for the island.

In the distance the Prince could see the bird circling in the air above the island. When Philip returned in a great state of excitement, he settled onto a branch of the oak at beside Godric. “Hey, Boss. You aren’t going to believe this, but the buildings on the island appear to be empty. No one’s moving out there anywhere, as far as I could tell. Furthermore, the island itself has moved from where it was yesterday. In fact it’s moving now, floating. The place looks haunted! You sure you still want to go there?”

The Prince looked out at the island which did seem to be in a different location than last evening. “If that’s the City of Ardor, then that’s where we are going. You can stay here if you wish, I will try to find a way out there.”

“All right. If you’re going so am I,” replied Philip.

“Good! It looks as though the City gate is to the north. Let’s go that way then and see what we find.”

The Prince mounted Aspen and set her head north around that side of the lake. When he and Philip were parallel with the gate, he saw that a good-sized barge had set out from the City. No one guided it, but it had a large red and black striped sail in the center and the barge was moving through the water toward the Prince.

The Prince watched its silent progress until it reached the shore. He saw there was enough room for his horse; he dismounted, led her onto the barge as well, which settled more into the water with their weight.

“I warned you, Boss! It’s an enchanted island. Who knows what awaits us out there! This is pretty scary stuff! Are you sure that thing is safe? How do we guide it?”

The Prince laughed. “It made it here on its own; I reckon it will make it back since it looks as though it was sent for us.”

“Yes, but by whom? That’s the problem.”

“Come on,” gestured the Prince. “Fly over here, sit on the saddle, and quit shaking.”

When Philip had done what the Prince asked, the barge backed away from shore, reversed itself and started back toward the seemingly enchanted island. The Prince fell into a brown study, and Philip for once stayed quiet, though he wondered what or about whom the Prince was thinking.

The barge bumped against a ramp that extended down to the water, shaking the Prince out of his melancholy reverie.

“You okay, Boss?”

“Yes,” replied the Prince as he led his horse off the barge and toward the gates of the City, which swung open as they approached. He wondered what he would find here, whether it would involve another battle or another rescue. He thought about the two women, Elesandra/Elisandra (wretched Imp!) and Raissa. He also wondered whether either woman was real or if he were being led into some kind of demonic trap.

The stout gate was made of wood reinforced with metal strips; the gates were held in place by black triangular hinges fastened into the arch and walls of the City. Suddenly a voice rang out before him. “Welcome to Ardor, young Prince. Have you come to court our Princess, overthrow our King or perhaps to battle the Dark Knight and win renown?”

Godric looked for the source of the voice that seemed to fill the air around him. No one was visible. Philip, still crouched on the saddle, grumpily croaked out “Magic!” And tucked his head under his wing. Godric looked at him and laughed. “I came to court the Princess,” he said in a loud voice. Before him were buildings made of red brick and stone block, several stories tall. As Philip had said, the buildings looked empty. Before him was a wide street and the dark windows of the buildings appeared to be vacant eyes looking out on nothing. The doors of the buildings were solid wood.

The voice responded, the words again rippling the air around Godric: “Mount your horse. To court the Princess you must first meet the Dark Knight who awaits you at the end of the street.” Philip pulled his head from under his wing as the Prince swung back into the saddle. “I told you this was a scary place, but you had to come! Beauty is worth it,” you said.

“Hush, Philip! Fly up to the roof of that smaller building and keep an eye on things down here. Go on.” Philip did as he was told, flying up, landing on the building roof, perching on the edge of the building, looking down on the street.

“Good!” said the Prince, watching the bird’s flight. When he looked back at the street, he saw a horseman at the other end of the street, standing before the towering City castle, dressed in black armor, riding a black horse. In one hand he held a long, pointed ebony lance; in the other his horse’s reins. The black horse impatiently pawed the ground, his hooves striking the cobblestones sounded like thunder.

“I have no armor, no lance,” spoke the Prince into the emptiness around him. No sooner spoken than he found himself holding a long solid lance with a sharp bronze tip. The lance was heavy thick wood, but the Prince used his right hand to level it, his left on the reins, like his counterpart at the end of the street.

No sooner had he leveled the lance than he saw the Dark Knight spur his horse forward, the horse’s hooves throwing sparks as the well-shod horse’s hooves hit the street. Godric used his knees to urge Aspen into a gallop as well. The two riders met with a crash in the center of the City street. Godric had used his lance to move the Dark Knight‘s lance away from him so that his own lance could strike the knight’s armor, which it did and sent him tumbling off his horse. The knight got slowly to his feet and drew his sword from a black scabbard; his horse continued down the road and disappeared into the distance.

Godric swung off Aspen and drew the new sword from the colorful scabbard, dropped the reins, and moved toward the Dark Knight. “Do we really need to do this?” asked Godric. “You went down. That should be it.” The Dark Knight said nothing, only advanced on Godric, who kept his sword leveled at the approaching figure. Once again he found himself in a serious sword fight. Both men swung their swords with a resounding crash, swung them back and struck again. Sparks flew from the onslaught, as Godric sought to press his opponent back and send him back to the ground. The fight went back and forth for several minutes, until the Dark Knight raised his sword above his head to bring a blow down on Godric’s unprotected head. Godric saw his opponent’s sudden vulnerability and swung his own sword into the Dark Knight’s waist. The Knight let his sword fall to the street with an ominous clatter, seemed to clasp his stomach, but then collapsed onto the street.

Godric went to him, raised the visor of his black helmet, and saw nothing. He kicked the armor and sent the breastplate flying across the street, but the suit of armor was empty. Godric had been fighting nothing, no one, an empty suit of armor. In the distance he heard the sound of steady laughter. He returned his sword to its scabbard, walked to his horse and picked up her reins. Philip flew from the roof down to the saddle. “Well fought, your highness. But what do we do now?”

“There’s a large castle at the far end of the street. There’s where we go from here! Perhaps we’ll find some answers there!”

Image: not the Dark Knight! He’s Looney Tune’s Taz!

FAIRYTALE: INTERLUDE 4 - LES

Interlude 4

“Uti & Frui”

[I find myself reflecting on the actress, Roberta, whose image magically manifested itself at the end of chapter 15. There’s another dual aspect of woman at work there, I discovered. There’s Lara, the young woman in the TV series, who has various good relationships with all the other characters in the series, and there’s Roberta, the young lady who played that character some ten years ago. If a person is attracted to the lovely woman in the story, he is in truth more than likely to believe he is infatuated with the actress, not realizing he doesn’t know anything about the actress, except that she is attractive in the story and exceedingly lovely. Now that feminine loveliness is the issue. For the first thing one wants to do is capture the beauty, hold onto it somehow: perhaps find her picture on the internet, pin it up on the wall, post it in a blog, perhaps, as if that beauty would fill the possible emptiness within, when in effect what that beauty should do is lead one to pursue it without, as if beauty were the nature of reality itself.

Augustine makes a distinction between two types of love, use love (uti) and love one can truly enjoy, find real pleasure in (frui), related to our word fruition, I imagine. The purpose of use love is to lead us beyond the object loved to God where we might experience real pleasure and fulfillment.

Here’s one internet account of the two loves: “Augustine distinguishes between the final goal of human life, the enjoyment (frui) of God, and the means we use (uti) in order to arrive at that goal (I, i, 1–iv, 9). All that we do or decide not to do must aim at love of God. Everything else we may use only in order to attain that goal.”
Here’s a second: “In his recent Theology of Augustine: An Introductory Guide to His Most Important Works (6-7), Matthew Levering offers this summary of Augustine’s distinction between use and enjoyment, uti and frui : ‘In loving our neighbors and ourselves, we should do nothing that is not also fully and truly love of God. If we were to act against the love of God, we would thereby fail also to be true lovers of our neighbors and ourselves. With regard to our neighbors and ourselves, ‘use’ therefore signifies rightly ordered love rather than manipulation or instrumentalization.’”

One problem with contemporary culture is that it tends to seduce or betray us into believing that there is nothing beyond the tangible, nothing for us truly to rest in. There is only use. “Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;/Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.” Lara isn’t real; she’s a fictional character. Roberta is a real woman, one hopes, now ten years older than when she played Lara. Surprise. Inspector Manara in the TV series sleeps around; he’s extremely attractive to women; he and Lara almost got married, but the marriage ceremony was, of course, interrupted and never completed; Lara left town for a better job in the big city. After seeing Lara off on a bus, tearful farewells and all, Manara gives a lovely young woman who just got off that bus a ride back into town on his motorcycle. Coincidentally, the new woman has a room reserved at the place where he stays. Next morning we find him, Inspector Manara, in bed in her room, after a night of ardent passion, we are led to imagine! This is use love, uti. Real marriage could have been an image of a “rightly ordered” love and a proper relationship. But Manara in the series hesitated so long to say “I do” that another motorcycle rider, head covered with helmet, identity obscured, had time to stumble into the church and die in the aisle, thus becoming a fitting image of the consequences of use love: death, a corpse, another limited mystery to be solved immediately. Thus we are, as Eliot might say, “Distracted from distraction by distraction.”

What, a reader might wonder, do all these details have to do with our story? Well it turns out everything and nothing. Our Prince Charming, Godric the Good (at least thus far) is in a love story, clumsy and awkward as that telling might be. (The teller apologizes.) Structurally, the love story usually has an obstacle that prevents the young man and young woman from enjoying their love, best symbolized by a severe and demanding father [see Northrop Frye’s Anatomy of Criticism], Prospero in The Tempest pretends to be such a father, though he really desires that Ferdinand and Miranda fall in love and marry once they are off the enchanted island. When the young people have fulfilled his wish by conveniently falling in love, Prospero truly needs to leave them alone in his cave to attend to the evil plots unfolding on the island with other sets of characters. However, before he leaves the two lovers alone, he warns them to stay chaste or their lives and love will suffer disastrously. There will be no true fruition in their marriage.

When, later, Prospero returns to the cave where he left the lovers, with the evil plots now resolved, and with all the other characters gathered before the cave dwelling, we find the entrance to the cave covered with a useful curtain; Prospero then has the curtain thrust aside and “discovers” Ferdinand and Miranda playing chess! What a marvelous story Shakespeare has told, virtually perfect in every aspect: romantic love, Eros, properly bound by Chastity, restraint and reason, uti and frui in right order. And as for the other characters who had intended murder, forgiveness is the operative action on the part of Prospero! Therefore, at the end of that story we have imaged a good society effectively ordered, with the good characters properly in charge and the evil characters properly contained, most of them truly repentant.

Elizabethan culture was in many respects rough, ruthless and barbaric. Consider what they did to Catholic priests when they were caught: the priests were hanged, drawn and quartered. If the reader doesn’t know what that means, he or she (of course) should look it up. Yet at the heart of that very severe culture we find some of the greatest literature ever written: King Lear. Hamlet, Macbeth, As You Like It, The Tempest, The Faerie Queen, Dr. Faustus, etc.. The thing is, we find that those story tellers had keener insight into the nature of reality—Beauty, Truth, Goodness—than writers and thinkers in our own culture. With our cultural blindness and arrogance, our science, our technology, we have locked ourselves into a vast cosmic box that lets us see almost into the beginnings of our universe, beautiful and intriguing as that is, yet lets us understand nothing about its final cause or meaning. We can see back in time almost to the Big Bang; however, we cannot see around us anymore into what it means to be a creature, that is, into the mystery of human identity, into the mystery of why there is a universe at all; in other words, into the mystery of being.

Well, Godric had passed out or fallen asleep with the feverish, demon-inflicted wound. Time to see what happens next in his quest for the beautiful Princess. If I may reflect for a moment on that encounter, Godric, at the time, may not have known it, but essentially in confronting the demon he was also confronting his own interior fallenness, confronted it and defeated it, almost.

Well, no one ever completely defeats that demon. It’s alway there, insinuating itself into every waking moment, looking for an opportunity, a momentary weakness, and then it’s out swords, en guardé, once again! Don’t bother looking around you either; of course they are everywhere, especially in Russia nowadays, perhaps, but that’s not your problem; your problem is the one lurking within, the one you feed regularly and sometimes unknowingly. Call him Nadiel, god of nothing, demon born of original sin.

image: call her Lilith, unsuccessful first wife of Adam, in Hebrew legend and lore.

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 15 - LES

Chapter 15

“Reflection”

We seem to be at somewhat of an impasse, having left Godric back at his camp with his arm bleeding. The three sisters have vanished, presumably back into the lake, Raissa has disappeared for the nonce (I have always wanted to say that); Philip is sleeping soundly in the old oak, Aspen, the horse, is sound asleep as well, close to the tree.

However, before we attend to our heroic Prince and his bleeding arm, we need to consider briefly the mirror, the door out of the tower in the beginning, the way in which Godric first saw the lovely Princess, Elesandra. The imp (of the perverse?) that lives in my machine insists that that is how you spell her name. I thought it was Elisandra but who am I to argue with the imp (of the perverse?). In either case our Prince met her through the looking glass, to use a familiar term, not quite accurate here, but close.

The problem is in the nature of the thing, the tall mirror, for what does a mirror really do? It reflects our own image, our self. So, does that mean that everything that happens to a character who steps into or through a mirror is in some sense stepping into a world that reflects his own desires and concerns? I would suggest that it certainly might. I’m not certain about the protagonist in George MacDonald’s Lilith (delightful story), but here that is true. Godric, in a sense, is in a world that reflects his own desires and abilities, and that is especially true about the Princess. Godric knows nothing about her, except that she is very beautiful and has a strict and somewhat severe father. Godric’s wish was simply to be a suitor. Does that mean that Elisandra/Elesandra is not real? Not necessarily! Godric has an image of a woman in his imagination; the mirror reflects his image and off he goes. The Other, of course, at this point is merely a reflection. She has no substance about which to speak.

(I hate ending sentences with prepositions: “to speak of.”)

A real woman has two selves, so to speak. There is the reality that makes her who she is in all her messy, complicated femininity, her thereness, or “thisness”: basically, she can be loving, kind, loves dogs, has a terrible temper, but she’s prudent, loves growing flowers almost as much as she loves dogs, enjoys classical music, especially Mozart; she likes to eat, steak, for example, pizza, pasta, etc., drinks coffee with one sugar, likes beer, doesn’t like desserts; wants children, preferably girls but boys would be fine too. The list could go on. She’s an interesting, complicated person. Let’s for the moment call her Raissa.

Then, however, there’s the other self, the woman she was meant to be, the woman, Raissa, who exists in the mind of God, the woman she ought to be. That reality always is present too, and she’s either growing towards that reality, or falling away from it. She knows the goodness; the lover sees it in her. It’s what Dante sees in Beatrice when he meets her on the streets of Florence (Firenze); absolute goodness shining through her; the presence of God’s grace, walking the streets of medieval Italy; it’s also the dilemma Troilus encounters when he sees Cressida in the Greek camp, being unfaithful with Diomedes: “ This is and is not Cressida,” he says. Cressida betrayed the vision Troilus had of her, her reflected goodness (is), and had also to face her fallen, sinful betrayal (is not). Both are true about her, about everyone, men and women, or so it seems to me.

Now, back to Godric, on his blanket, bleeding from the demon-inflicted wound. First, he attended to the wound, finding some antiseptic in his well-stocked knapsack, well it was when he and Philip set out, though I can’t quite remember where he got it. He cleaned the wound and wrapped his arm in a strip of clean, thin white cloth. He had tape to mend the leather jacket, and when he finished with it, he carefully and gingerly slipped it on. He looked out into the moonlit night, seeing the rippling moonlight reflected in the lake water disturbed by a slight breeze. He acted as if he expected to find the woman beside him, but she was nowhere to be seen. It occurred to him that she was more real than the Princess he had set out to find and serve. Where could she be, he wondered, stretching out on the blanket and pulling the shorter blanket over him. Even though treated, the wound was beginning to burn and was making him feverish. He closed his eyes and immediately fell into a deeply troubled sleep.

He and Raissa were swimming in the cool waters of the nearby lake. The sunlight glanced off the water and reflected off her shoulders. They were swimming to shore when he saw the head of a large mottled, black and yellow snake swimming towards them. He cut in front of the woman just as the water snake struck at her shoulder. It sank its fangs into Godric, withdrew them quickly and rippled its way across the surface. Godric could feel the fire in his shoulder and a certain paralysis take hold of his legs and arms. His chest constricted, he had trouble breathing and started to slip under the water. Raissa put her arm around him, over his chest, trying to hold him above water and take him to shore. It was no use. He slid out from under her arm and slipped beneath the surface.

Godric was walking in a dark woods, looking for the green-eyed, dark haired woman. He called her name and saw her duck behind a distant tree farther into the woods. He started to run towards her, tripped over a large root growing across the forest path. He fell, striking his head on a rock beside the path. Just as he saw her start back towards him, he felt a sharp pain in his right arm. He looked to the side of the path in time to see the tail of a serpent disappearing into the underbrush. Raissa knelt down beside him as all turned dark within.

Godric and the girl were walking on a cliff above the shore of a blue lake. They were holding hands, looking at one another, as well as out over the beautiful calm lake from moment to moment. The bright sunlight danced over the rippled surface of the water and reflected up towards them. Godric saw a patch of yellow flowers growing near the edge of the cliff. He thought to pick one for Raissa, thinking how lovely it would be in her dark hair. He let go of her hand and stepped to the side of the cliff. He looked down at the water below him; a large, Bald Eagle skimmed the surface of the water, extended its claws, bringing a good-seized rainbow trout out of the water. Godric looked back at the yellow flower, started to put his hand on the stem when a burning pain in his arm caused him to lurch forward, lose his balance, and tumble off the cliff. He heard Raissa scream as once again his world turned dark.

