A Far Away Place is probably my favorite kid's story and I was pleased to publish it in Beyond Centauri 31 a few years ago. Kid's 'Magination, an online children's site, is a fantastic place for families to visit and I am happy indeed that they chose to reprint my story for everyone to see.
Visit Issue 11 of Kid's 'Magination and let your children read this story – it is about overcoming pain and I warn you, it is sad (but in a good way).
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Pleasure to announce that my children's fantasy short story, A Far Away Place, has been accepted by Kid's 'Magination Magazine. This is a reprint, as it was first published in Beyond Centauri 31 in January 2011, but I am glad it is getting more exposure, as it is one of my favorites. I believe it will come out around 21 May.
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Nice news today – two of my shorts, Raindrops In His Eyes (dark, epic fantasy) and They Can Never Find Out (military horror, set in WWII) were published today in Static Movements' anthology, Dark Dispatches (military theme).
I have had the privilege of reading this book prior to publication. This is a young teen fantasy, that was written by a teen – that is, when Esme Carpenter was a teenager. She has revised it at the age of twenty.
The story is about a girl called Delphi, living on an island that doesn't state, but has the definite feel, of a Mediterranean island. She is a servant in a regimented household, but quickly gets thrust into an adventure that is both life-threatening and has the state of the world at stake. A familiar line? Yes, but what makes originality isn't the macro-plot – there are no such new beasts anymore – but it is the way all components of the title hang together. It is original and fascinating.
The land where Delphi lives – the world – isn't just that. The universe is held together by the balance, and the co-existence, of worlds that represent the four elements. And it is Delphi's task to journey through these four elemental lands as part of a quest – one I would rather not spoil by divulging to you, the good reader.
This story has it all that a young teen would love (and possibly a mature pre-teen), and most importantly it excludes what young teens don't want – they don't want over-indulgence of love, nor the angst of 'teenagerhood'. This story is adventure-driven with nail-biting episodes. It has magic, deities, and battles. More importantly, it has strong characters, a sense of what evil is about, and what goodness entails. It is also about companionship and faith.
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I heartily recommend this story to children from about twelve to fifteen, but adults will love it as well. A deserving 5 stars.
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A revamped short story of mine, She Has Been Here, has been published by The Fringe Magazine (ezine, and it has been chosen to be published in pdf format at a later date). This has two important features to it, for me. Firstly, She Has Been Here is one of those stories where I have a a special love for, and so I am pleased indeed to publish it. I had trouble publishing it over some time, in part because it is very hard to classify – is it a love story? A fantasy? A ghost story? Historical Fiction? Maybe all, perhaps even more. I also have to admit that I have become a better writer (hey, practice makes perfect), and with a small polish, it is a better story – I can thank a few editors from other magazines who rejected my story, and taking the trouble to say a few words of constructive criticism.
The second reason why I am especially pleased is because The Fringe is an Australian magazine – remarkably, my first Australian publishing effort.
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I have been noticing interesting discussions in various blog sites and forums, regarding, in particular, the definition, or purpose (for want of a better word) of steampunk, and satellite discussions of a similar nature on fantasy and science fiction (perennial, those last two). Being in the IT industry, a maxim that I follow is to simplify, not over-complicate or over-analyze, and I humbly suggest that this is where we go with these topics.
I will not go to dictionary or wikipedia definitions of the terms in question, and I will wing this without research, other than what’s in my head. At the least, you will get an insight into how my head works. I should add that my comments are in terms of literature, not lifestyles, subcultures, etc.
With regard to steampunk, I have read much on concepts, like it being inherently utopian, optimistic, etc. While I have read a lot that are, I fail to see this core definition as working, and I think it deviates from what it intrinsically is. Some of the best steampunk stories that I have read are in fact dystopian in nature and provide a deep insight into the darker side of society, and like all good science fiction and fantasy stories, say something about us (Excellent Service by Tonia Brown, is an very good example – Steampunk Anthology – Sonar4, 2010). I have written 3 steampunk short stories (1 published, 1 to be published this year) and I admit to preferring to exploit the dark side of the subgenre.
I recently joined a steampunk group on Facebook that has a HUGE membership, and absolutely love its definition: ‘steampunk is Victorian science fiction’. That’s it. And in my mind it materially works. While stories do not have to take place in Great Britain or one of her Empirical settings per se, nor for that matter strictly while Queen Victoria was alive (hey, nothing wrong with a 1910 setting, right?), it couldn’t be steampunk without the Victorian flavor. What I like about the setting element of the definition is that it still has huge potential for variety – US Western setting, or in the case of one of my stories, on a planet in a far off stellar system. Steampunk is about a society that is still largely technologically oriented toward steam mechanisms and its derivatives, and this originated largely during the Victorian era. Steam technology is critical to the definition and atmosphere of the subgenre – I contend that little else matters.
Now to the second part of the "steampunk is Victorian science fiction" definition – yes, it is science fiction. It is the science fiction of the Victorian era, such as Jules Verne and H G Wells (at least part of his career). It is, as I recall Jay Lake referencing recently, the science fiction extrapolations that emanate from the Victorian era. It becomes, in essence, an alternate reality set in the Victorian era.
I really like this definition as it is simple, despite my long explanation. It begs, of course, for a definition of science fiction, and also asks the question, why isn’t steampunk fantasy?
Firstly, steampunk in some references, is defined as a subgenre of fantasy, and in other sources, co-subgenred with scifi and fantasy.
Again, trying to simplify, and accepting criticism from hard-core speculative fiction commentators, I believe science fiction is about ‘what if’, but consistent with the understanding of known science and human behavior/history. It can be set in any timeframe, and it doesn’t need to have high science content, but it has to speculate scenarios with consistency to science (it can in fact achieve this by avoiding science, up to a certain extent). This is why ‘science’ is in the category name. I should add, however, that some elements of extrapolated science can be untested, and in my mind still falls within science fiction.
Fantasy, on the other hand, expects the suspension of disbelief to work harder, and poses ‘what if’ scenarios in contradiction to current science and current knowledge.
Yes, one could argue there is a gray area between the two genres, but I think it is a moot point. If in doubt, categorize as fantasy and be done with it.
Science Fantasy is a funny category. I see it, at a high level, as contradictory (particularly against my simplified definitions), but I see it as a handy subgenre of fantasy, where ‘harder’ science is interspersed with fantasy.
So, returning to steampunk, it could be expanded (for definitional purposes) to mean "Victorian ‘what if’ stories, set within consistent science as understood in that era". It is important to point out the importance of ‘understood in that era’ – as the writer of a steampunk story will assert that reality (truth, science) is relative to Victorian society’s understanding. If it doesn’t it becomes a quaint and interesting fantasy sub-subgenre of steampunk.
Hmm, a lot of writing to assert something simply, but hey, my definition contains 13 words.
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The following is one of many short stories that I have written in the epic fantasy genre. This one is set in my Chronicles of Evyntyde.
Each step was carefully placed as the cave floor was eternally damp and the slimy stones were polished by thousands of years of water running over them. One slip and he would tumble hundreds of feet to a shattering end. Cimiar grimaced, imagining his end in a fall – the underground stream would eventually carry his rotting corpse to the Eralyn Plains.
The young alchemist had a blazing torch in one hand, but had the other free: he more often than not needed it to keep balance or hold onto stone formations or stalagmites to keep himself from slipping. He guessed he had descended at least half a mile beneath the mountain and had no idea how much of his climb was left. The wyrm’s lair was deep indeed.
Cimiar started to wonder why he had chosen such a difficult task, why he was willing to risk his life for a single wyrm’s scale. He then reminded himself that it was worth it: that rendering the scale to powder would give him the final ingredient needed to enchant the blade he had forged. The scale’s sympathy toward fire resistance would be used to bestow the same to the wielder of the sword. He smiled at the thought of achieving this magic. His fame would spread throughout Kul-ra, and he would be invited to the Court of the God Emperor Kul himself. After pondering this his fears dissipated into the hollow darkness of the colossal cave network and into the sounds of trickling streams that joined the rushing river far below.