Image: two selves has the woman, both lovely and bright, one as God sees her, the other not quite. Not quite Raissa either, but close. All right. This woman is an actress in a TV series, Inspector Manera. Her name is Roberta Giarrusso. The image on the right (long hair) is from her character in those episodes, Lara. She left during the second season. Alas!

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTERS 13 & 14 - LES

Disclaimer: God only knows what’s going on here, for the present author of this fairytale is mostly befuddled by what changes have taken place in the telling. You might say he’s almost completely in the dark. The good thing about starting with Augustine—below me somewhere—is that the gentle reader is thus assured of receiving some truth in the process. Having said that, thus with some fear and trepidation I pick up my stylus!

Chapter 13

“Third Time’s a Charm”

[As far as writing is concerned I have been moved from grade 1 to college, by Squarespace.. Overnight my website has transformed itself into a monster of complications. I am not pleased. However, my world is unfinished; Godric has opened the purple-coined casket; Raissa is either one of the Fates, the Norns, or someone surprisingly new. I thought at first she was the young one—what’s her name—I forget, and every time I leave this draft I have trouble finding it again. But I like her, Raissa. In any case, we shall now see where purple takes us. After all, third time’s a charm.]

Godric looked into the casket. This time he was alone. Though the casket had disappeared, he still held the purple coin in his hand. The sky was just beginning to show traces of light; the clouds in the east were streaked with varying shades of red and orange. The world around him was coming into focus in the gathering light. He saw that he was in a green valley with trees apparently standing at attention in the distance, as if waiting for something to commence. Snow covered mountains surrounded the lush valley.

Farther down the valley stood a quaint village. Godric decided to move towards it, to see if that was where he was meant to be in this new adventure. He waited for the voice in his head to say something, but all was silence. He looked around but saw nothing in the valley but the trees and the village. The closer he got the more it seemed as though the village was empty; there were no people evident. There was something ominous about an empty town. Godric wished he had his sword; still, he had the knife on his belt and a purple coin.

At the outskirts of the little town Godric paused, surveyed his situation. Though the street was empty, at the far end of the town, there were people clustered around something. The people were between him and whatever had the town peoples’ attention. He decided to investigate.

Walking through the center of the village, Godric saw that on either side of the cobblestone street there were shops with various kinds of goods displayed in their windows. “Bread for sale, fresh bread,” read the sign in the first shop he passed. Leather goods, apothecary needs, to cure whatever ails you, especially the heart. Godric moved past several shops; he began to hear voices coming from the crowd at the end of the village. They sounded urgent. There was also the sound of weeping intermingled with the voices. Godric glanced away from the shops toward the people and picked up his pace.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shop with swords and shields displayed in the window. He paused and turned toward the shop. A sword, he thought, might be useful here. He walked over to the plain wooden door of the shop and peered through the latticed window at head height. The shop was dark; he tried the handle, but the door was securely locked.

Godric sighed, turned again toward the small crowd of people at the edge of town. He moved toward them, hoping for the best, expecting the worst.

What he saw over the heads of the women and men before him was a young woman tied to a tall, fairly thick pole. The pole was set in what looked to Godric like concrete, as he saw when he worked his way through the people to the front of the crowd. People grumbled at him, the men tried to look threatening; Godric ignored them.

A tall man armed with a shining steel sword stood near the woman. He had, apparently, just finished securing her feet to the bottom of the pole. The woman had her head bent, and Godric saw that she had been crying. The woman looked somewhat familiar, a little like all the young women he had met on his journey here. She reminded him particularly of the woman who was to have been auctioned, though a much younger version. When she looked at him, he saw that her face was tear-stained but lovely. Like Adriel of the pool, she had long, golden auburn hair that framed her face. She had intense green eyes, soft red lips, and a smooth chin. Her cheeks were slightly tapered and unblemished.

Godric looked at the man with the sword and the women in the crowd. “Why have you tied her here?” he asked. “What has she done to be treated in such a cruel way?”

The man with the sword answered Godric. “Though it’s none of your business, stranger, she’s a witch and has been found guilty of bringing the plague to our village. Thus we offer her to the god of the mountain to free us from this curse.”

“She may be a witch of some sort, but I doubt that she brought any plague to your village. Free her and I will take her away with me, and your troubles will be over.”

“We can’t do that,” said the man. One of the women beside Godric spoke up. “She’s certainly evil and the god of the mountain is coming for her. If he’s not fed, he’ll destroy the village, consum it with fire and devour us.”

Of course he will, thought Godric. He said to the crowd, “It’s no god of anything who behaves in such a way! Has anyone ever seen him or stood up to him?”

“That would be blasphemy and disrespect; besides, he always comes in fire in the night, especially in the night of a full moon. And there’s a full moon tonight. The god of the mountain is a demon. He takes one young and nubile woman a year. This way we rid ourselves of a witch and appease him!” The crowd murmured its assent.

“II tell you what,” said Godric. “Give me a good sword, and I shall stay here with the woman and confront your demon.“

“Give you a sword,” said the only man holding one. “I don’t think so. Swords are pricy. This one is magical and has been in our family for generations.”

“What would you take for it? I have here a magical coin, a great treasure worth wealth untold. I’ll trade the magical coin for your magical sword. If I fail to survive the night and the demon kills me and the young lady, you can take back the sword in the morning.” Godric held up the bright purple coin in the sunlight. Rays of purple light shone from it, and the man’s eyes were filled with lust.

“I could just kill you and take the coin!” The crowd moved away from Godric, as the man took a step towards him. “You could try, or I could just bury my long sharp knife in your chest before you take another step; that way I could keep my valuable coin and have a sword too. Don’t you think the trade is a better option?”

The man unfastened the silver scabbard from his belt, slide the sword into it, handed it to Godric who gave him the coin. The man grinned, his dark eyes filled with greed. “I’ll get the sword in the morning fool, after the village demon destroys you.”

“We shall see,” said Godric. “You people sleep well tonight, and be sure to keep your doors locked tight.” Godric laughed as the man with the coin stalked off; the crowd melted away around him.

Remembering the curse on his own sword, Godric kept it contained in its scabbard; he used his knife to cut the ropes binding the girl to the sturdy pole. “You know you can leave when it gets dark. You don’t have to face the monster for me!” She said quietly, hesitantly.

“Oh, but I do,” said Godric. “What kind of person would I be if I left you here to face this thing alone? Especially after I said I would face it. Besides, this doesn’t seem like a good place to live. Now then, pretty witch, what’s your name? I’m Godric.”

“Raissa,” she said. “And thank you for helping me.” She used her long fingers to clean her eyes and face of the tears; they both sat down near the pole to wait for the night.

“Raissa?” said Godric. “Your name sounds familiar. Have we met before?”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Raissa is a common name in this part of the world. It means ‘thinker,’ though why anyone would name a baby girl that is beyond me.” She smiled at Godric.

“Perhaps they were working against stereotypes, eh? Or they were hopeful, at least for something better for you than just cooking, cleaning, and childbearing. Not that there’s anything wrong with those,” he quickly added.

The sun quickly sank behind the mountains to the west, casting long shadows throughout the enclosed valley; the darkness suddenly settled upon them, leaving them slightly chilled and apprehensive.

Raissa moved closer to Godric, who put his arm around her shoulder, letting her lean her head against him.

Image: sprites, defined by modern science; or they are supernatural demons about to descend on us? Okay, sprites this time! Maybe.

Chapter14 [one can only hope]

“The Devil You Know?”

‘[As usual St. Augustine gives us a fairly good idea of what might be coming in the night, if it’s what I think it is, this God of the Mountain. It looks as though one of those fallen angels has claimed a home on this mountain, wherever this mountain is, and is working evil, terrorizing people, and harming young women. It looks as though it is up to Godric to stop this evil and destroy it completely, thus saving himself and the young lady.

But first, check out what Augustine has to say about angels and demons: the fundamentals:

“Some of the angels sinned, however, and were thrust down to the lowest depths of this world, which serves as their prison, so to speak, until their coming final damnation on the day of judgment. The apostle Peter makes this crystal clear when he says that God did not spare the angels when they sinned but cast them into prisons of deep darkness and gave them over to be kept for punishment at the judgment. Who can doubt, then, that God separated these angels from the others, either in his foreknowledge or in his work of creation? And who would deny that there is good reason for the others to be called light? For even we who still live by faith and still hope for equality with them, but have not yet attained it, are already called light by the Apostle: For once you were darkness, he says, but now you are light in the Lord (Eph 5:8). As for the apostate angels, however, anyone who understands or believes that they are worse than faithless human beings sees right away that it is wholly fitting for them to be termed darkness.”

“we still hold that these two companies of angels are represented here—one enjoying God, the other swollen with pride; one to whom it is said, Praise him, all his angels (Ps 148:2), the other whose prince says, All these I will give you, if you fall down and worship me (Mt 4:9); one burning with holy love for God, the other smoldering with unclean love for its own exaltation. And since, as it is written, God opposes the proud, but gives grace to the humble (Jas 4:6; 1 Pet 5:5), the one dwells in the heaven of heavens, the other, cast down from above, swarms chaotically in this lower heaven of the air; the one is tranquil with luminous devotion, the other boils with dark desires; the one, at God’s command, brings merciful help or exacts just vengeance, the other, in its own arrogance, seethes with desire to vanquish and harm; the one serves God’s goodness in order to provide all the care it wants, the other is checked by God’s power in order to keep it from doing all the harm it wants; the former mocks the latter in that, against its will, the latter’s persecutions work to the former’s benefit, and the latter envies the former as the former gathers its pilgrims to itself. Here, then, are the two disparate and opposed companies of angels, the one both good by nature and righteous by will, the other good by nature but perverse by will.” The City of God: Book XI: 33.] Now, wasn’t that an exhilarating read? Hmm. Okay, back to the story!

Raissa had fallen asleep with her head on Godric’s shoulder. It looked as though Godric had fallen asleep too, but it turns out he was only resting his eyes. The full moon was brilliant above the valley, the only light visible. The houses and shops in the village were completely dark. Godric’s eyes flashed open when he heard the sound of a great commotion above him and fiery red streaks in the air. Looking toward the sky, he saw the monstrous shape of some dark winged predator briefly outlined against the moon.

Raissa awoke fo the terrifying sound of unfamiliar noises in the night. Godric was standing with the new sword shining in the moonlight. He reached toward her with his free hand and pulled her to her feet.

“What is it?” she asked. No sooner asked than a large, winged man-like thing landed on the grass about 15 paces from them. The creature was slightly taller than Godric and it appeared to be surveying the landscape. When it looked at the two persons confronting him, Godric couldn’t make out his facial features as the creature’s face was turned from the moonlight. When it folded its large leathery wings against its body, the wings disappeared smoothly into its back. Before them now stood a tall man-like thing wearing a metal breast piece and clothed in a tight leather shirt and pants much like Godric’s own outfit.

When the creature took a step toward them, Godric motioned Raissa to move behind him. The winged beast had a belt around his waist, and attached to the belt was a scabbard that held a sword. “Stay where you are,” said Godric, pointing his sword toward the creature. “There’s nothing for you here!”

“Nadiel “ said the creature. “Perhaps you have heard of me? In any case, let me have the woman I came for and we shall have no quarrel.”

“I don’t think so,” responded Godric. “She is under my protection, and so she remains.” The beast turned slightly and grinned at Godric. In the moonlight Godric saw that the demon had two sharp fangs that shone ivory in the night. The demon’s eyes were two dark cavities in the creature’s face. It’s ears were large and rose to a point on each side of his head. Suddenly a sword seemed to materialize in the demon’s claw-like hand. Godric swallowed and could feel sweat forming under his leather; nevertheless, he held his ground.

Nadiel was supernaturally quick; his movements like a flash in the night as he came around Godric’s right side. The demon’s sword cut Godric’s sword arm through his leather, but he neither dropped his sword nor backed down.

“Stop!” said Raissa from behind Godric. “I’ll go with this thing. You can’t fight him.”

Godric, his arm bleeding slightly, said, “Can and will. I’m not dead yet, and as long as I’m alive, he won’t take you anywhere.” That said Godric put both hands on the hilt of his sword, feigned left, rolled his sword around and over his head, nicking the demon’s arm. Nadiel jumped back in surprise. Godric took another step forward and swung again moving his opponent back another step.

The demon brought his own sword up to parry Godric’s next cutting blow. The clash of the two swords echoed through the night. The instant Godric’s sword hit the sword held against him, his sword ‘s blade burst into flame. The demon jumped back from Godric’s fiery sword and unfurled his wings which ripped from his back. The demon lifted into the air and tried to come at Godric from above. The flame on Godric’s sword had turned from reddish orange to intense blue and rippled up and down the blade.

When Nadiel descended upon him, Godric ducked but swung his sword at the bat-like wing closest to him, cutting it significantly . Nadiel screamed an eldritch cry in the night. He landed away from Godric who pressed toward him, breathing heavily now. “Leave, beast,” he said, or I’ll take your life as well as your wing.”

Nadiel tried to extend his damaged wing, but he could not. Frustrated, he raised his sword over his head and swung at Godric who easily ducked the blow, thrust upward with his glowing sword, cutting through leather and metal breastplate. Nadiel roared again, dropped his sword, clutching his abdomen; he sank to his knees, he glared fiercely at Godric and disappeared in a blue flash, leaving nothing but a pile of grey ash and black smoke.

Raissa rushed to his side and threw her arms around him, kissing him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she cried, “thank you.” Godric lifted her head up and kissed her forehead, sank to the ground and found himself sitting on his own blanket, alone in the moonlit night, his right arm bleeding from a fresh cut.

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 12 - LES

Chapter 12

“Blue”

[Sometimes it is good to get another perspective on the nature of choice, especially regarding the nature of good and evil, and who better to provide that perspective than St. Augustine from The City of God. Thus I give you this quote: “In addition to the evils of this life that are common to the good and the evil alike, the righteous also face certain struggles of their own: they do battle against the vices, and they lead their lives in the midst of the temptations and dangers of that sort of combat. For—although sometimes more violently, sometimes more mildly—the desires of the flesh never cease to oppose the spirit or the desires of the spirit to oppose the flesh, and so we cannot do the things that we want, ridding ourselves entirely of all evil desire. Instead, as far as possible with God’s help, we can only subdue evil desire by denying it our consent. We always have to be on the alert so that no apparent truth misleads us; no cunning discourse deceives us; no dark cloud of error envelops us; we never take evil as good; fear never keeps us from doing what we ought to do; desire never rushes us into doing what we ought not to do; the sun never sets on our anger; hostility never provokes us to pay back evil for evil; misguided or immoderate sorrow never consumes us; an ungrateful mind never makes us slow to confer benefits; our good conscience is never worn down by malicious rumors; our rash suspicions about others never deceive us; others’ false suspicions about us never break us; sin does not reign in our mortal body so that we obey its desires; our members are not given over to sin as weapons of iniquity….” XXII: 22-23. I can only hope that Godric, our young Prince, has at sometime in his past taken such ideas under advisement, and acts accordingly; he does seem to be doing well thus far, but one never knows what lies ahead.]

As Godric slipped the blue coin into his hand and opened the casket under it, he quickly saw that the world had changed again. He found himself in a fairly terrifying, underground cavern, with oddly dressed people milling around him like zombies. Not far from where he stood, he saw that there was an even deeper cavern with metal rails running into darkness in either direction. This time the voice in his head whispered, you may use your coin to purchase a ride to wherever your heart’s desire may be found. Wherever, he thought. I can use the coin to get to the lake and the Princess. He no sooner had that thought, than he heard a kind of roaring, as if a mighty beast were coming out of the darkness on his right. He jumped back in fear, felt again for his sword which was still missing.

While it may have sounded like a beast, what came out of the dark tunnel was a large silver and blue metal vehicle of sorts. The zombie like people showed no fear or real interest in the thing. Instead, when the vehicle came to a stop next to his platform, and a set of doors slid open on one of the several cars behind the first, apparently the efficient cause of its motion, they started boarding, finding seats next to the windows that looked out at him, and they looked as bored as they had seemed while waiting for this long thing earlier.

The doors that had been open slid closed; the metal beast, so Godric thought of it, began to move forward into the dark tunnel on his left. The large eye on the front of the creature threw light ahead into the darkness, lighting the tunnel ahead of it. What strange things we travelers see, thought Godric. What to do now? Where I want to go is onto the island where I hope my heart’s desire awaits me.

He heard the rumble of a similar creature again coming from the tunnel on his right, and preceded by a similar strong light. Only two metal monsters this time, only one for passengers, and there was a uniformed conductor dressed in a blue suit, shirt, coat with silver buttons, blue pants, and an odd blue cap such as Godric had seen next to the man in the City of Desolation. “Pass to the City on the lake,” the uniformed man called out, looking at Godric intensely. “One blue coin for the trip,” said the man. Godric handed over his coin, and with some trepidation stepped into the car; he moved down the aisle, then sat down in a seat near the middle of the car and next to a window. He was alone in the car, except for the uniformed man.

When he looked out the window, he saw a scruffy, dirty man with greasy hair and scraggly beard, sitting on the floor, leaning against the white tiled wall of the underground station. More people were beginning to gather on the platform. A tall, attractive woman wearing a dark navy suit entered Godric’s car and sat down by the door. She was followed by two men of differing builds, one tall but fairly thin; the other was heavyset. The first had a head full of well-combed, wavy brown hair; the other man was bald.

Godric looked at them, the woman, the two men, the conductor. “Look,” he said, glancing out the window again. “There’s a man out there against the wall. I think he’s bleeding. We need to help him.”