It seemed an eternity, but eventually the steep descent turned into a gentle grade. The river was near; its cataracts already roared in his ears and fine mist caressed his face. In minutes he was saturated.
He raised his torch and muttered an invocation to the god Aquyla in the old Kulric tongue, and for a few seconds the sputtering flame erupted ten feet in height, lighting his surrounds completely. He quickly scanned the area. Yes, the cave is still gigantic in size! A wyrm would have no problems getting down to this level. A wyrm would nest here.
He dared not enhance his torch’s flame again for fear of being noticed by the ancient creature. Assuming the alarm has not already been sounded, he soberly thought. His plan was not to see the wyrm at all. All he wanted was a scale. For hours his eyes had scanned the rocks and crevices, hoping to spot a scale that was shed or scraped off on the rocks. To no avail – so far.
Cimiar rounded a turn in the cave and encountered a narrow path, lined with stacked boulders on each side. This was the first sign of anything other than natural formations in the cave network. He wondered what purpose it could serve, having rocks the size of cows stacked up twenty feet on each side of a five foot wide path, and extending for two dozen yards. There was no easy way to get around them; it had to be a trap. Crude but… he remembered reading that Wyrms often had magical abilities.
Cimiar closed his eyes, thanking the gods that Olander, the largest of the six moons – and which held sway over the element of earth – was in the ascendant this day. It added considerably to the power of his earth based spell casting. In seconds the walls of rocks came into his mind-view – and they became known to him in every facet – the boulders were understood completely: weight, dimensions, makeup – down to the finest grain, and also their smallest weaknesses. It was costly, but he opened his eyes. Maintaining his concentration on the walls, he slowly walked down the path.
When he was exactly halfway down the rocky corridor a rumbling suddenly emanated from beneath his feet, and then the walls started to collapse in on him. This was expected and now that he fully understood the nature of the rocks, he countered their sympathy to fall – with all his might. The entire length of both walls were leaning over the path, ready to crush the alchemist like an insect under foot; but they no longer moved. They were suspended in mid air. Cimiar continued to walk but his pace was agonizingly slow as he had to spend the lion’s share of his concentration on his spell. As he approached the final yards he could sense that his strength was waning and that some other magic was trying to counter his effort. Gods! he thought, this is not going to work! Then an idea entered his head – another way to save his life. He forced his remaining strength to rapidly separate every grain that constituted the boulders; and he pushed.
Instantly, in a mighty cacophony, all the toppling rocks within a three yard radius exploded into fine dust, and Cimiar leapt forward in an attempt to avoid the tons of material. The torch snuffed out as he was engulfed by the waves of sand. Holding his breath for as long as he could, he scrambled in slow motion, trying with what little strength he had left to move toward the edge of his improvised grave. He moved his hands and arms as if he was swimming, furiously trying to edge his body forward. Suddenly he felt the freshness of the cave air caress his face, and the powdery remains of the rocks run off his body. He climbed to his feet. He was very weary but he was still alive. A simple mental gesture set his torch alight again.
“Impressive indeed,” came a hoarse, venerable voice from Cimiar’s right. He turned and saw a man so old it was difficult to grasp he was still alive. The wizened figure’s back was bowed to the point he could barely lift his head to look at Cimiar. He wore grey robes and had nothing on his dirty feet. A gnarled hand firmly grasped a crooked walking stick. “No man has ever succeeded in getting this far. You must be a powerful sorcerer indeed.”
Cimiar dusted himself but kept his eyes firmly focused on the old man. “I am an alchemist, sir, and traps that are constructed from base elements are a trifling matter to me.” He hoped his lie was convincing and did his best to disguise his exhaustion. “Now tell me, old man, who are you? I expected a famed wyrm to reside deep in this cavern.”
The figure laughed. “You could perhaps call me the Gatekeeper. I am as old as the caves and I am charged to protect those who live here.”
“Including the wyrm?”
“I am charged to protect those who live here,” the old man repeated.
Cimiar sighed. “Does the wyrm live here?”
The Gatekeeper laughed again. “No, no, no. He passed on scores of years ago! I am afraid that I now protect the bats, the crickets, lizards and fishes.” The old man’s face turned quickly solemn.
Cimiar was now concerned that he may have risked his life for nothing. “What do you intend to do now, since I am still alive?”
“It depends,” the Gatekeeper replied. “What are you planning to do?”
“With no wyrm, to return to the upper world. All I wanted was a single scale of its hide.”
The old man looked surprised. “Is that all? A mere scale?”
Cimiar nodded.
The Gatekeeper held his hand up, indicating for Cimiar to stay put, and he wandered past a small outcrop of rock and disappeared. Ten minutes later he returned, carrying a shiny red scale, the size of a small shield. “Would this do?”
Cimiar nearly choked. “Why, yes. It is exactly what I want.”
The Gatekeeper handed the glistening scale to Cimiar. “You must make a promise to me, in exchange for this boon.”
Cimiar nodded again.
“Never return to this cave. It is a sacred place and it deserves to be undisturbed.”
“I swear Gatekeeper,” Cimiar responded, genuinely.
The old man acknowledged the oath and started to walk away. “Then I bid you farewell, alchemist. We shall not see each other again.”
When the old man disappeared behind the outcrop, Cimiar turned to the path he had nearly died in, and to his surprise it was clear and lined with the same stone walls. He was weary but he chose to climb some of the way before resting, in order to honour the Gatekeeper’s request for privacy.
The return journey was difficult as Cimiar’s spell had taxed him nearly to his limit, and despite the short rest, it would take days to fully recover. When he finally exited the cave mouth overlooking a small clearing on the side of the mountain, into the freshness of the Western Waymoor Ranges, he was barely able to find a spot to collapse and fall asleep. It was night, and it seemed so easy to close his eyes. He cared little for his safety…
The sun had already risen an hour before when Cimiar awoke. He stretched and scratched his chin, slowly getting up, trying to shed the last vestiges of his sleep. He was lying on a small patch of grass on the side of the cliff face where the cave mouth yawned, and as he stepped forward to gain a better view of the valley below, he tripped into a shallow hole in the ground. He was sure it wasn’t there before.
Cimiar stepped out of the hole and studied it. He then fell over laughing. “Old man, or should I say old dragon! You sly devil!”
He had fallen into a fresh wyrm’s footprint.
The rain had been pelting down for hours, and in a strange, twisted sort of way it washed and anointed the bodies lying on the battlefield. Mud and blood were mixed in puddles forming around the soldiers; most of these men were dead, others were slowly stirring, struggling with their personal pain and horror. Many men had already left the field – crawling, hobbling or walking; they numbered in the hundreds. Horses were among those who had fallen, and scores were aimlessly wandering the periphery of the field, still wild-eyed and frothy-mouthed from the battle that had taken place only minutes before. Despite the rainfall a wispy layer of mist hung a few feet above the battlefield due to the concentration of body heat of those tangled together. It made the men look otherworldly, as if their spirits had been taken and placed on display before Helwyer, god of death. There was something else permeating this large clearing on the northern side of Owerling’s Gap – a low level sound, a collective hum of pain from those who were not dead or unconscious. The downpour could not mask their suffering.
Crows were already gathering on the nearby rocky outcrops, chatting among themselves about the feast that lay before them. They were patient, their cold, yellow eyes focused with intense interest on what was happening at the far end of the clearing, where what remained of the Sundra mercenary army was forming a last stand.
The soldier started to choke, as he inhaled water from a dirty puddle, stirring him from his pain-wracked faint. After he had coughed out the gritty, bloody water he could hear the groans of a man lying behind him, and through his half-closed, swollen eyes, he saw a dead horse only a few feet away from his face with its mud-matted tail laying limply on the soaked earth. He painfully picked himself up from the ground, using the horse as a support, and shakily got to his feet. The soldier didn’t feel like he was hurt badly, but he ached all over and was unbelievably exhausted – nothing in his past compared to this moment.
The strength in his legs suddenly gave way and he collapsed painfully to his knees.