No one looked out the window of the car nor at Godric. Godric got up and walked to the door, which was still open. “If you get off, you will miss your ride,” said the conductor. “Besides it’s dangerous out there once the trains have gone.”

“I’ll take my chances,” said Godric. “How would you like it if that were you?”

The conductor said nothing as Godric walked past him and stepped out of the passenger vehicle. As Godric moved toward the fallen man, the metal beast moved away and into the tunnel to the left. Godric was left alone on the platform without the blue coin or any human company. He shrugged and walked toward the man on the ground. The man looked up at him, tears in his eyes. Godric saw that his clothes were as dirty as his face, and the man had a bad odor about him. The smell seemed to be coming primarily from his leg. Godric pulled up the man’s pant leg, saw a wound bleeding from above his knee; lower on the man’s leg there was an infected wound on his ankle. Godric patted his side and felt the leash he had taken from his last adventure. He took his knife and cut off each end of the leather, let the two pieces fall to the dusty station floor. He wrapped the leather strip around the man’s leg, above the bleeding wound, and saw the flow of blood stop. He tied off the strap and pulled down the man’s pant leg.

The smell had made Godric slightly nauseous, but he put his arm under the man’s shoulder and helped him stand.

“There’s a room down that corridor. I think there’s a woman who might be able to help. She’s wearing white and there’s a sign with a red cross above her door. Come on. I’ll help you get there.”

Holding the man up and helping him walk, Godric guided him toward the room and the woman in white. He glanced around the now empty area and thought what a god-forsaken place it was. No kindness, no compassion. Just carried off to wherever. He heard another vehicle approaching this station from a second tunnel on his far left. Godric ignored the new vehicle, and helped the man into the white light of the woman’s room.

The moment he stepped into the room’s brightness, the light flared brightly and the room seemed to explode. In that blinding flash, Godric was returned to his camp, on to the blanket and next to the woman kneeling beside him and the five remaining caskets, glistening in the moonlight.

The woman leaned back, reached out to Godric and brushed his hair away from his face. “One more to go, Young Prince. Which casket do you choose this time?”

in the soft moonlight Godric found himself looking at the young woman rather than at the caskets. “Which do you think I should choose?”

“I can’t tell you,” she said. “The choice must always be yours. As was the choice to walk and ride this road in the beginning. Now it is getting near the end. Which casket would you have?”

Godric glanced down at the remaining five. The moonlight seemed to rest more lightly on the purple coin. “The purple,” he said, picking up the casket and opening it to the night.

Image: the Squarespace people, in the course of one day, have changed everything about entering text and proceeding. Frustrating, since I understand even less now about how to use this site than I did before. The image is by a well known painter whose name I have forgotten, though he seems to have gotten the listless people about right. Scary!

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 11 - LES

Godric sat up with a start. His neck hurt and his back was sore. He had turned from his side to his back during the night; he had been so tired he had not removed his sword. He looked around, saw that the night was lyrically bright. Through the tree branches he could just make out a full moon overhead; Philip was sound asleep on his tree limb, his head tucked securely under his right wing. Godric smiled. Philip, he thought. An odd but good companion.

He reached for the leather belt holding the scabbard, slipped scabbard, sword and belt over his head and carefully placed them on the blanket beside him. He looked at Aspen also asleep where he had tied her. She nickered softly in the night, the moonlight shining off her dark skin. All seems to be well for a change, he thought, peaceful, quiet, the moon reflecting majestically on the water. He adjusted the saddle, leaned back resting his head on the cool leather.

Since the night had grown chilly, he pulled a smaller blank from his knapsack next to the saddle and drew it over his legs and chest. Lying on his back under the tree, he couldn’t see any stars, only dark leaves, and swatches of bright moon, now and then obscured by a passing cloud. Satisfied that all was well for the night, he closed his eyes again, briefly massaged his neck with his right hand, then dropped his arm to his side; once again he fell deeply asleep with no difficulty.

They came for him at 3 a.m. They rose from the moon-washed water as three dark figures, wearing black robes that covered them from neck to ankles, and they drifted towards his sleeping form as if blown by a gentle wind. They appeared to be three tall women of varying ages, one young and lovely with long dark hair gleaming in the moonlight. The second woman had shorter hair and appeared to be middle aged. Her eyes shown bright in the moonlight and her hair was covered with a dark hood. The third woman was, of course, seriously old and her face in the moonlight was seriously wrinkled. They could have passed for Macbeth’s witches, but they were not witches. They might have been the three Fates, the Norns from Norse myth, and in fact they certainly were functioning images of those three sisters, Urthr, Verthandi, and Skuld so named by Snorri Sturluson.

They were tall women, though the eldest, Skuld, was slightly stooped, a sign that gravity even affects supernatural beings as well as humans. When they reached the shore, they walked toward the ancient tree where Godric was fast asleep. Philip and Aspen shivered as the sisters approached, but no one awakened.

“Sisters,” said the youngest, “how shall we proceed? The same as always, youth to age or in reverse this time, age to youth?”

“Considering his youth and the nature of his concern here, age to youth. I do so enjoy these games! Set out the seven silver caskets.”

“All seven, Skuld?” Questioned Verthandi, the middle sister. “That’s a bit intense, don’t you think, and he’s so handsome and so young!”

“All seven. And do you see where he is now? Let’s waste no more of the night. It’s time.”

Godric opened his eyes and saw a tall lovely woman dressed in a black robe with hood, standing beside him in the moonlight. Her dark hair glistened, and the moonlight just brushed her nose and cheeks. Beside him and at her feet were seven silver caskets, each with different colored coin on its lid. The colors went from a dull brown, through yellow, blue, green, red, purple, and gold.

“Do you see the caskets, Godric? Choose one of the seven.”

“Yes,” he replied. “I’d have to be blind not to see them. Who are you? What are you doing here? Why must I choose one?”

“You may call me Raissa. Who, what and why will become clear as you do the choosing. Perhaps this is how the King of Ardor selects those worthy to be his daughter’s suitor. Or perhaps it’s just a game. Choose now. No more delay!”

Godric looked at the seven caskets beside him. “All right. Green.”

“Pick up the casket with the green coin and open it.” Godric did as she said. He opened the casket and peered within.

No sooner had he done so than he found himself in a bustling oriental market with booths filled with every conceivable product one could imagine. In his hand he was holding the green coin. A voice whispered in his head. You may buy one thing here, and only one.

Godric looked around in astonishment. There were booths with weapons of various kinds, oriental swords and daggers, katanas, throwing stars, weapons he had no name for, knives like the one the soldier he had knocked out carried. Brightly colored shields, which reminded him that he did not have a shield. He thought about trading the coin for a good shield, but then he looked around again.

Their were booths with women selling hearty hot meals. Booths with men hawking colorful blankets, leather knapsacks, considerably more substantial than his. Booths where sellers were offering fine metal armor or complete changes of fashionable clothes. Godric felt how shabby his own outfit had become, his leather shirt, vest , pants were worn. He thought how good it would be to have a fresh set of fine clothes for meeting the Princess. He looked at the green coin, obviously valuable.

He looked longingly at the suit, and was about to offer the coin when he heard a sound of someone weeping nearby. Godric looked around but couldn’t see the source. He walked down the market aisle, past the clothes, past the food, past the weapons. He stopped before a raised auction block; standing on it was a middle-aged woman dressed in what looked like a grey sackcloth dress that came just below her knees. The woman reminded Godric a bit of his mother; this woman was softly weeping, but trying hard not to. Her hands were bound in front of her; her cheeks were tear stained. She had a leather leash around her neck; a man standing near the side of the auction block was holding the end of the leash. Godric, it seems, had chanced upon another woman in dire straits. He started to reach for his sword, discovered he had no weapon but the knife on his belt.

He looked at the coin in his hand, gem like quality, obviously valuable. One thing! caromed through his mind. He looked at the man holding the leash. He looked back at the woman whose dark skin glistened in the intense light of day. Though he wanted to smash in the keeper’s face, he controlled his anger and offered him the coin. The man looked from the coin to Godric. “Isn’t she a bit old for you? You don’t have a woman your own age?” He bit the coin, tossed it up in the air, caught it and handed the leash to Godric.

Godric saw several of the man’s cronies moving toward the stage. “Come on,” he said to the woman who let Godric help her to the ground. He unsnapped the leash and dropped it on the ground.

“Hey,” yelled the slaver. “I can use that if you think you don’t need it.“ Godric picked up the leash and stuffed it inside his shirt. He found his knife on his belt, opened it and cut the ropes binding the woman’s hands. The woman had stopped crying; she smiled at Godric who decided she was really quite beautiful.

“Come on,” he said again. “Let’s find a way out of here.”

No sooner had Godric said the words than he found himself back on his blanket with six silver caskets beside him. Raissa was kneeling beside him.

“Choose again, young Prince, from the remaining six.” Her words came at him like a stern command.

“Blue.” Godric didn’t hesitate. He picked up the casket and opened it.

Image: Oops: hit the wrong button. Not unusual. Since chapter 11 showed up as “published,” I needed an image. This draft was the first and what I always call “rough.” So, who of all the women is she? All or none, doesn’t matter. If anyone got this far in the chapter, sorry about the draft, but at least I didn’t accidentally hit delete! I’ll work on the draft later, as it’s now 4:30 a.m. I should try to sleep a bit. The reason I couldn’t sleep earlier was that I was pregnant with the three sisters and the first casket. So to speak. Of course, the trees look as if they might be Aspen trees. Adriel?

Anyway, the chapter is now in its second draft, and, I hope, relatively free of obvious sins or errors. I had found a number of typos and other flaws that I had missed. Diction is always a concern too. In any case, it’s now off to twelve. Blue it is!

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 10 - LES

Chapter 10

“The City in the Lake”

[Augustine, in The City of God, has this to say about perspectives: “God is the creator of all things; and he himself knows where and when it is right or was right for anything to be created. He knows how to weave together the beauty of the whole in the similarity and diversity of its parts. But the person who is unable to see the whole is offended at what appears to be the deformity of a part, for he does not know how it fits in or how it is connected with the whole.” Book XVI, chap. 8.

Thus the creator has an Idea. He begins to tell his story, embody his Idea in words and images, creating a world with characters and the other “stuff” of which worlds are made. The creator, given his newly created world, knows where his story is going, the land of Ardor, for example, and why his protagonist is going there—seeking a lovely fairy Princess, and the creator knows the obstacles along the way, a hungry river troll, for one, a desolate war-torn land, for another. The only problem here—well, one of the several problems here—is at the heart of all good creativity: unlike God who is obviously All-Knowing, the human creator, story teller, does not necessarily know the meaning of the story until he or she (of course) tells it. If the reader understands the trinitarian nature of story-telling, then she or he (of course) must realize that this problem is that of the Creative Effect, the power of the meaning; in other words, we are in the realm of the Holy Spirit, so to speak. In the case of Christian theology, in so far as I understand it, the Holy Spirit is the embodiment of the Love between God the Father and God the Son. So to speak. Given my limited understanding of things, almost all things, truth be known, the only way the reader, not God, can understand the meaning of any story is by experiencing it. If it were math, you would be looking for x, especially if x equals a minus b plus or minus the square root of b squared minus 4 ac over 2a. Yes, the quadratic formula that we probably learned in Algebra 1. The only way to understand or learn the meaning of “x” is to plug in the numbers for a, b, and c and go through the process. Like reading a story. So then, once more into the breach!]

The Prince and Philip have followed the fairly straight road to the City of Ardor for the last two hours, more or less. The sun moved from overhead, down the western sky behind them, casting their long shadows onto the road ahead. As the Prince guided the horse up the green hill before them, he could see in the distance spires and towers of the unfamiliar City.

“Okay, Philip,” said the Prince, looking away from the cloud-capped towers in the distance to the black bird sitting with him on his horse. “It looks as though we are almost there.”

“Great, Boss. Your Highness,” he quickly added. “I think I’m getting saddlesore, I’ve been sitting here for such a while!”

The Prince laughed. “That’s not possible, you silly bird. It’s my butt that’s in the saddle. Not yours! Though now that you mention it, I could do to stretch my legs, while you stretch your wings,” he added meaningfully.

Philip took the suggestion seriously and launched himself into the air, leaving behind a black feather to float, like a maple tree seed, in curious spirals down to the ground. The Prince urged his horse forward, at the same time keeping his eyes fixed on Philip, now gliding, wings outstretched, in the bright blue sky above. After minutes in the distant air overhead, Philip folded his wings somewhat to glide back to the Prince. He settled into his place before the Prince on the leather saddle.

“Hey, Boss! You’re not going to believe this, but the City is situated on an island in the middle of a lovely blue lake. The thing is, there doesn’t seem to be any way to get there.”

“There has to be a way there,” responded the Prince. “More magic, I suppose! Well, we’ll see what’s what when we get there. How much farther is it? If it’s not too far, I’ll wait to stretch my legs.”

Philip chuckled. “I’d say it’s another two miles beyond the next hill, as the crow flies.” He blinked, his bright yellow eyes filled with humor.

“Clever, Philip! Clever! Have you ever heard about the fate of the four and twenty blackbirds? I think they had been witty too!” The Prince laughed and urged the horse into a gallop to the next hill, up, and then over. Coming down the other side of the hill, the Prince could now see in the distance that there was a beautiful walled City, riding tall and majestic on the clear blue water of the lake. The walls that rose up from the lake side were huge blocks of red stone that gleamed brightly in the sunlight. Above the thick red walls reddish towers and spires rose from large buildings that stood securely within the City walls. For the moment as they shortened the distance to the City, Philip was right. There didn’t seem to be a way to reach the island City, except by swimming, unreasonable, or by boat, none visible.

The road the adventurers were on led to the lakeside. The lake itself stretched out on either side of the road, making the journey end there. There seemed to be no way around the City. The road ended at the lake. The gate of the City, however, was straight out from the road, though again the Prince could see no way to get from the road to the gate.

Back slightly from the road and to the left, a massive old, gnarled oak tree stood like a sentinel, beckoning them toward it. The plentiful green leaves of the oak fluttered invitingly in the soft breeze. Philip, taking the invitation, flew to the tree and landed on one of the tree’s thinner old limbs high up but facing the distant City.

The tree reminded the Prince of the Aspen grove and the lovely fairy lady, Adriel, who lived there. He sighed and felt the heart-shaped stone she had given him against his leg. He slowly and thoughtfully turned his horse toward the old tree. Once there, he swung down from the saddle, secured the horse to a low branch, and stretched his legs.

“Hey, Philip,” he called to the black bird still sitting in the tree. “We shall make camp here tonight. In the morning we can see about getting over there.”

“Okay, Boss. I’ll be down there in a bit.”

The Prince meanwhile began setting up his camp. He untied the horse, removed her saddle, then led her to the edge of the water and let her drink her fill. He led her back to the tree and secured her again, leaving her enough slack so that she could move and graze on the grass near the tree. Next the Prince gathered enough dry wood from under and around the tree to make a small fire. With his knife he shaved thin strips from one of the thicker limbs, until he had enough tinder to start a good fire. Placing the thinner sticks on the tinder, he drew flint and metal from his canvas pack, struck the flint on the metal, sending a long spark to the shavings which immediately caught fire.

The Prince sat close to the fire, and Philip fluttered down next to him. “What’s for supper?” Boss he asked, as the Prince began setting out food, what was left of the bread, cheese, and dried meats.

The Prince broke off some of the bread and put it on the grass where Philip immediately snatched them, tearing off bits and pieces. The Prince finished the bread with cheese and meat, putting one of the wraps into the fire, which flared and burned brightly in the descending darkness left behind by the setting sun.

“I guess, Philip, you might fly out to the island tomorrow and see if there’s a way to get there. It’s odd that the people of this land would build such a City without a clear road to it. Well, we shall see tomorrow. As it is, it’s been a long day and I’m tired. I’ll put some fresh wood on the fire and stretch out on my blanket. You sleep in the tree and let me know if you hear anything untoward in the night.”

“Okay, your highness, Boss. What’s untoward?”

“Oh,” said the Prince, “anything that goes bump in the night I guess. Ghosties and ghoulies and that kind of thing. Scary supernatural things, you know.”

The Prince chuckled, stretched out on his blanket, his head against the saddle he had placed there while Philip flew back up into the tree, muttering to himself. Once settled on a secure branch, he called down, “Goodnight, Boss.” But the Prince was already asleep.

Image: not exactly the City of Ardor, but it gives you the idea. Mostly.

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 9 - LES

Chapter 9

“Desolation”

[Authorial Intrusion: taking stock. I know authors are not supposed to do these kinds of things, but the last chapter was exhilarating. Nothing like taking one’s frustrations out in literary fashion. Two good hits with a magic sword by a skilled swordsman and the evil, horse-hungry troll is out of the game for good. Thing is you could tell that Godric really didn’t want to hurt or kill the creature. After all wicked Thrall was just hungry. Of course, his enormous appetite did not justify taking Godric’s lovely horse, Aspen, in order to eat it.

Since I am currently reading St. Augustine’s City of God, I came upon an interesting passage last night concerning order, the nature of good and evil, and involving reason and pleasure or appetite:

“Reason weighs things as they are in their own right, according to the grades of the natural order, while poverty considers only what will serve its own need. Reason looks for what appears true to the light of the mind, while pleasure looks only for what gratifies the senses of the body. In the case of rational natures, however, will and love carry so much weight that, even though angels rank above human beings according to the order of nature, good human beings rank above evil angels according to the law of righteousness.” Book XI: chapters 16-18.