His studded leather armour felt as if it weighed as much as three men, and he had no choice but to sit back on his calves, clawing at his helmet, flinging it weakly onto the muddy ground, for fear of it dragging him down to the mud and muck again. Even the light cladding on his forearms and his water-soaked clothing encumbered his actions. A hoarse curse passed his swollen lips.
He raised his eyes and surveyed what had transpired around him. The rain stung his eyes, but he felt little of it. His senses were numbing. The soldier wasn’t a large man, but even in his kneeling position he saw all of the battlefield, albeit through a hazy mist and the lack of focus in his sight. Closing his eyes tightly, he willed the blurriness of his vision to disappear, and when opening them again, found greater clarity. He sighed with relief as he now was sure he was not wounded badly.
Now there was an opportunity to scan the rain-drenched field properly. To his left, to the south, was the three hundred foot high ravine that formed Owerling’s Gap. It was here where Duke Edmund had fooled Berech, general of a thousand horsemen and five thousand foot soldiers, to unwittingly march into a trap. It was a masterful strategy. Peasants were gathered from far and wide, willingly agreeing to ride fifteen hundred of Edmund’s three and a half thousand cavalry horses. They also wore the cavalrymen’s cloaks and carried sticks or farm implements underneath, to give observers the impression they bore weapons. The Duke waited for a rainy day, and when it came this morning, Berech’s spies predictably reported seeing nearly half of Edmund’s men journeying to the west, presumably to find a way through the difficult mountain ranges and attempt a flank attack on the invading mercenaries. Berech committed his entire force to a rapid counterattack through the Pass and met a thousand spearmen behind barricades, and a completely unexpected feint from two and a half thousand waiting cavalrymen.
The kneeling soldier smiled. The plan had worked perfectly. He was one of the cavalrymen who found himself on foot, and as Berech’s horsemen charged toward his line he just had enough time to see Edmund’s cavalry sweep swiftly into the enemy’s right flank and cut deep. It was too easy, as spears sliced into man and horse, collapsing Berech’s disciplined formation, scattering many of the mercenaries in panic. The rain could not drown out Berech’s battle-cry to his foot soldiers, who then rushed in. That was when the great melee commenced.
The soldier suddenly stopped smiling, as he remembered how he leapt over his barrier and rushed with the other cavalrymen into the fray, swords and shields ready. Berech’s mercenaries were seasoned veterans, efficient killers of a hundred battles, but Edmund’s plans placed all the advantage on his Arlen army, tactically and in terms of morale.
The final stage of the plan that ensured success was carried out by one of Edmund’s chief lieutenants, Maelwyk, the young but mystically talented alchemist, who waited for Berech’s army to pass completely through Owerling’s Gap. He used his Gift to cause the high eastern face of the ravine to collapse and block any possible retreat by the invaders.
The soldier’s face turned grim when remembering the last hour of the rain-drenched battle. He had little idea how the fight was progressing; all he could do with his fellow cavalrymen was hack and stab their way forward, bodily pushing and shoving the mercenaries back, hoping that the enemy would break and flee, and more importantly, praying to Rydon and the other gods that he was not going to die.
He turned his attention to the north, where the barricades had been constructed, and where he was first posted for battle. It was then that he realised the final chapter of the conflict was not over. Sundra mercenaries were fleeing in every direction, but three noblemen remained, surrounded by scores of Edmund’s men. Sundra noblemen did not surrender – they died fighting. One of the men wore fine armour and by his colours was the mercenary army’s general. This was Berech, and by his movement, and his posture, he seemed grievously wounded. The fighting stopped and Edmund’s men shifted in the mud to open a corridor to allow their Duke to face Berech.
The general suddenly found some hidden, untapped strength and charged Edmund, but the Duke deftly parried Berech’s lethal strike and thrust his blade deep into the general’s chest. The two other noblemen then attacked, screaming above the din of the rain, but they were cut down in seconds by Edmund’s bodyguards.
The kneeling soldier smiled again. He had just witnessed the end, the final glory of the battle. It was so very satisfying, although he could not explain exactly why.
He felt a twinge in his left side, and he looked down to where his cuirass met his breeches. There was a trail of blood running down his leg to the pool of water he was kneeling in, mingling with the awful pink colour that was everywhere. He didn’t see the blood running too swiftly and he had suffered worse wounds in the past; again he was reassured that his situation was not dire – not like some of the poor souls around him.
The thought of his mortality overwhelmed him when he turned his mind to his family back home in Highwater, the seat of the Earldom of Arlenmoor, a part of the greater land called Arlen. He missed his beloved Alyra and their two infant boys. He imagined holding his boys, the warm and comforting smell of their hair seemed so real to his senses; and then he thought about holding Alyra, her soft, sweet skin against his – again his senses were immersed. There was no desire in him, only a need to be in her arms. He missed them so much he began to weep.
The soldier was one of Earl Oloryk’s overseers of the nobleman’s lands, and led his Lord’s hunts. It was natural to join his Liege in Edmund’s call for arms, and he knew that his family would be provided for if he perished in battle. But these were grim times, and this battle was only the first in a long war, one where the homelands of Duke Edmund’s Arlen were threatened by a larger army than what was conquered here. He needed to be alive, to be sound of limb so that he could return to his family and protect them.
His sense of urgency was so profound, so fundamental, he felt some of his strength returning to him, and he defiantly raised his head and let the rain wash directly over his mud-stained face, allowing the drops to sting his eyes.
His thoughts turned to Duke Edmund of Arlen, the Lord of his master, the general of the Battle of Owerling’s Gap, the leader of the civil war against his brother, King Eglund of Waymoor. Some of the soldiers who he journeyed with to the Gap directly served Edmund and they worshiped the ground he walked on. Nine days ago five hundred cavalrymen from Arlenmoor – the kneeling horseman included – joined Edmund’s expeditionary force. He didn’t initially know what to make of the Duke, but it didn’t take long before he liked the man. Edmund was a true leader, was able to talk to the troops as if he was one of them, and yet inspire the hearts and minds of an entire kingdom. What became profoundly clear to the soldier was that the actions of the men in battle today was the true reflection of Edmund’s character.
They fought for him, and for his cause, and lifted themselves against the hardened skills of the Sundra mercenaries. They died for him. They placed Edmund’s orders impossibly before their waiting families – their loved ones who needed them to return.
He wondered why he had done the same as so many of the men in battle this rainy day. Why he took the risks and extended himself for his Duke. He wondered if it was Edmund’s charisma that had caused this. He pondered this notion and concluded that it wasn’t the case. Edmund’s magnetism contributed to it, but it wasn’t the core reason. He returned to thinking about his family, waiting in Highwater, and then it dawned on him what caused him to risk his life for the Duke – because Edmund knew what the fighting was for; he was perfectly in tune with what ordinary folk needed for their survival, and he therefore represented the hope of Arlen, including his homeland of Arlenmoor. The Duke was their saviour, and for the kneeling soldier Edmund was also his family’s saviour. When Edmund thrust his blade through Berech’s heart, life was given to Alyra and their two sons.
This thought, this insight made him feel content, and he raised his head again, looking at the rain-drenched battlefield with wiser eyes.
He felt a wave of exhaustion wash over him, stronger than ever, and for a moment he thought he heard his youngest son call out to him.
Two figures slowly made their way among the fallen and the maimed, followed closely by chirurgeons and soldiers giving aid to those who could be helped. The Duke pointed to the kneeling soldier. "Maelwyk, look! Let us help this soldier to his feet and carry him to shelter."
The robed figure ran to the Arlenmoor cavalryman and then stopped short, shocked by the site he had just seen. "Your Highness, I am afraid it is too late. This man has bled to death while he was kneeling. It must have taken a great effort to get up as far as he did. Poor soul, may the gods embrace his passing to the afterlife."
The Duke knelt before the dead soldier and studied his face. "Maelwyk, I have seen many battles and witnessed countless deaths, but I have not seen anything like this. His face is not downcast, it is straight and facing the battlefield. And look at his expression – it is neither pained nor peaceful, as the dead usually are. He seems exulted. As if he witnessed some great event, or understood some great truth."