Godric would be a creature operating with reason, quite capable of knowing the difference between good and evil and responsible for choosing good and understanding the world accordingly. While the river troll, Thrall, appears to be rational it is fairly evident that he or it is behaving entirely according to pleasure: “hungry,” he says. That seems to be all he cares about in the encounter, and that makes him evil, according to the law of righteousness. And as we saw in our Chapter One, evil is a privation of good, an absence. A concern: does that mean that the river troll was created good but chose to be a monstrosity or was he always a monstrosity even though he appears to be somewhat rational? If he was created evil, he cannot be blamed, of course. However, according to my research—Supernatural Beings: a Taxonomy—that was not the case.

The truth is that river trolls, like humans, were created good. They may look grotesque, but their function in this world order is to care for and regulate the rivers, keep them bound to their banks, avoid floods, and make certain river traffic moves safely. The eye let’s them see even in the murkiest waters, the horn gives them the power to regulate even the swiftest and most forceful of currents. River trolls are strong, live on fish, and also regulate and care for bridges. Somewhere along the way Thrall let his hunger overwhelm him. He chose to indulge his appetite in ways that made him vicious. He developed a taste for horse! Of course, if he bled out from Godric’s blows the river will likely suffer. Alas!

Thus far into the adventure we have had humans, a creature of fire, the Dragon Lady, and two beings associated with water, Adriel and now Thrall. That leaves two more elements that are likely to weigh in: earth and air, or perhaps just earth since Philip is obviously a creature whose primary element is air. In any case, there it is for the moment, appetite defeated, evil overcome, the Quest continues.]

The land on the other side of the bridge grew increasingly hilly as the road to Ardor led forward. The land itself seemed to be more desolate, the fields that stretched out on either side of the road less lush, the healthy greenness giving way to large areas of brown and here and there a dead or dying tree. Currently the hill before them was the steepest yet, and when Aspen brought Godric to the top, Godric pulled back on the reins and brought the horse to a halt. Before him the road ran down into an unnaturally dark valley; in fact the darkness from the hilltop looked thick and tangible, as if it were touchable. The darkness covered the road and the air above the road, making it impossible to see what was ahead, and it spread out on either side of the road as far as Godric could see. He shivered and hesitated. Philip cocked his head and looked up at the Prince.

“I don’t like this, Boss. Something feels all wrong here. There’s magic at work here again. It feels really dangerous to go down there.”

“I don’t see that we have a choice,” responded the Prince. “I don’t like it either, and neither does Aspen.” Godric reached past Philip and patted the horse’s neck. “Let’s go then,” he said, and shook the reins, urging the horse down the road toward the covering darkness. Though the sun was still high in the west, no light penetrated the darkness that obscured the way before them.

As they reached the bottom of the steep hill, Aspen balked and refused to move. Finally, unable to urge the horse forward into the dark, Godric swung off the saddle, but still holding the reins. He pulled them over the horse’s head, held them firmly, and walked ahead of her, leading her into the dark. Philip stayed sitting on the saddle, crouched down, and looking as unhappy as a black bird can look.

“Come on girl,” said Godric, lightly tugging the reins. Aspen moved forward following Godric who appeared swallowed by the now vibrating dark around them. Philip oddly said nothing.

Inside the dark the Prince led the horse, trying to stay in a straight line and not lose the road which he could no longer see. Except for the horse blowing air out of her mouth, there was complete silence. Slowly they moved forward, stopping only when the Prince heard a loud explosion from the distant right. Having never before heard such a sound, with a whistling before the crash, the Prince froze. Suddenly the same sound occurred again, only this time the world seemed to explode around them, removing the darkness and leaving them exposed and vulnerable in the middle of a strange road in a totally alien world.

The Prince, terrified, found his legs wouldn’t move. He looked around him and saw a world in desolation, a city in ruins such as he had never seen before. The road had changed too into a wide hard-surfaced substance where there appeared a white line down the middle that ran into the distance as far ahead as he could see. For the moment the whistling explosions stopped. Godric, recovering somewhat his courage, gazed in astonishment at what lay around him. There were ruined buildings, tall massive structures missing roofs and windows, some of them were on fire, burning and sending dark smoke and ash into the air. Beside the road ahead there lay a massive metal structure that looked as though it had been hit by some powerful force. It too was smoldering. In a field farther down the road, Godric could see three figures strangely dressed, working with another large structure with a long barrel that pointed into the sky. Suddenly the men ducked down and the metal barrel spit fire and smoke and sent an object flying into the sky. The sound of a distant explosion came to him seconds later.

Godric turned from the road and threw the reins back over his horse’s head. He took hold of the saddle, put his foot into the stirrup and swung up. He looked down at Philip. “Something evil has happened here, Philip, this world is not our world. There’s magic at work here. Do you know where we are or what’s going on?” Philip looked up at the Prince from his place on the saddle, opened his yellow beak, but all that emerged was a raspy croak. Philip shook himself and tried again to speak. Again nothing happened. Wherever they were this was a place where Philip, apparently, could no longer talk.

A sign on a metal pole beside the road had a name that Godric had never seen before printed on it: Kiev, with an arrow that pointed behind them. The air was full of the smell of ash and smoke.

The Prince urged the horse forward, past the smoking metal wreck, past the broken and ruined buildings, following the white line down the road. A hundred yards down the road Godric saw the body of a man, missing both legs and an arm and quite obviously dead. A little farther on he saw a woman up against one of the ruined structures. There was a small child of five or six with her. A man in a strange bulky khaki uniform was harassing her. Godric saw that she was dirty, her hair was greasy, her clothes were torn, and she was bleeding, arm and neck. The child was very young and equally dirty though he appeared to be unhurt. Both were terrified of the soldier who had leaned his weapon against the wall of the ruined building behind them. The soldier had hit the child and was attempting to force the woman against the wall of the building. The soldier, intent on subduing the woman did not hear Godric or the sound of the horse’s hooves on the blacktop.

Explosions continued in the distance. Godric wasn’t sure what to do in this god-forsaken place, but he thought he ought to try to help the woman. He quietly swung off the horse’s back again, letting the reins fall to the road. He hoped for the best and moved slowly toward the terrified woman who was struggling with the soldier. She had turned sideways against the wall, keeping the soldier’s attention away from the road; she had drawn up her legs, trying to protect herself.

The woman watched the strange figure of Godric moving toward them. She screamed something in a language unfamiliar to Godric. Meanwhile the soldier was laughing and also speaking at her in a strange tongue, slapping her face. The soldier had thrown his odd hat to the ground before hitting her again. Godric moved silently up on the soldier, drew his sword from over his back, put his fist around the hilt, and used the hilt to smack the soldier in the side of the head. The soldier collapsed unconscious, crumpled to the ground, the head wound bleeding profusely. Godric made certain the soldier was incapacitated, then turned to the woman, who was still bleeding slightly from neck and arm wounds.

Godric bent down to examine the woman’s wounds. She said something in the strange language and cringed as he touched her. “Let me help you,” he said gently, holding her arm to see where the blood was coming from. Suddenly remembering the sword’s magical requirement, he gently lowered the woman’s arm, turned to the soldier and took the blood from the soldier’s bleeding head wound; he smeared some on the sword’s blade, and watched as the blood disappeared into the blade. Satisfied it was clean, he put the sword back in the scabbard and turned again to the woman and the child who was now sitting up and softly crying.

He opened his knapsack and took out his loaf of bread, tore off a chunk and offered it to the child who stopped crying and eagerly grabbed it and immediately shoved some of it into his mouth. Godric tore off another chunk and gave it to the woman who accepted it gratefully; he put what was left of the bread back into the knapsack; then he took out a cloth, poured some water from his canteen on it, and began to wipe away the blood and grim from her arm and neck. Both wounds were cuts, the kind inflicted by a sharp knife, the kind the soldier had on his belt.. Godric couldn’t understand how a man could treat a woman this way. He suspected she had been cut, beaten and was about to be raped, but since he couldn’t understand her speech, he couldn’t talk to her. Instead he offered her some water from the canteen which she eagerly accepted. He let the child have a drink too, then helped the woman stand. When she smiled her thanks at him, he could see that with her dark hair and her dark eyes she was quite pretty. Once on her feet, she left him and with the child in her arms hurried around the side of the ruined structure and disappeared.

Godric walked back to the horse, still standing where he had dropped the reins, then remounted. “Well, Philip,” he started to say, then heard the whistling of an incoming rocket. Suddenly the world flashed and exploded around them, sending the horse into a gallop with Philip and Godric hanging on desperately. When Godric managed to get control of the horse, he looked around, again in astonishment, for they were back on their own path, having left the thick cloud of darkness behind them.

“Say, Boss,” said Philip, “what just happened? Were we dead for a while?”

Godric laughed, “No. I think we were just temporarily displaced. The darkness tried to devour us, but found we were too stringy and so spit us out. And here we are, back on the right road now, I hope”

“Are you kidding me?” croaked the bird.

“Not in the least,” said the Prince, tightening the reins and urging the horse forward.

“I remember a great darkness,” said Philip. “Then there was a loud flash-bang and here we are. I remember you said something that I didn’t understand. But that’s about it.”

“That’s about it indeed,” said the Prince, urging his horse into a gallop, leaving the darkness behind them in the valley of desolation and death.

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 8 - LES

Chapter 8

“The Not so Jolly Green Giant”

Since we had a brief look at Godric as a young boy, it’s time for us to return to his current activity, his quest for the Princess Elesandra. As we left him, he was galloping on the road to Ardor on the horse Adriel had given him while Philip the crow was in the air above him. So far Godric was riding a horse with no name, though as he considered that problem, a familiar voice echoed in his head this time, as if someone were reading his thoughts: her name is Aspen, like the trees in the grove. Aspen, the voice said, Aspen, then faded as the Prince followed the road toward Ardor.

Philip dropped from the sky to fly alongside of Godric. “Hey, Boss,” he said. “How about letting me come on board for a bit? I’ve been flying for quite a while now.”

“Okay. Just don’t dig your claws into her. In fact, hang on. Whoa, Aspen, whoa.” The Prince reined in the horse, and let Philip hop onto the front of the saddle. After the bird settled quietly, the Prince flicked the reins and urged Aspen into a steady jog; in this way they rode together through the slightly hilly land before them, neither speaking.

Having ridden in silence for more than an hour, the Prince and Philip came to an old bridge over a rushing river. The bridge was a gently curving concrete structure and started at the end of the current road. Just as Godric was about to urge Aspen toward the bridge, a thick green mist rose and swirled from the rushing rippled water, to the rivers steep bank, then drifted quickly over the grassy land from the bank to the base of the bridge. Godric’s horse snorted, whinnied and shook her head as the mist swirled like a green tornado onto the road before him.

“What are you going to do, Boss?” Philip asked, cocking his head up to talk to the Prince. “You can’t just ride through that thing. It looks like more magic at work here.” Having said his piece, Philip did not wait for an answer. Instead, he hopped into the air and rose up and over the swirling mist that was beginning to coalesce into a somewhat human shape. First came pair of thick green legs, followed by a torso with chest, arms and enormous head materializing last.. The head was that of a very green giant of a creature, with only one eye in the center of an exceedingly ugly face and a single sharply curved horn protruding from the broad forehead. The mouth of the creature was full of sharp teeth, and the cyclops was holding a very large broad sword in its now solid right hand. Worse, the large green fellow was grinning ghoulishly.

Godric had moved his mount back several steps. Philip flew back over the giant figure and circled Godric. “I think that’s a river troll,“ said Philip in as soft a voice as he could manage. “He doesn’t look peaceful either. It’s going to be a struggle getting past an eight foot tall armed troll. Not looking good, Boss!”

Godric agreed about the troll’s grim, warlike look. “What do you want?” Godric called to the hulking figure before him.

“Supper,” came the swift reply. “You give horse, you cross bridge.”

“That’s not going to happen,” said Godric. “You’ll have to find supper elsewhere; now move aside!”

“Then I take horse,” the monster cyclops replied, taking a step toward Godric; Philip flew back over the creature and landed again on the thick railing. Godric reached over his shoulder and pulled his sword from the scabbard. As he swung it in the air to get the feel of the grip comfortable in his hand, the sword seemed to hum as it slightly vibrated. Keeping the sword in his right hand and pointed at the troll and the reins in his left hand, he urged Aspen sideways before the troll. Leveling his sword at the troll, Godric tried once again to avoid the duel.

“Are you sure you want this battle, green thing? You could just let us cross.”

“Not green thing! Name’s Thrall. Want supper!”

Godric turned Aspen toward the beast named Thrall who tried to bring his broad sword down on the horse. Godric danced the horse to the creature’s left so that the broad sword missed both horse and rider and hit the ground with a loud bang. While Thrall tried to get his sword up quickly, Godric was quicker in getting a blow to the river troll’s thick neck, the sword cutting the neck the way an ax cuts a tree trunk. Green ichor squirted from the deep wound, and the troll bellowed. Godric turned his horse around and charged the angry, wounded and bleeding troll. This time the troll’s huge sword met Godric’s sword in the air beside them. While Godric held his ground on the horse, his hand and arm shook from the force of the blow, though he did not drop his sword.

Seeing little advantage from fighting on horseback, Godric swung out of the saddle and sent his horse down the road ten paces. The troll charged again and was almost upon him, when Godric ducked as Thrall swung his weapon over his head. As the heavy blow turned the creature sideways as it clove the air above him, Godric used his sword to strike the troll’s leg, hoping to hit an artery. The warrior Prince’s sword cut Thrall’s thigh so that more of the green blood spurted out. The river troll looked down at his bleeding leg, then over at Godric standing away from him.

“Just wanted supper!” Thrall said weakly, sinking slowly to his knees, his large eye leaking green fluid which looked suspiciously like tears. The river troll tried to get back up, lifting one thick knee, but he was too weak from the loss of blood streaming from his neck and thigh. Suddenly the troll began to change, blurring seemingly, then dissolving rapidly into the green tornado mist, starting with his horned head, chest, arms, including the long metal sword and finally his legs, and the whirling tornado moved slowly across the grass and down to the river where it appeared to settle onto the turbulent rushing surface, then down into the river’s depths.

“Well fought, Boss,” cried Philip, on the railing of the bridge and looking down into the dark water. “You sure taught him a lesson! Now, let’s get out of here before something else comes out of the water after us!”

“Right,” replied the Prince, wiping the sweat from his forehead, “though I have to clean my sword before I put it away. It will just be a minute or two.” He got a light, clean onion skin paper out of his knapsack and carefully wiped down the slippery blade, removing the green ichor. Having finished so that the blade was sharp and glistening in the sunlight, he returned it to its scabbard, retrieved Aspen who had stood patiently down the road.

Taking the horse’s reins into his hand, Godric swung up and into the saddle. “Into the air, Philip. We’ve a bridge to cross, a City to find, and perhaps a Princess to rescue, if the vision at Adriel’s pool meant anything.” With Philip again sitting on the saddle in front of the Prince, the horse carried them up and over the dark green swirling water below.

Image: Green and spooky, probably magical, though not a suddenly materializing one-eyed, one-horned flying purple people eater; close however.

Night on a Spooky Planet 

Image Credit & Copyright: Stéphane Vetter (Nuits sacrées)

Explanation: What spooky planet is this? Planet Earth of course, on a dark and stormy night in 2013 at Hverir, a geothermally active area along the volcanic landscape in northeastern Iceland. Triggered by solar activity, geomagnetic storms produced the auroral display in the starry night sky. The ghostly towers of steam and gas are venting from fumaroles and danced against the eerie greenish light. For now, auroral apparitions are increasing as our Sun approaches amaximum in its 11 year solar activity cycle. And pretty soon, ghostly shapes may dance in your neighborhood too.

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 7 - LES

Chapter 7

“An Incident”

AUTHOR: Yes, here I am again, butting into my story. It’s just that in my reality I chanced upon (or was it chance?) two sources yesterday that bear down (more or less) on what’s being attempted here. The first is in a book called Light from Light by Bishop Robert Barron, one of my favorite contemporary theological writers. Though the work purports to be an introduction to the meaning of the Nicene Creed, I decided to begin the sample that Amazon sent. Whoa, Isme! as the Prophet didn’t say to his horse. I was so taken with the beginning of the text that I immediately bought the book and started in reading for real.

Of course the Creed begins with “I believe in one God….” The point here is Bishop Barron’s explanation of God [the quotes are in brackets]:

[“One God”

So, what is this “thing” that is the principal object of the act of faith? Perhaps the most basic observation we could make is that it (he) is not really a thing at all. Whatever we mean by the word “God,” we do not intend one finite reality among many, not the “supreme being” in any conventional sense of that term. We intend that which brought (and brings) the whole of finite reality into being, that which transcends even as it remains intimately close to all that can possibly be seen or measured.]

That explanation of the Christian’s understanding of God, said very nicely, is what I was earlier trying—not half so well—to define regarding the creator: “the whole of finite reality.” What a marvelous phrase! That includes everything from M 31 to the flea riding on our dog’s butt, including those pesky ants and mosquitoes, from quarks to the “Pillars of Creation” in the Eagle Nebula. Got it!

The second thing was an essay I found in one of the current editions of “The Catholic Thing”: “The Color of Dinosaurs” by Michael Pakaluk, Wednesday, October 26, 2022 [the entirety of this long quote is also bracketed]:

[A sentence in Chateaubriand’s Genius of Christianity, truly one of the masterworks of apologetics, caught my attention recently: “God might have created, and doubtless did create, the world with all the marks of antiquity and completeness which it now exhibits.”

He stated this in the course of arguing that, for all we know, the Biblical account of the world’s age, about 8,000 years, could be actually true. The difficulty posed by fossils and rock strata, he said, was easily dismissed and “has been solved a hundred times” on that principle.

Understand that Chateaubriand’s book almost single-handedly reversed the remaining anti-clericalism of the French Revolution. It inspired Victor Hugo and other great lights of the next generation to “become like Chateaubriand” and prepared the ground for the Catholic “intellectual renaissance” in France a few decades later.

But here he was adamantly affirming a “New Earth” hypothesis, which many in our generation regard as fringe lunacy. Worse, he supposed it was obviously true.

I thought about the principle of the matter. Which was “better” to create: something that begins entirely “new” and develops after it is created, or something that is created “old” already, with a past that is only implicit, not itself created?

We have a bias toward the former, I think, but why?  Solely from familiarity with Darwin?

Surely, we must concede that God has the power to create something that carries a history with it already.  Moreover, it wouldn’t be deceptive for Him to do so.   We concede that God might create a mature human being, as Adam was supposed to be.  But a mature human being presupposes a conception, development, and childhood.  These would have to be solely attributed, not actually pre-existing, in the case of an Adam.

We concede that God might create fine wine, as at Cana, and yet without having created first its terroir, blending, and long maturation — all necessary to a fine wine.  The wine at Cana was exquisite but not deceptive.]

AUTHOR: Yep, still here. Surely you see the applicability of Pakaluk’s interest, for every writer of a fictional world, except perhaps Tolkien and Laurence Sterne, must attribute a past to his characters and their world. In our case where and when did Godric learn to use a sword and fight? When and how did he learn to ride a horse? How does the creator account for magic mirrors that allow chapters to travel from one distant place to another, but there it is. How do you have a world wherein a shadow becomes a talking crow or a water nymph even exists? Perhaps I can shed some light on one or two of those concerns.

Godric was twelve when his father, the king, decided it was time for his son to graduate from pony to a mature horse, a fairly gentle stallion called Brew, for the stallion was the color of a fine amber mead. Ferric Hostler was the name of the stable master and the man assigned to teach Godric to ride his first real horse. Ferric was a kind but no nonsense teacher, who was always dressed in riding leathers. His age was indeterminate, his face craggy and coarse like the leathers he wore. He had dark eyes, a cleft chin and a firm jaw.

Godric was tall and muscular for his age. Ferric Hostler paid no attention to the fact that Godric was the young Prince, only that he was strong enough to carry a saddle and put it on a restless stallion’s back. Having quickly learned the proper way to accomplish that, Godric then, on the day in question, had to lead the horse into the corral outside the large stable that contained all the King’s horses, some twenty-five to thirty all told. Brew was one of the gentlest of the older war horses, though he was also a horse not to be trifled with, one that would suffer no mischief or lack of attention from his rider.

In the corral Ferric helped Godric mount into the well oiled and polished leather saddle. Since the corral was large, there was a well worn path inside the corral where many of the King’s guard had exercised and trained their mounts. At the present on that auspicious day, Godric’s twelfth birthday, there were only several stable boys, and none of the guard who were busy elsewhere with their assigned tasks.

Once Godric was properly mounted, secure in the saddle, and walking his horse carefully around the inside of the corral, Ferric returned to the stable’s darker interior and walked his stallion, Buckler, into the corral. “Well, your highness, young Prince, how does it feel to be so high in the air now and in control of such a well-muscled creature? If you are fairly comfortable in the saddle, we can take your first real ride into the field beyond, over the stream at the end of the meadow, and through the woods beyond.”

“It feels great, Ferric. I would like that. Thanks for your help,” the young Prince replied, properly deferential to the riding master. No one noticed the young crow sitting on the stable roof, staring down at the proceedings.

“All right,” said Ferric. “I’ll have the boy open the gate and let us out. Today we will just walk, not attempt anything more advanced. Be sure to pay attention to how you control your horse or you may be in for a short, swift and dangerous ride.” He chuckled as he looked over at the eager Prince.

“Okay, Brill,” Ferric called to the stable boy by the gate watching them. “Open it up, and be sure to secure it once we’re out.”

“Yes sir,” said the boy, swinging the gate open, while Ferric and the Prince walked their horses out into the field, following a well-worn trail through the meadow. No one noticed the dark shape circling above, its shadow on the ground around them. Slowly they made their way through the field and toward the stream at the end of the open land.

“When we get to the stream,” said Ferric, “we’ll let the horses have a short drink from the bank. Whatever you do, don’t let Brew go into the water, or you’ll have a difficult time getting him out. He’d stay their the rest of his life, if you’d let him.”

Of course, once they arrived at the stream’s bank, Brew neither stopped nor paid attention to his young rider’s yells of protest. The horse splashed into the middle of the water and began to drink. Ferric was silently laughing, his horse safely on the bank.

“You knew this would happen,” shouted the Prince. “What do I do now?” Brew stood in the middle of the shallow stream, noisily lapping up the cool water.

“First,” said Ferric, still laughing, “the horse knew you were inexperienced, because you were holding the reins too loosely. Brew decided he would take charge here and he did. So, let him drink a bit more, then tighten the reins, gently but firmly pull his head up and to the right. Keep the pressure there, and he should walk out. If he doesn’t we may have to either bury you both there or get a stout rope and pulley and six more men to haul you out. Just give it a try now.”

“Okay.” Godric did as Ferric told him and the horse turned his head and walked toward the bank.

“Not too hard on the reins or you’ll cut his mouth. That’s it. You’re doing well.” Brew stepped on to the bank, shook the water off his nose, and walked to the trail. The crow had settled into a tall oak tree near the stream and watched the young Prince’s antics from his high perch. Apparently, having seen enough, the black bird flew off toward the heart of the woods, one dark feather slowly spiraling its way to the ground.

Image: the Pillars of Creation in the Eagle Nebula, first seen through Hubble

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 6 - LES

Chapter 6

“The Enchanted Grove”

Finally, Godric, our hero, is back on the road again, with his wise animal companion, Philip. Having left the cave of the Dragon Lady, the Prince worked his way down the rocky hillside to the narrow road that led to the city of Ardor and, presumably, the home of the Princess. Philip took to the sky and circled overhead looking for any obstacles that might lie before them. Seeing nothing for the next mile or so, Philip flew down and landed on the Prince’s shoulder, jarring the Prince.

“There’s nothing on the road ahead that might hinder your progress, Boss,” Philip said to the Prince who shook his head at the scratchy voice of the bird next to his ear.

“Not so loud, Philip. I’m not deaf, yet! Though I undoubtedly will be in the near future if you don’t tone it down a bit!”

“Right, Your highness. Sorry,” he said, swaying back and forth as the Prince swiftly moved down the road.

“You didn’t see anything from up there?”

“Not really; just a grove of trees well off to the right though there might be a spring there too; it might be an aspen grove, white bark and all of that. Aspen groves tend to be enchanted. We should check.“

“Okay,” said the Prince. “How far ahead?”

“Less than a mile. You can see the trees from down here.”

“Ah. So I can. Why don’t you fly over there and check out the land? See if there any dangers we need to be worried about.”

“Okay, Boss.”

Philip jumped from the Prince’s shoulder into the air, flapped his black wings and rose into the sky. The Prince watched as the bird flew above the road and then over to the distant grove of trees. He saw Philip drop down into the grove and disappear from his sight. The Prince hurried along the road till he was parallel with the grove. There was a slightly worn path that led away from the main road and toward the grove of trees. The Prince followed the path to the woods. At the moment Philip was nowhere to be seen. The Prince looked up into the trees, but nothing moved there. No Philip, no birds of any kind. It felt to the Prince like an enchanted grove, with magic swirling about and the scent of hyacinth in the air. He hesitated to follow the path into the grove.

As he looked deeper into the grove of white aspen trees, he saw what looked like a girl in a white skirt moving through the trees, her dress somewhat matching the white bark of the aspen. The heart-shaped leaves of the aspen rustled around and above him as the breeze moved through them. He put his hand on the hilt of his dagger when Philip called down from above him. “Hey Boss, relax. This is Adriel, the nymph of the grove.” The Prince saw Philip in a tall aspen tree next to the path, then looked down to see a golden-haired girl with eyes the color of blue water that shimmered and danced before him. She smiled and the entire woods seemed to glow with a magical light.

The Prince took his hand from his dagger and bowed deeply before her. He found himself speechless when he straightened and looked into her dancing blue eyes. The golden hair framed her face and her delicate features as it fell to her shoulders. “Welcome to my world, young Prince,” she said, raising her hand to the Prince who took it, brushed it with his lips, then dropped to his right knee before her, as if he were greeting a queen.

“Rise, fair Prince,” she said. Philip, meanwhile, had dropped to a tree branch beside the path and next to the Prince. “Come on, Boss, don’t be shy. Adriel of the enchanted grove,” he said hopping again to the Prince’s right shoulder, “this is Prince Godric of Nodd. He’s looking for a Princess in the city of Ardor. Can you help us?”

Adriel looked from Philip to the Prince. “Perhaps,” she said, smiling at the Prince. “Follow me to my home up ahead,” she said, turning and seemingly fading deeper into the trees. The Prince and Philip followed behind her on the faint path until they found her again, standing beside a pool of crystal clear water. “Wait here, and I shall return shortly.” With that said she stepped into the water and quickly sank beneath the surface. The Prince, astonished, leaned over the edge of the pool, but could see nothing except the swirling clear water. Philip flew to a tree on the opposite side of the pool. “Nothing, Your highness. She’s just gone.”

No sooner had he said that than Adriel rose out of the water and walked to where the Prince stood. Her white dress, which should have been soaked, was dry as fallen leaves in autumn.

“Your home is in the pool?” the Prince asked, as she stood beside him again. She shook her head gently and a fine mist flew from her hair and settled on the Prince.

“Yes,” she said. “Would you like to see it?”

“Hey, Boss,” said Philip, flying back across the wide pool and landing on the ground beside them. He cocked his head up at the Prince. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea. My job is to keep you on the road to Ardor. No disrespect, my Lady, but I think we need to be on our way.”

“You are indeed a wise bird, Philip. No offense. My home is deep and spacious. Some who come there wish never to leave, and their failure leaves them heartsick forever. Sometimes a glimpse is more than enough to satisfy curiosity. If you look deeply into the pool, you may see something to help you on your way.”

Philip flew up to the Prince’s shoulder and they both leaned over the pool. At first the Prince saw nothing but the clear water, but the longer he stared, the water became translucent and an image began to work its way to the surface. It was that of a dark complexioned man holding a long sharp dagger before him, seemingly threatening someone. The Prince could see no more and the image faded.

“Did you see that, Philip? The man with the dagger?”

“No, Boss, nothing but water,” Philip replied.

“It looks as if someone is in danger, perhaps the Princess. We should go!”

Adriel extended her hand toward the Prince. In her palm lay a heart-shaped green stone, smooth as glass, with a translucent glow within, like that of the water. “Perhaps,” she said, “you may find some use for this gem down the road. Keep it close to you.”

“Thank you. You’ve been most kind and generous.”

“You’re welcome, Prince. If you’re sure you won’t visit my home, then I have a third gift for you to speed you on your quest. You will find it at the entrance to the grove.”

“Though I have no idea what your third gift might be, thank you.”

“Godspeed, young Prince,” she said, as she stepped again into the water and vanished from sight.

“A third gift?” Philip said, looking up at the Prince. “I saw only one.”

“I think the first gift was the vision. We should hurry, for the Princess maybe in trouble. Come on, Philip. Back to the road.”

“Okay, Boss,” replied the black bird, springing into the air and flying through the trees just ahead of the Prince. He turned his head back toward the Prince, nearly smashing into the tree ahead of him as his wing clipped a low branch. “Ouch! Oomph! Goodness, your highness, did you happen to notice Adriel’s eyes? At first I thought they were blue, the color of clean ocean water.” Philip dropped down to the Prince’s shoulder. “Then, the next time I looked, they were green, like the water of a sunlit stream.”

“They were like the eyes of Elesandra, weren’t they?” the Prince replied as he wove his way carefully through the trees, following the path out of the grove. Philip dug his nails into the Prince’s shoulder, trying to keep from falling as the Prince moved around the trunk of a tree. “Saints above!” cried the Prince. “I think you’ve drawn blood this time!”

“Sorry! This means of transportation is a bit precarious, your highness. I’ll take to the air once we are out of here. But listen.” The words of a distant song seemed to surround them as the Prince made his way back to the road.

Magic swirled and danced in the air, seemingly gathering substance as the Prince and Philip moved, words growing clearer, then fading as the two reached the entrance to the grove.

In an enchanted aspen grove
A fair Prince met a fae lady;
She felt her heart turning to stone
When the Prince said, “Farewell, sweet lady, adieu

Sweet lady, farewell, adieu, adieu,

Sweet lady, farewell, adieu.”

Adriel’s voice came to them through the trees as magic flashed through the woods, settling hauntingly into the air around the Prince. He turned quietly and looked back into the grove.

“I think she likes you, Boss. She’s very lovely!” Philip cleared his throat. Had he been a person, he would undoubtedly have blushed, turned crimson, probably down to his toes!

The Prince turned back and looked down at the short path before him. Sunlight streamed into the grove through the remaining trees.

A loud whinny broke the sudden silence. Stepping out of the grove into the sunlight, the Prince saw, tied to a green-leafed branch of an aspen tree, a large golden horse, with a brown leather saddle and bridle.

“The third gift?” croaked Philip, rising into the air and coming to land on the saddle, where he immediately bounced off and fluttered to the ground.

“She is yours, Prince Godric, for the length of your quest, or until she is no longer needed.” A soft voice whispered in the Prince’s ear. “Turn her loose when the quest is complete. She will find her way home.”

The Prince ran fingers through his dark hair, shook his head, then walked to the horse, put his foot into the stirrup and swung up into the saddle, grinning delightedly. “Thank you,” he shouted into the air, and the leaves of the aspen trees rustled and shook like the surface of water in the wind.

“Come, Philip! Into the air, my friend. We’re off to save a Princess!”

And so they were, kicking up a small cloud of dust as the horse began to gallop down the road, carrying the Prince, with Philip in the air above them.

Image: undoubtedly enchanted aspen trees, standing in a magical grove.

Second image: magical aspen trees in the fall, of course.

FAIRYTALE: INTERLUDE 3 - LES

“Not Chapter 6”

#1. “In art, the Trinity is expressed in the Creative Idea, the Creative Energy, and the Creative Power—the first imagining of the work, then the making incarnate of the work, and third the meaning of the work.” Thus Madeleine L’Engle in her “Introduction” to Dorothy Sayers’ “The Mind of the Maker” briefly [obviously! Dolt!] summarizes the trinitarian nature of the creative process. I quote this sentence at the beginning of Chapter 6 as a way to encourage you to read Sayers’ book with ML’E’s introduction. Who would understand better the nature of the creative process than an intelligent, insightful woman who had written a number of compelling mystery novels? [I put the numbers at the beginning of these paragraphs to indicate the order in which they were written.]

#3. And yes, I [Author as narrator, for the moment, perhaps like an Old Testament prophet, speaking for Yahweh] bought the book on kindle and thus am able to quote it. I suppose when I am talking for myself I become the lower case “author,” for the text will undoubtedly be here for a little while after I am dead. Dead and gone and not feeling too well at the moment! Here I introduced a bit of confusion into the narrative, for below I go off to watch a TV show, which I did, then came back, and inserted this comment into yesterday’s text. So the next paragraph is what I wrote yesterday [#2]. I am at least bright enough to know I could adjust the next paragraph, but I rather like how I defined my problem there. Thus, without further ado, yesterday’s paragraph, which originally followed the first paragraph:

#2. As I understand the creative process, and there is no guarantee of that understanding!, I am in the midst of the “Creative Energy” part of the process, the incarnation of the “Creative Idea,” speaking factually. And while we are at it I object to being called a dolt simply because I said “briefly summarize”; I have read lengthy summaries as well as brief summaries. That summary was brief, one sentence. I suspect someone hereabouts needs to do a better job of reading and thinking! And having said that, I think Art ought to be a way of clarifying how we think and understand ourselves, I find, however, that I grow more confused as I proceed. Ontologically, it’s what I would call the problem of the floating “I”; the Author cannot make up his mind when he is “creating” [cough, cough] which character he is: Author/author/narrator. Perhaps he should give up and let Philip tell the story from his bird’s eye view. Granted that wouldn’t work though I have been reading a series of mystery novels by Spencer Quinn wherein the detective’s dog is the only narrator, the only “I” who narrates the adventure. Talk about a conflicted writer! Goodness! In any case the Author is going to give up trying to write for the night; he’s going off to watch a second episode of “Inspector Manara” (in Italian with subtitles) on Prime, leaving all of us in Limbo, so to speak!

#4 Two or three days later and I have returned to pick up the narrative where I left off. One of the problems with the story thus far is that the Creative Idea has slightly changed to allow for the intrusion of the Author into the story in a way he never imagined when he started to write a simple fairytale. At this very moment he is conflicted, for he knows he needs to get the Prince and Philip back on the narrow road to Ardor and the Princess, whose name he keeps forgetting, and yet he also wants to talk about other stuff, like art and the nature of the creative process, and perhaps certain fundamental ontological problems that much occupy his mind. Couple that with the fact that his eyes keep filming over so that he can scarcely see the iPad screen, the lap board that he has the iPad standing on bounces every time he hits a letter, and that his spellchecker has a mind of its own and you can understand that life is somewhat difficult at the moment.

Let’s take the ontological problem first or perhaps it’s an epistemological problem. In any case he was lying in bed this morning thinking about the Big Bang and the Choice regarding the fundamental question: why is there something rather than nothing? [Astonishing! The “speller” knew each word in order following “why.” That is spooky!] Since the Author is a touch simpleminded, he thinks it’s one way or the other: either Matter always was, is, and will be and everything that now is is the consequence of Matter in motion or Mind [as in Divine Mind, i.e. God] as in Psalm 90 is from everlasting to everlasting. While the fundamental question is one that all persons need to answer for themselves, his thought this morning was that imagining Matter as always existing or even just popping into existence—bang—here-we -are is an impossible thought. Of course we know Matter is real and present because we can see it and it is us.

On the other hand, Mind [consciousness] is a reality too. We all have them, minds, that is, some more so than others (cough, cough), and while we know we have them we can’t see them, as it would seem to be with a Divine Mind, which we also can’t see. As with ourselves there is much evidence that such a reality exists. For example, there are immediately the intangibles: Beauty, Truth, Goodness, Justice, to name only four. If there is no Divine Mind to which they point, then they must be illusions, or so himself is thinking. Well, one could go on about these matters, and many have, but meanwhile our characters are still in Limbo or perhaps it is really just suspended animation for a while. Limbo conjures up images of Dante’s wonderful tale wherein he is also a character, and Dante’s Limbo is definitely not where our characters are currently residing. Dante made it into his work and out again without any of the current problems, so we know it can be done. It just takes a better mind than the one at work here to pull it off smoothly. Cough, cough!

So! Chapter 6 still has not come into existence and we have constructed another Interlude. Perhaps the Author is channeling Laurence Sterne after all. Perhaps Godric is really Tristram, but no, I don’t think so, and I should know. Wink, wink!

FAIRYTALE: INTERLUDE 2 - LES

Interlude 2

Analogies

Ah ha! I’m beginning to see the problem, for I was just rereading the Jonah text or story. The second the Author enters the narrative, he becomes the “author,” in effect. “God” in the book of Jonah Is in truth neither Yahweh (YHWH) nor the Author; he is the real, unknown author, long dead now, pretending to be all the characters in the story, the way any writer of story does, and thus in truth really none of them. All and none. That must be true as I apprehend it from this narrative perspective.

If the analogy with the theological perspective on God the Father holds up [sooner or later, I understand that all analogies break down, but “analogy” is a helpful way of thinking about truth], then our understanding of the Christian dogma concerning God the Father would be that He is the source of being for all of reality, the entire cosmos and everything in it; He is in some sense Being itself [Exodus 3:13: “I am who I am”]; everything in the universe that is simply has being, as “gift,” one might say.

I vaguely remember Dorothy Sayers writing in her excellent book, The Mind of the Maker, that she wasn’t arguing for the existence of God, only exploring the connection between what happens when a writer creates a story and how Christian dogma defines the Trinity. I should reread that book, since I don’t quite remember what she actually says.

In any case, in Christian theology God the Father becomes a character in his own universe, at a specific time in the history of that universe, our universe, and in a specific place. As God the Father, creator of the entire cosmos, he would know the right time, the right place. A prophet inspired by the creator and sustainer God could predict the advent of such a one, the looked-for Messiah, without understanding at all the specific nature of such a character. That Messiah certainly would not be one to die on a cross; he would more likely be a military leader after the fashion of King David. He would defeat the occupying Romans and set up on Earth a divine kingdom. Surely.

That, however, as we know, is not how the story goes, nor how the theology unfolds, for the central creaturely problem is the relationship between the creator’s creatures and himself. He made them Good; he gave them Free Will; they abused his trust and rebelled against him, as the story in the Garden goes. After that all Hell breaks loose, literally and figuratively. Human history is frequently the story of one bit of nastiness after another. Yada, yada, yada. I think about God the Father’s Anger in the story as his attitude (even as metaphor, where necessary) toward all the nastiness, the Evil, that has been, is, and will be, perpetrated by his creatures who were meant to be good and loving in a beautiful and magnificent universe. Again, like the Anger, the Garden would count as an image to point to that greater reality of a vast and magnificent universe.

[Digression: Astronomy’s Picture of the Day today, October 16, 2022, is that of a beautiful spiral galaxy, NGC 1300, lovely and magnificent. Galileo never got to see what is really out there. We are blessed to have Hubble and now the James Webb Space Telescope!]

Okay. So God the Son is born into the historical context: 6 AD+ or -; Bethlehem of Judea. That’s why the Nicene Creed makes such a point of getting the detail right: “For us men and for our salvation/he came down from heaven,/and by the Holy Spirit was incarnate/of the Virgin Mary,/and became man./For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate,/he suffered death and was buried,/and rose again on the third day/in accordance with the Scriptures.”

In other words, the first part of the Creed nails the nature of the Son precisely: “I believe in one Lord Jesus Christ,/the Only Begotten Son of God,/born of the Father before all ages./God from God, Light from Light,/true God from true God,/begotten, not made/consubstancial with the Father;/through him all things were made.” God the Son is God the Father (I.e. the Author) incarnate in his own story.

When I think of putting myself into this story, I could not do it really with any degree of plausibility; it would be silly and superficial, along with various other things. Ahem. However, the Idea is worth thinking about. Jesus, the second person of the Trinity, is God the Father’s Idea of Himself, so to speak. Christians believe God is perfect; as perfect, God would have a perfect Idea of himself, and would have it from Eternity to Eternity. Essentially that’s what the Creed says about the Son.

I begin to see the problem with analogies. No way in thinking about myself in relation to this story could I even accomplish that. The gap between the creed and my ability to imagine such a thing is immense. “Hello, Philip. I’m the Idea of the character who made you the talking bird that you are!” No character in reality would believe that! Certainly I have an Idea of myself; I am certain we all have such a thing. I was Nick Bottom the weaver in the ninth grade, donkey’s head and all. That image sort of stuck with me. I quit drama class in the tenth grade, I said, in high dudgeon, because I always had to be the Fool, not that that wasn’t appropriate; the real reason I quit was that I was terrified of the stage. So I became a teacher! Go figure. I was always terrified there too, but as an adult, I more or less dealt with the terror of walking in to a classroom. I was almost always well prepared, and I loved to teach. Enough of that. Sorry.

The theological clues in the Creed though are “the only begotten Son” and “begotten not made”; the distinction is crucial, I think. I was “begotten” by my father (and mother), but I was created, “made” by God; all human creatures are made by God; only the Son is begotten. The images that follow in the Creed clarify that distinction for me, especially the “light from light” image. Think of the Sun! There is that burning ball of hydrogen 93 million miles from us and there are the rays that shine out from it, taking eight minutes to get here. Or think of a flashlight: there is the bulb, and there is the beam of light that streams from it. “Light from light”; two things in unity, but one precedes the other. God from God. Analogies! Useful for thinking, if used carefully.

How does the Holy Spirit fit in? I see one interesting possibility, and I may be remembering that from Sayers. The Holy Spirit could be analogous to the “meaning” of the story. We all know stories can be powerful [well, sorry about that in this story; I am trying!]; I think of Dante’s Divine Comedy, for example, or The Scarlet Letter, or King Lear, or The Brothers Karamazov, etc. The story affects the readers powerfully, moves them, changes them. Now as far as analogies go, you will probably be relieved to know that that is as far as I intend to go. Talk about stories changing the reader, I reread the Jonah story and wrote this chapter for it made me think about the author in relation to the story. Henry James does that to me too. Think of the Governess in The Turn of the Screw or the literary critic in The Figure in the Carpet, or the painter in the Real Thing. Well, I did not know when I began chapter 6 today that this essay of sorts would unfold and become another “Interlude.”

I saw instead Godric climbing down the rocky hillside beneath the Dragon Lady’s cave, and with Philip in the air above him, getting back on the narrow road to Ardor and the possibility of the princess. The Idea or Image of the Princess that he carries in his mind is what moves him. I suppose I ought to call this chapter “Interlude 2.” You know, I think I shall. That way readers can skip it should they rather get on with the adventure, for what’s coming next is large and green, but it is not the She-Hulk or her male counterpart, the Incredible Hulk.

Remember, the “Interlude” is the Author talking to the Reader; thus he quickly becomes the author as narrator, though I get as confused about this aspect of story as I was at the beginning of this Interlude. I shall reread this section (well I would anyway) to see if I actually said anything that made sense! So, until we are on the road again, farewell. [When, of course, I shall return as the narrator, or not return at all, in case I die between now and then. If I do happen to die between now and then, please rest assured that Godric wins the Princess, Philip will soon become a real human being, and all the characters will live happily ever after. That’s one possibility anyway. Of course, since I am not God and not far-sighted I am not certain how the story will really turn out. But you are right, it is a Fairytale!]

Well, I reread it carefully and clarified the prose where I saw that it needed clarification. Obviously, I am no theologian (actually, just a very old man interested in thinking about these matters). My thought always goes back to the fundamental philosophical question: why is there something rather than nothing? It behoves us to think about that question, for being itself is a mystery of time and place and identity.

If you would like to see a very good poet dealing with those things, read T.S. Eliot’s Four Quartets.

Image: Barred Spiral Galaxy NGC 1300 [Just breath-takingly beautiful!]

Image Credit: NASA ESA, Hubble Heritage

Explanation: Across the center of this spiral galaxy is a bar. And at the center of this bar is smaller spiral. And at the center of that spiral is a supermassive black hole.  This all happens in the big, beautiful, barred spiral galaxy cataloged as NGC 1300, a galaxy that lies some 70 million light-years away toward the constellation of the river Eridanus. This Hubble Space Telescope composite view of the gorgeous island universe is one of the most detailed Hubble images ever made of a complete galaxy. NGC 1300 spans over 100,000 light-years and the Hubble image reveals striking details of the galaxy's dominant central bar and majestic spiral arms. How the giant bar formed, how it remains, and how it affects star formation remains an active topic of research.

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 5 - LES

Chapter 5

The Voice of the Dragon Lady

While rosy fingered dawn was in the process of lighting up their world, Godric and Philip were in the process of waking up.

“Good morning, Boss,” said Philip, hoping up to the highest polished limb on the perch, so that he could more easily look down at Godric, still on his mattress.

“Good morning, Bird,” replied the Prince. “What does this word ‘Boss’ that you keep using on me actually mean? I’m not sure I like it. It sounds kind of, I don’t know, kind of gruff and perhaps a touch insolent.”

“Not at all, your highness. I have a distant relative, a raven, actually, name’s Matthew, on an adventure in another story who uses it in reference to his guy-in-charge, the guy the other characters listen to. In our case, only me. You’re the decider after all. In a way it’s almost, no, it is a term of familiarity and affection. See, I like you, Boss.” Philip, somewhat embarrassed, gave himself a shake and picked some tiny creature, a tick, off a black feather and swallowed it.

Hearing movement outside their rocky room, the Prince got stiffly to his feet, pulled his fine leather boots on, smoothed down his maroon shirt and dark leather slacks and walked out of their bedroom into the main hall of the cave. Philip flew around him and settled on the floor next to a cloth covering upon which stood a tall clear pitcher of water, several mugs, and ceramic plates piled with various kinds of edibles, bunches of grapes, oranges, fresh brown bread, lightly toasted and buttered, it seemed, cheeses, and for the Prince a bowl of steaming cereal like oatmeal, plus a plate filled with strips of crisp hot meat. The Dragon Lady, Su Linn, stood behind the food, smiling at them, and gestured for the Prince to be seated. Philip had already plucked a grape and was busily pecking and eating.

“Good morning,” he said, bowing before the Dragon Lady and then folding himself down to the floor of the cave. “Thank you for this wonderful repast; it looks delicious.”

“You’re welcome, Prince Godric,” she replied returning his bow and then seating herself before a steaming bowl of similar substance. She picked up the spoon next to her bowl, dipped it into the cereal and then daintily ate it. “I won’t bother you with tiresome questions while you eat, but there is one I would like to ask, if I may.”

“Certainly,” the Prince replied, as he took a strip of the crisp meat and bit off a good portion.

“Then did the Princess Elesandra, whom you are seeking, by any chance have eyes that changed color, from blue to green and back?”

“I’m not sure. I think she did though at the time I thought it was a trick of the lighting. What do you know?”

“I know that women with the shifting eyes are usually women of unusual powers. She might not only be a Princess, the daughter of a powerful king; she could also be a supernatural being, a nymph or a fairy Princess. You don’t really know her. If you succeed, you must be careful to discover what and who she is and the nature of her intentions. Since you saw her, were immediately taken by her beauty and vowed to find her, she might even be a siren or a witch. That doesn’t mean she is evil, just that you must be certain of her nature and her intentions.”

“Wow!” Philip yelped. “What can we do?” The Prince looked from him to the Dragon Lady, shocked and speechless.

“Don’t be too alarmed. I have something that will help you.“ She gestured with her right hand. In a small crackling burst of light a black bag materialized in her hand. She stretched the cord at the top of the bag and shook out a gem stone, a black-veined orange crystal of translucent beauty. “It’s called a Wolfstone,” she said, holding the oblong gem in the palm of her hand. Its power is that it lets you see through illusions, particularly magical ones. If she is hiding behind magic or is not who she pretends to be, the crystal will reveal her true nature, good or evil. Take it and keep it with you at all times.” She put the gem back in the bag, drew the top closed and handed the bag to the Prince.

“Thank you.” He took it gingerly, stood, and put it into a side pocket in the pants he was wearing. “I appreciate the gift and your generosity and hospitality. Is there any way I can repay you?”

“No. My gifts have no strings, other than the cord on the bag,” she added smiling. “Be a good and just ruler, kind and compassionate when you come to take over the kingdom. Find a good woman who is your equal and who will support your reign.

“There is one further thing I can do,” she continued. “Your quest. There will be three obstacles.”

“Always in threes!” piped up Philip with his mouth full of food! “Tell us,” the Prince said, “if you are able.”

“Several miles down the road to Ardor, you will come to a bridge over a fast-moving stream. There is where the danger lies and you may have to fight your way across the bridge. If so, each obstacle will be more powerful than the one before it. Safety lies on the other side of the bridge for evil magical forces cannot cross the running water. It strips them of their power. So be alert. Go safely and well,” she added with a flourish and a swirl of her golden cloak. Behind her a golden light flashed; without moving a foot, the Dragon Lady disappeared into the light, leaving Godric and Philip alone in the cave. Only the food remained on the floor of the cave.

“Well,” said Godric, “let me pack up some of this food and we’ll be on our way. Anything special that you would like, Philip?”

Philip hopped to the side of the mat. “Those sesame seeds are really tasty, if you can find something to wrap them in. And how about those nuts over in that corner, and some grapes.”

Godric found a container on the mat that he could use. He put the seeds and nuts and a few grapes inside, then added some cheese and put the container inside his knapsack. “Ready,” he said. “Let’s go!”

Now, if you’re like me, you are probably wondering: when did Godric get a necessary bathroom break? He was in the cave all night, got up in the morning, ate breakfast, listened to the Dragon Lady, and only now is leaving the cave. When did he go?

Truth be told and I try never to lie, he went once or twice yesterday on the way to the hillside and cave. And, of course, he is going now, while I write. So, thus far, all is well, all is well, all manner of things are well, at least for the moment.

Image: Jonah under the castor bean plant, looking glum! That’s what happens when narrators or prophets are given a task they dislike. The text is good. There are 2 central characters, a city of thousands, a plant or bush, and finally a worm; and a self-effacing narrator, unlike myself!! Jonah is a real jerk! God, the author, or Author (?), is good! Nineveh is spared. Enjoy the real thing (NRSV).

1 But this [Nineveh repents; God saves them from destruction] was very displeasing to Jonah, and he became angry [like the elder brother in the prodigal son parable?] 2 He prayed to the LORD and said, “O LORD! Is not this what I said while I was still in my own country? That is why I fled to Tarshish at the beginning; for I knew that you are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love, and ready to relent from punishing. 3 And now, O LORD, please take my life from me, for it is better for me to die than to live.” 4 And the LORD said, “Is it right for you to be angry?” 5 Then Jonah went out of the city and sat down east of the city, and made a booth for himself there. He sat under it in the shade, waiting to see what would become of the city. 6 The LORD God appointed a bush, [4] and made it come up over Jonah, to give shade over his head, to save him from his discomfort; so Jonah was very happy about the bush. 7 But when dawn came up the next day, God appointed a worm that attacked the bush, so that it withered. 8 When the sun rose, God prepared a sultry east wind, and the sun beat down on the head of Jonah so that he was faint and asked that he might die. He said, “It is better for me to die than to live.” 9 But God said to Jonah, “Is it right for you to be angry about the bush?” And he said, “Yes, angry enough to die.” 10 Then the LORD said, “You are concerned about the bush, for which you did not labor and which you did not grow; it came into being in a night and perished in a night. 11 And should I not be concerned about Nineveh, that great city, in which there are more than a hundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right hand from their left, and also many animals?”

SCHUSTER - LES

Schuster, an Ode

Thank you, Lord, for our little dog Schuster,

So named for the exquisite, literary affinity

Last survivor, dynamic duo, Simon and Schuster,

Beautiful dachshunds, delightful companions,

Walking company, brave Simon expired.

Schuster grown old, his grey face attesting,

Liquid dark eyes, always compelling,

His numerous, glorious red-brown hairs, Lord,

All of them: properly counted, properly numbered

In that holy divine, bright-shining dog book.

I celebrate with Seraph and Cherub unending

Our dog’s many turnings, his short legs working,

Precious, four feet in the air, for belly rubs

Begging, thereby wags a tail,

Let not someone’s failure darken the pale,

Behavior unseemly, humanity frail.

Ah, Lord, your gift, graciously given,

Found in the trunk, one left

In the litter, eight months of age,

Let him wag his tail!

The parking lot hummed as cars

Came and went, a Cracker Barrel

Saturday, she bought him for a hundred

Dollars not rent. Schuster came home,

A strange little puppy, destructive of course.

Attracted to books at that early age,

Chewed up their bindings, their covers,

Their print. Now age has claimed him,

Poor guy and his teeth. Loses them

Yearly, now gums his soft meat.

The flaw in his character, Lord,

You know well; he’s skittish, exceedingly,

Yelps, barks and low rumbles, constantly

Aimed at whoever comes here, to work

Or to visit, he’s first-alert warning,

Loud, like a fire-burned demon from Hell.

Silencing Schuster requires lots of yelling,

Reduced to that grumble like an idling old Ford,

Sitting there purring like a cat who is bored.

Schuster the sleeper, the any food eater,

Beloved companion, though wires daily crossed,

For certain, a gift to be always cherished,

God’s giving is strange. Still though we thank the Lord,

Give praise to God’s name, for sending us Schuster,

Whose flaws and whose virtues endear us,

Inflame us, through love and affection sustain us,

While love and affection remain.

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 4 - LES

Chapter 4

Digressions

The Author, having reread Chapter 3, decided that the story was moving forward well enough to continue. He also thought that he was overusing certain words, like “just” for example, and that he would have to watch that. He has found from his wide and varied reading that certain authors, tellers of fantasy tales, for example, rely on stock phrases possibly to avoid having to think too carefully about characters’ responses. “She rolled her eyes.” That’s a favorite. Having characters “snort” is another one. No teller is apparently immune from this kind of device. In one 300 page novel, he counted 25 rolling eyes and 20 snorts. His behavior seems somewhat obsessive, but there it is. That’s the Author, for you. Used to be an English teacher. Imagine that!

Well, while our characters are sleeping in the Dragon Lady’s cave, let me develop these thoughts a bit more and digress even further. This digression is a little like Eliot’s distraction: the poet was “distracted from distraction by distraction.” I frequently find myself in the same situation. Here it’s more a matter of digressing from digressions by digressions. Hmm.

The problem in this narrative thus far is that the Author can’t quite make up his mind as to who he is in the narrative. Is he the Author? Well, of course, but when he chooses actually to insert himself [notice please that he did not say: “to actually insert himself “; he dislikes literary yard work such as splitting infinites as though they were winter fire wood!] so, that is to insert himself into the commentary, he gets confused about his identity: he can’t really be the Author, for we know that the Author is in every aspect of the story, giving “being” to all the elements in the story from characters to food to weapons to geography. When the Author is off doing “other things,” eating, sleeping, going to the doctor, going to the bathroom, talking with visiting friends, etc., obviously he is not telling the story and all action comes to a silent stop. A pause. Characters in stories never notice. “Hey! Why aren’t we moving?” The answer to that should now be clear!

Some people believe that the Author telling a story is the way God deals with the universe, hard as that is to imagine! I mean, millions of galaxies, on the one hand; an individual human being on the other and who knows how many human beings there are alive at any one time, to say nothing of other creatures and microbes and ants! Lots of ants too! And mosquitoes! What was God thinking? It is also perfectly clear to me that while the Author gives “being” to everything in his tale (where else would it come from?), he is thus transcendent to it; that is, he is not simply its animating spirit. Emerson could never get that clear and thus became a pantheist. Read his essay on “nature” if you doubt me. And he wasn’t the only one! Spinoza? Thoreau? Whitman? And so on. Those American Transcendentalists even influenced Emily Dickinson: “In the name of the bird/the bee/and the butterfly/Amen.” Or something fairly silly like that, though she has other wonderful, non-silly poems. “Because I could not stop for death/he kindly stopped for me.” Now that’s the way to imagine such a gentleman suitor! Emily had various perspectives on nature, though she too seemed to lean toward the pantheistic rather than the Puritan.

Digressions! Holden Caulfield used to get in trouble in speech class, I think it was, because of digressions. The speech teacher didn’t like them; Holden thought they were the most interesting part of the speech. If you really want to see digressions or perhaps simply stream of consciousness at work in a wonderful author, read Sterne’s “Tristram Shandy.” Our Author has read the novel three times, though the last time was way in the distant past. As he remembers, it took Tristram about 300 pages just to get born, and that had something to do with clocks. Yes. Back to the narrative point of view.

Obviously, one thing the Author could do is write himself into the narrative. I suppose that could be the “author,” lower case here, but as the Author soon discovered, that gets very confusing very quickly. The narrator has trouble separating himself from the “author.” So the bloody Author needs to make up his bloody mind about whether he wants to be a bloody character in his tale, and he has just decided that since the narrator, that’s myself, is doing an adequate job, thank you, that he may as well let him do all the telling from here on out. Like an Old Testament prophet he can speak for the Author, or he can speak for himself. I like the idea of being an OT prophet! Think of Isaiah 6! Whoa! Or Jonah who gets ticked off at the Author because the Author actually forgives the repentant people of Nineveh. Good stuff!

There’s one more thing, nota bene: I refrained from saying “just” one more thing, or he refrained from having me say “just” one more thing! Hmm. Chaucer! Didn’t upper case Chaucer make himself a character in the Canterbury Tales? Ha! If Chaucer could do it, it follows [ratio] that certainly God could do it too! God could do it so naturally that no one would ever know unless the character chose to out himself, to speak in the current vernacular. The Author likes to stay relevant, oh certainly! Note what I did there! By golly, I think it will work.

Okay. Godric and Philip passed an uneventful night sleeping in the Dragon Lady’s cave, one on the soft pallet, the other on the made-to-order perch. Neither the Author nor I know what the Dragon Lady did during the night once she became Pontiffax and flew off into the darkness. She was, however, back when the rosy fingered dawn lit up the hills, the forests, the meadows and the rivers and streams. What happened then will have to wait for the next chapter.

Image: one of the Author’s favorite writers at work: “Take it and read, take it and read!” Of course, given the pitiful nature of education today, young people won’t get the allusion. Alas!

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 3 - LES

Chapter 3

The Cave

“Here comes Everyman!” Identify the quote and earn a warm sensation in the pit of your stomach. “HCE!” Knowing things is good, the Author/authors believe; I do too, for that matter, and I just noticed: three in one. There is, furthermore, such a thing as objective truth. An additional bit of knowledge there. Don’t let them tell you otherwise, or if that’s what they try to force on you, show them your sole! That idea having been taken care of, buckle up! We are off to the races! Or somewhere near in far off lands. And yes, our good Prince might indeed be Everyman! Who knew?

But first, listen to Theseus, the mythical King and founder of Athens, by Shakespeare, of course: “The lunatic the lover and the poet/are of imagination all compact./One sees more devils than vast Hell can hold./That is the madman; the lover, all as frantic/sees Helen‘s beauty in a brow of Egypt./The poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling/ doth glance from Heaven to earth, earth to Heaven/and as imagination bodies forth /the forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen/turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothings/ a local habitation and a name.” Sigh!

For your edification [this is now the Author/author speaking, I think I am, even though it sounds like an editor] a synecdoche is a type of metonymy: that’s what a “brow” of Egypt is. A lovely brown-skinned maiden of Egypt. Yes? She lives in my mind and imagination from long ago, Samira. “She walks in beauty like the night/of cloudless climes and starry skies/and all that’s best of dark and bright/meets in her aspect and her eyes.” Though that was in another country and long ago, I am certain she was Persian, not Egyptian. There, I shall now let the narrator continue!

Thank you. [Idiot!] Shakespeare through King Theseus nails the poets’ two fundamental ways of seeing: Heaven to Earth and Earth to Heaven. Heaven to Earth means, I think, that we are in the presence of allegory. The poet or author finds an idea that he especially delights in and he embodies that idea in a series of images, stuff, matter, Earth. Everyman, for example, could be a Pilgrim, a Prince, a Knight, or a Circus Clown or a Hobbit. Etc.

In the reverse, the poet or author finds an image, a thing that is especially compelling in real life: a red rose, a murderer, like Macbeth, or a beautiful woman, like Dante’s Beatrice, perhaps, and he or she explores the image (Earth first in this case) to discover what the image means. Well then, what kind of story is this one we are in? At this point I would say, God only knows! The author isn’t certain either!

Now where the Devil did we leave them? Ah, yes, on the road, sorry, another literary allusion. Allusions are addictive, like puns. We left them trudging down a narrow path toward the east. They had gone 7.3 miles when we caught up to them; no, sorry again, it was 3.7miles. You see, both numbers add up to 10 internally, which is very important for this tale [7 + 3 = 3 + 7]. We don’t know why yet except to say it’s an example of objective truth, like Pi. They have just come upon a signpost that says Ardor and points east. So, we know they are on the right path or road. Presumably, the golden scaled, fire breathing dragon is somewhere ahead in the rocky hills coming up. While we chatted, the Prince trudged on, and the bird took to the air to scout the rocky terrain ahead, at least that’s what he told the Prince he was doing, who had no reason to doubt him. Neither do I.

Philip was high up over the side of the rocky hillside when he suddenly circled, rose higher, then went into a steep dive that brought him back to the Prince’s feet. He cocked his head, looked up and said, “Mind if I use your shoulder again, your highness?”

When Godric nodded his assent, [check out that pun!] the bird fluttered his wings to lift himself into the air and onto the Prince’s right shoulder. “There’s a cave up above on the hillside, near the top. It’s dark and it looks like it’s set deep into the hill. So, Boss, are you climbing up there after dragon? Or are we just going on to Ardor?”

“We’ll go up. We need all the help we can get. Though the dragon may breath fire he is supposed to be small, wise and friendly. Besides, I have a sword and a dagger.” Well, he did not have those things when he left the tower, but the author wisely remembered that Princes on Quests in stories need weapons. Thus he slung one over the Prince’s back in a red scabbard and clipped a lethal-looking dagger onto his belt in a sheath next to the canteen. Sadly, you can tell that the author has not recounted too many tales in his short or long life, for he keeps forgetting to add necessary details!

By the way that dagger is really sweet. It’s double bladed, so sharp you could split a hair on either edge, and the hilt is an intricate Celtic design with powerful, apotropaic magic woven into the sheath and engraved on the hilt. That’s strong, protective magic for those of you who don’t get out much! Exciting stuff!

Oh, there is one particular caution about the sword. It can help its bearer win a fight, but once it is drawn, it must taste blood or there will be dire consequences for the person wielding it. Hmm! Godric probably knows that for the sword had been in his father’s weapons room for many years before Godric received it. Well, let’s hope so.

By this time the Prince had climbed the rocky hillside and peered into the cave’s dark interior. Philip had landed on an outcropping above the cave entrance and intended to stay there. As you might guess, Philip was not an especially brave bird, not that he was exactly a coward. However, the purpose of a story is to develop character and lead to an epiphany, so, for the moment we’ll hold off on the judgment.

The Prince drew his dagger and moved quietly toward the dark, his leather boots making only a soft ticking sound as he moved toward the deeper interior of the cave. Suddenly he saw before him him a figure seated cross legged on the floor near the back of the cave. A small fire began to burn the kindling in front of the figure, who seemed simply to have snapped her fingers to cause it to light, or did she just breathe upon it? In either case, the Prince saw in the flickering light of that fire that the figure was a woman wearing a golden silk gown. Godric paused, put his dagger into its sheath, and said: “I thought this was a dragon’s cave. But you’re a woman!”

“Yes,” she replied. “Namaste,” she said as she made a brief bow towards Godric. Godric could see that her eyes were those of an oriental. “And I am also a dragon,” she continued sitting up again. “In fact I am many things: dragon, eagle, wolf or woman, depending on who or what needs help.” She seemed to Godric to be a very attractive middle aged woman with rich black hair falling around her pleasant face. “Now, I am a woman, so that I may talk to you.”

“I don’t understand? What do you mean that you are these other creatures too? How can this be?”

“I am a sorceress, a shape-shifter of some power. Now, for you, I am a woman, Su Linn. I give you my name as a token of my peaceful nature, for I see that you are a good man. That said, please sit down and tell me how I might help you.”

The Prince lowered himself to the cold stone floor. He raised his head to look at the woman. “I met a beautiful young Princess earlier today when I stepped through a magic mirror. I told her that I would seek her and be her suitor if she would allow that. She agreed. Her father is the king of Ardor, King Andor, she said, which is where we are headed.”

“Ah,” she said. “The road to Ardor is somewhat treacherous.” She paused thoughtfully, put her hand under her chin. “In another world from our own, there is an oriental film by that name.”

“Excuse me,” interrupted the Prince, “but what is a film?”

“I know that one,” squawked Philip, as he fluttered to a stop beside the Prince. “Flickering images on a wall that tell a story, more or less. Sort of like the images in Plato’s Cave, your highness, Boss.”

“Hush, Philip!” Spoken somewhat impatiently. “Don’t interrupt! I know you think you are a wise bird, but please let the Dragon Lady continue. She is why we are here.” Philip bent his black head and body in an imitation of shame, at least as far as I can tell. That was probably unfair, for he seemed genuinely sorry for his rude behavior. “Namaste,” he muttered as he bowed.

The Dragon Lady smiled her thanks. She looked at Godric. “Your companion is simply a little impetuous, eager to share his knowledge, an admirable trait. He will make a fine young man someday, when he has matured.”

“I what?” squeezed out Philip, hopping from one foot to the other. “You mean I get to be a real person, really human sometime in the future? How long, when?” He could scarcely contain his awe and delight, his enthusiasm.

“When and only if belong to the future. There are conditions, of course, and the transformation depends on your good service to the Prince, your continuing Goodness, and another quality which I may not tell you of at this time. For now, hold your tongue and listen.”

“Yes ma’am,“ replied the somewhat chastened bird.

The Prince looked at the Dragon Lady, Su Linn, in quiet, cosmic astonishment. “Is this true, and how do you know such things? Who or what is Plato’s Cave?”

“One thing at a time, young Prince. One thing at a time. First, Plato was a philosopher who, like me, and I hope like you too, sought Truth. To explain the pursuit of real Truth, objective reality, he imagined a cave very much like this one, and people chained to the floor of the cave facing the far wall, like that wall.” She turned and pointed to the wall some distance behind her, then she turned again to face the man and the black bird.

“Across that back wall of the cave images flickered, created by people carrying things before a huge fire, much larger than this one. Now, where is the reality here?” She posed, somewhat rhetorically, but before she could continue, the Prince blurted out, the things carried, not the shadows.”

“Yes,” laughed the Dragon Lady. “The things carried. Very good. The problem is that the people are still in the cave and where they need to be is outside, in the cool air and in the presence of the real source of light, the sun. You might call Plato’s tale an allegory. Think about the story this way. Most people in your father’s kingdom of Nodd believe they know the truth about life, meaning, the nature of reality, virtually everything. They believe whatever their parents have handed on, without having sought it out for themselves. They tend to believe in the shadows, as if that were the really real. Plato thought that people ought to break their chains, turn around and see what is making the shadows, and then keep on going up an incline until they are outside the cave and can get a glimpse of the real world themselves. At first it is hard to see in the direct sunshine outside the fairly dark cave, but staying there is worth the early pain. They might even discover that the Truth found or discovered is worth dying for, just as you might find that the Princess you seek is worth dying for.

“As to how do I know about Philip’s future? Well, I just see the possibility for I have been in this world a very long time. The two fundamental ways of knowing are both aspects, faculties of Reason, called in another language “Ratio” and “Intellectus”; Ratio in a sense, is the weaker or lesser, might be a better word, faculty of the two though people could never do without it. We usually just define it as reason, thinking clearly, actively, from one discovered truth to a new truth. For example, Justice in government is necessary for a good City; therefore, not distributing wealth to the poor and homeless in the City is evil. You begin by just seeing that Justice in the City is good and necessary and then you think how to ensure Justice in your City.

“Intellectus” in an important sense is intuition, the faculty that just sees Truth. Is Good just what you desire and think or is Good inherent in reality; in other words, is there a moral center to life that you can know or is good just whatever you happen to think and desire. Most people in this world think it is entirely subjective, simply a matter of what one happens to think at any given time, completely relative.

“If you saw a man injured by the side of the road, would there be a right thing and a wrong thing about your response to that person, or would whatever you decided to do be “good”? I am not asking you to tell me now, only to think about it. Meanwhile we will have some supper and bed down for the night. I will explain the more physical dangers of your quest in the morning, after a good night’s rest, if you don’t mind sleeping in a dragon’s cave.”

Before the astonished duo, the Dragon Lady gestured with both hands in an intricate pattern, and a simple meal of tasty rice with a generous portion of sweet and sour vegetables and meat appeared on a plate before the Prince and the Lady. Philip also received a generous portion of seeds and bread of various kinds, for which he was greatly pleased. The Prince and Su Linn received a golden, sweet tea in sturdy ceramic mugs. Before Philip appeared a shallow bowl filled with tea as well.

“This is delicious,” enthused the Prince. “Thank you. You are most hospitable,” he said, lifting the mug to the Lady and sipping the tea.

“You are welcome, young Prince and companion. Since night has fallen, you may sleep in my cave. I have, you might say, a guest room with a bed and, it just so happens, a comfortable perch.” Again she moved her hands in a complicated ritual; to her right, a door slid open in the wall of rock revealing another room in the cave, this one magically lightened, with greenish light spilling from the walls, a room that contained a comfortably padded mat on the floor and an intricate structure of round, polished rails upon which a bird might spend a peaceful night. Philip and the Prince looked in awe into the properly spacious room. When they turned again to thank their hostess, they discovered that she had vanished, leaving only a sharp smell of burned sandalwood incense in the air.

FAIRYTALE: INTERLUDE 1 - LES

Interlude, # 1

Well, it seems this technologically challenged Author hit the wrong button, so to speak, and saved a title, without a text to save, as well. Since he [of course he’s a he; a woman wouldn’t be that daft!] has no idea how to delete a “published” blank page, he is pausing to do a recap, like a Prime TV series, because he can scarcely remember what’s happened before himself. All right then. But who am I? Now that I think about it, in this story, there’s an “author” who is not really the author, if you have ever thought about stories and their writers. Sometimes the “Author” takes on the role [or is it roll? No, I’m certain it’s role; English is such a confusing language!] or should I say, pretends to be, the narrator. I don’t know why that happens; it just does! Damn it!

Obviously, there are various levels of reality at work throughout: there’s the outside Author, who, once the story is finished, is no longer with us. Shakespeare, you will have noticed, is dead! His stories live on, as in the sonnets where there is an I (eye) at work: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate….” Rough winds and so on, if you see my point? So, there’s the outside Author, an inside author, a narrator who pretends he is not the author, though of course he is; actually, that is the “I” (eye) of the story; then there are the characters, the little lower layer, ahem, so to speak. I suspect the author is schizophrenic, but that remains to be seen. The real Author had to look up schizophrenic! Well, I would have as well, but that’s neither here nor there now! Okay! The summary! The author decided to let me get it!

A Prince, named Godric, is in a tower writing a story, though at the beginning of the story he had written nothing (nudge, nudge); there are no doors in the tower, though there may or may not be a trapdoor in the floor. The Prince thinks there is, but the author tells me there isn’t, really!

Then a shadow in the corner of the room starts talking to him. [Can you believe this stuff? Er…That’s probably a real question. Okay, it is a real question: willing suspension of disbelief, and all that. [I get it if it doesn’t work for you with this fairytale; won’t hurt my feelings, probably.]. Then the shadow turns out to be a talking crow named Philip. [The Shadow is a bit upset that it didn’t get an uppercase “S”! It will get over it!]

There isn’t a door, but there is a large mirror on one wall, windows on the other 3 sides. The Prince looks into the mirror, sees, instead of himself, a lovely Princess, Elesandra, in a room somewhere else. He and the bird, Philip, step through the mirror, talk to the Princess, yada, yada, yada! He falls in love, the text doesn’t say, wants to be a suitor, she agrees, classic comic structure—a strict father stands between the Prince and the Princess. Godric must make a hasty exit. He and the bird step back through her mirror this time. You see in this reality a person can travel from mirror to mirror or from mirror to the outside realm of reality.

O yes, there will be, probably, a small, good, golden fire-breathing dragon unless something eats it that shouldn’t. Pontifex, that’s the dragon, or just one of the dragon’s names, though the Prince doesn’t know the half of that character yet.

Godric’s father is King Bolt of Nodd, better if it had been King Bolt of Knolt, but that’s as may be for the nonce; Elesandra’s father is King Andor of Ardor. Thus far Chapter 1, if we skip the talk about Evil which amounts to Nothing!

Chapter 2 involves the choosing of the right path, a magically-appearing lunch, and a discussion of being, ontology, and the mystery of identity; the author has just barely skirted epistemology, mostly. After that the Quest begins in earnest once the bird, Philip, has sussed out the right trail. “Sussed out,” I like that, has a really nice ring to it; it’s probably British. I use these odd words, then I have to look them up to make certain they mean what I think they mean! I meant the author has to do those things. Text and story get away from him from time to time, as do many other things, time being one of them.

Goodness, that’s about it. There are monsters out there. With any luck they will stay out there, or maybe not. Maybe luck has nothing to do with it, just the Lady Fortune, an Angel, who “tastes her bliss and turns her wheel,” or vice versa. I, I mean, “he” forgets. Even if they only read the Inferno; she’s there, and at least that would be something. Well, you can lead a horse somewhere relevant, but he forgets the rest again. “ O what a noble mind is here o’ er thrown.” Anyway, Chapter 3 coming up, since Godric and Philip decided on the Right Road!

Image: always good to know what you are seeing, in so far as that is possible, of course.

FAIRYTALE: CHAPTER 2 - LES

Chapter 2

Into the Woods or Around?

The Prince and Philip, the wise bird, stepped or hopped into the green meadow. The Prince looked around but his tower was nowhere to be seen. The trail before them appeared to lead into a dark woods.

“The dark woods is common trope,” squeaked Philip. “Try to think of something original, Prince. Dante got out of his dark woods fairly quickly, as I seem to remember.”

“You’ve read Dante? How could you read a book, let alone an epic tale like that? Besides, I’m not the one writing this tale which we seem to be well caught up in.”

“Magic,” replied Philip, as the two set off for the dark woods. The trail, however, had a mind of its own and swung to the left instead of leading through the woods.

“Hey Prince, I don’t like the feel of the path going left here. Widdershins!”

“Widdershins?”

“Yeah, Widdershins, going left. I don’t think Dante ever goes to the left in either Hell or Purgatory. Left is going wrong, out of the right way!”

“Okay, Mr. Wise Bird, what should we do here then? We can stay on the path or forge our own way through the woods or see if there is a path that soon goes right. Why don’t you scout ahead and see what greets us if we go either left or right! After all, you are our air power or eyes in the sky,” he chuckled. “I’ll go straight to the edge of the woods where there is shade. Okay?”

Philip nodded his shiny black head, hopped into the air, wings open, and flew above the trail that led to the left. A dark shadow followed on the ground under him. The Prince continued toward the woods, sat down under a tall leafy tree at the edge. The author of this fairytale, seeing that the Prince was hungry quickly looped a knapsack filled with tasty ham, cheese and lettuce sandwiches, over his left shoulder so that it fit on his right hip. He hung a canteen of water on his belt. The Prince, being no dummy, noticed the change immediately, looked around, but since he, of course, saw no one, muttered “more magic?” to himself, opened the knapsack, extracted a sandwich and started to eat.

Meanwhile the author and all around pleasant fellow had lost track of the bird. Fortunately at that point Philip fluttered to the ground beside the Prince. “Hey,” he said, “where did you get the food? But never mind that; could I have some, please?” The good Prince, to his credit, broke the second sandwich in half and put it on the ground in front of the bird. “Thanks,” mumbled Philip, with his beak full of bread, cheese and ham. Once he had swallowed his portion, he asked again: “Now, where did this stuff come from? We didn’t have anything to carry when we stepped through the mirror; now we have food, and I see, water, or something liquid anyway. Right? More magic, or is somebody messing with us?”

“I don’t know. It’s sort of like the mirror. One second it’s a mirror, the next it’s a door. One second no supplies. Where would we have found them? The Tower had no kitchen? The next second I have a full knapsack with good food. And our existence is kind of magical, as well, now that I think about it. Suddenly we wake up, so to speak, and become aware of our, existence, our identity, of ourselves in a universe with a long and extensive history. That in itself is pretty spooky. And here I am talking to a talking bird, no disrespect intended.”

“None taken, Prince.” If the bird had been able, he would have rolled his eyes there. Since he couldn’t do the eye thing, he looked away from the Prince, spied a piece of bread on the ground, picked it up with his yellow beak and swallowed it.

“Anyway,” said the Prince, “What did you discover about our choices?”

“Well,” Philip said, “If we take the large trail to the left, it goes to end of the woods and turns toward what I would call “the slough of despond,” an abyss of desperation, swampy water and alligators.”

“Is that another literary reference, the slough of despond, Philip? It certainly sounds like one.”

“Hmm! You have found me out. Yes. Pilgrim’s Progress! Marvelous story, though I don’t think anyone reads allegories nowadays. Anyway, to the right there is a very narrow path that leads around the woods on that end, though as far as I could tell, the land beyond turns rocky and steep. We should go right. My advice, go right, young Prince.” The Prince snorted, spewing the last of his sandwich on to the ground.

“Good,” he managed to get out . “Thank you. Then that’s what we’ll do!” said the Prince, picking up the knapsack. Then he unsnapped the canteen, metal covered with some kind of fuzzy animal skin; he unscrewed the top and took several long swallows. Then he offered the bird some by pouring a little into the generous cap. Philip stuck his beak in, did whatever birds do to get water into their bellies, belched and then sighed. “Thanks, Prince,” he said as the Prince re-screwed the cap and clipped the canteen back on his belt.

“High-ho, high-ho,” sang Philip. “Might I ride on your shoulder a while as we go? Talking and hopping are very wearing on a bird like myself,” he said. The Prince nodded and Philip flew to the Prince’s shoulder, tucked his head under his wing and immediately fell asleep!

“For goodness sake,” muttered the Prince, but started up the path to the right, which, when it curved around the woods turned out to be east. Philip swayed back and forth somewhat precariously as the Prince walked on in search of his lovely Princess in the land of Ardor.

Image: the cosmos: stars, planets, nebulae, galaxies, dark matter, cosmic dust.

FROST ESSAYS

[I copied the critical essays from the other page here, since the original page had gotten too long once I added the poetry. les]

Summary: Stopping by Woods

The speaker thinks about who owns the woods that he or she is passing through, and is fairly sure of knowing the landowner. However, the owner's home is far away in the village, and thus he is physically incapable of seeing the speaker pause to watch the snow fall in the forest.

The speaker thinks his or her horse must find it strange to stop so far from any signs of civilization. Indeed, they are surrounded only by the forest and a frozen lake, on the longest night of the year.

The horse shakes the bells on its harness, as if asking if the speaker has made a mistake by stopping. The only other sound besides the ringing of these bells is that of the wind and falling snowflakes, which the speaker likens to the feathers of goose down.

The speaker finds the woods very alluring, drawn both to their darkness and how vast and all-encompassing they seem. However, the speaker has obligations to fulfill elsewhere. Thus, though he or she would like to stay and rest, the speaker knows there are many more miles to go before that will be possible.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” Themes

Nature vs. Society

In “Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening,” the speaker describes stopping to watch the snow fall while riding a horse through the woods at night. While alone in the forest, the speaker reflects on the natural world and its implicit contrast with society. Though Frost’s poem resists a definitive interpretation, the natural world it depicts is at once “lovely” and overwhelming. The fact that it seemingly lures the speaker to linger in the dark and cold suggests that nature is both a tempting and a threatening force, a realm that resists people’s efforts to tame it while also offering respite from the demands of civilized life.

The poem presents the natural world as distinctly separate from human society. The poem begins with the speaker thinking about who owns the property he is passing through—“Whose woods these are I think I know”—yet it’s clear that there's no one there to actually stop the speaker from trespassing. The owner’s “house is in the village,” meaning “he will not see” the speaker. While this owner may think the woods belong to him, he can’t control who passes by “his” land any more than he can stop the woods from “fill[ing] up with snow.” The land owner’s absence and futility, in turn, suggest that the human impulse to dominate the natural world is misguided.

The complete lack of signs of civilization, meanwhile, further emphasizes the distance between society and nature. There are no farmhouses nearby, and the only sound apart from the “harness bells” of the speaker’s horse is that of the wind. Though the speaker acknowledges that, at least conceptually, he or she stands on someone else’s woods, the physical isolation indicates the impotence of conceptual structures like ownership in the first place. In other words, people can say they "own" land all they want, but that doesn't really mean anything when those people aren't around. Far from the sights and sounds of the village, the speaker stands alone “Between the woods and frozen lake” on the “darkest evening of the year.” Together all these details again present nature as a cold and foreboding space distinct from society.

At the same time, however, the woods are “lovely” enough that they tempt the speaker to stay awhile, complicating the idea of nature as an entirely unwelcoming place for human beings. Indeed, though the setting seems gloomy, the speaker also recounts the “sweep / Of easy wind and downy flake.” This language makes the setting seem calm and comforting. The speaker finds the wind “easy” or mellow and the snowflakes “downy,” like the soft feathers that fill a blanket or pillow. Finally, in the final stanza, the speaker definitively says, “The woods are lovely, dark and deep.” This suggests the speaker’s particular interest in the solitude that the woods offers.

Though the speaker knows that he or she “has promises to keep”—suggesting certain societal demands that pull the speaker to continue—the woods are a tempting place to stop and rest. For a moment, the speaker is able to pause for no reason other than to simply watch the falling snow. However raw and cold, then, nature also allows for the kind of quiet reflection people may struggle to find amidst the stimulation of society.

Social Obligation vs. Personal Desire

Though the speaker is drawn to the woods and, the poem subtly suggests, would like to stay there longer to simply watch the falling snow, various responsibilities prevent any lingering. The speaker is torn between duty to others—those pesky “promises to keep”—and his or her wish to stay in the dark and lovely woods. The poem can thus be read as reflecting a broader conflict between social obligations and individualism.

This tension between responsibility and desire is clearest in the final stanza. Although “the woods are lovely,” the speaker has other things to which he or she must attend. This suggests that the speaker is only passing through the woods on some sort of business—which, in turn, helps explain how unusual it is that the speaker has stopped to gaze at the forest filling with snow. Indeed, the fact that the speaker’s horse must “think it queer”—even a “mistake”—that they’re stopping implies that the speaker’s world is typically guided by social interaction and regulations, making solitary, seemingly purposeless deeds especially odd. The speaker doesn’t seem to be the kind of person who wastes time or reneges on his promises. However much the speaker might like to stay in the “dark and deep” woods, then, he or she must continue on, once again prioritizing responsibility to others and social convention.

Of course, the speaker seems to show some ambivalence toward these social obligations. The speaker subtly juxtaposes his or her interest in the woods with regret about his or her duties to others: the woods are lovely, “but I have promises to keep.” The promises seem to be a troublesome reality that keeps the speaker from doing what he or she actually wants to do—that is, stay alone in the woods for a little while. Indeed, the specific language that the speaker uses to describe the woods suggests he or she isn’t quite ready to leave. They are “lovely, dark and deep,” implying the woods contain the possibility for respite from the comparatively bright and shallow world of human society. Social responsibilities thus inhibit the chance for meaningful reflection.

Additionally, the image of snow’s “downy flake” suggests that the speaker is as attracted to the woods as one might be to a comfortable bed. In fact, the speaker seems wearied by travel and social obligation, and the woods seem to represent his or her wish to rest. But this wish cannot be realized because of the oppressive “miles to go,” which must be traveled as a result of duty to others (i.e., in order to "keep" those "promises"). Thus, the final lines may suggest the speaker’s weariness both toward the physical journey that remains and the social rules that drive that very journey forward in the first place.

Ultimately, we don't know if the speaker satisfies his or her social duties or remains in the woods. On the one hand, the admittance of having “promises to keep” can be read as the speaker accepting that social obligations trump individual wishes. Yet it's also possible to read the final lines as the speaker’s continued hesitation; perhaps the speaker is thinking about the miles left to go but not yet doing anything about it, instead remaining torn between the tiresome duties of society and the desire for individual freedom that is manifested in the woods.

Hesitation and Choice

Throughout the poem, the speaker seems to be stuck in a space in between society’s obligations and nature’s offer of solitude and reflection. Though the speaker reflects on the possibilities offered by each, he or she is ultimately never able to choose between them. In fact, the speaker’s literal and figurative placement seems to suggest that choice itself might not even be possible, because societal rules and expectations restrict the speaker's free will. In other words, beyond exploring the competing pulls of responsibility and personal desire on the speaker, the poem also considers the nature—or mere possibility—of choice itself.

The speaker starts and ends the poem in a state of hesitation. In the first line, the speaker says, “Whose woods these are I think I know,” a statement which wavers between a sure declaration (“I know”) and doubt (“I think”). This may suggest that the central conflict of the poem will be the speaker’s battle with uncertainty. The physical setting of the poem, in which a speaker stops partway through a journey, mirrors this irresolution, finding the speaker neither at a destination nor a point of departure but rather somewhere in between.

The speaker also notably pauses “between the woods and frozen lake”—literally between two landmarks. On top of that, the speaker has stopped on the “darkest evening of the year.” If we understand this to mean the Winter Solstice, then the poem also occurs directly between two seasons, autumn and winter. Thus, the speaker is physically poised on the brink between a number of options, suggesting the possibility of choice between physical worlds, and, later in the poem, between duty to others and a personal wish to rest in solitude.

However, it's unclear in the end if the speaker chooses to fulfill his or her "promises" or merely accepts the obligation to do so as an incontrovertible fact of life; that is, whether he or she actively makes a choice to continue or accepts that there is no choice at all. Though the speaker seems to indicate in the end that he or she will continue on and keep his or her promises, this doesn’t seem to be a straightforward decision. In fact, it may not be a decision at all, but rather an embittered consent to the rules of societal life. The speaker may very well wish to stay in the “lovely” woods, but is ultimately unable to do so.

However, we can also read the final stanza as demonstrating that the speaker hasn't left the woods yet. Although he or she has obligations, there are “miles to go,” and the dreamy repetition of the final lines could suggest that there are either too many miles left to travel, or even that the speaker is slipping into sleep—effectively refusing to make a choice (or implicitly choosing to stay, depending on your interpretation).

Thus, it is possible to read the entire poem as embodying a moment of hesitation, wavering between two poles but never leaning toward one or the other. This would further complicate the outcome of the poem, resisting a definitive reading and suggesting that the tensions between society and nature, and between obligation and individualism, are never black-and-white, but constantly in a murky state of flux.