"Curious indeed, my Duke. Nevertheless, this is a sad sight."
"True, Maelwyk. True." Edmund shook his head and clasped Maelwyk’s shoulder, and they continued their way among the bodies lying on the field.
The rain was still falling and hard drops of water hit the lifeless eyes of the kneeling soldier. They did not sting at all.
Crystal opened her eyes and saw a late afternoon sky, streaked with dark-marbled sepia clouds, and sunlight beaming through the gaps. She smiled. She knew where she was – her Far Away Place. She could smell the lush grass that she was lying on, and there was a strong scent of rose and lavender permeating the land.
She lifted herself to a seated position and felt a wave of weakness overcome her. There was also pain deep inside her chest. I have not recovered yet from my last battle with Rhab-di, she grimly thought.
She scanned her familiar surrounds: the fertile, green fields, with the deep, serene river that wound its sleepy way through the valley. Three castles were in close proximity to each other – Sir Kenneth’s fortress, accessible from the fields and roads, but impenetrable to all but the most powerful of magic; Lady Xena’s abode, once a humble cathedral but now the lady warrior’s home, protected by an enchanted wood; and finally Goldmire’s Tower, jutting from the Meandering River, and only accessible by boat.
Aside from the ominous dark clouds, all signs seemed to indicate that life was peaceful – birds were high in the sky riding the air currents; a mother duck paddled slowly in the river, followed by a line of eight ducklings, watched by a half-snoozing crane. Wild horses could be heard galloping along the east bank, neighing in exuberance at their unbridled freedom.
Crystal forgot the pain in her torso, and her weariness, and soaked in the beauty and tranquillity of her home away from home, the land she swore to protect with all her might and magic for four long years.
She heard the sound of splashing water and turned her attention to the Tower. A row boat appeared from behind the circular wall and Goldmire was sitting comfortably in it, although his hulking form caused the boat to draft deeply – leaving only an inch or two between floating and sinking. Only after a dozen strokes, the giant clumsily stepped onto the riverbank, only a few yards from Crystal. She grinned, for she always enjoyed the company of the Far Away Place’s least comely inhabitant. They looked quite a pair when they were close to each other. He was nearly twelve feet tall and Crystal was barely above three – she was quite short for a seven year old.
Goldmire was no ordinary giant, for he really was a monster, turned to the cause of goodness. He was tamed by the child-mage, Crystal. He had a humanoid form, but he was covered in bright yellow fur and he had long, sharp claws on his hands and feet. His fangs were long too, but ever since he was turned, he had a kind face – most of the time. When Rhab-di attacked the Far Away Place, Goldmire changed into a menacing defender, a ferocious adversary.
“Young Mistress, you have come back, and yet you were here only a few days ago! Does this mean the enemy is attacking again?”
Crystal got to her feet, flinching with the pain of the effort. “I suppose so, Goldmire. I never pick when I turn up, but it’s always when I’m needed.”
The large hairy face showed deep concern. “Lady Crystal, you are still wounded! Sir Kenneth has a healer – perhaps he should see you.”
Crystal shook her head. “Nothing can heal me like the land itself, and with the blessing of King Saxon. The trouble is that it always takes time.” Her thoughts turned back to the times when she had audience with the King. Saxon was an elderly man, or so it seemed to the seven year old, and had a very kindly face. She knew him all her life and he was her protector. He was like a grandfather and she loved him dearly. “As long as he is King and this land is free, I will heal.”
Goldmire looked to the sky. “Hmm. I think Rhab-di will be coming soon. The sky is turning the colour of his soul. That is always his way. Will you be strong enough?” His eyes could not disguise a mortal fear for her life.
“I’ll survive, and so will the land. I’ve had greater challenges in past battles.” Crystal had a sense of purpose few adults could match, and her eyes sparkled with determination. This was the core of her magical ability, along with her mysterious tie to the Far Away Place.
Out of the nearby woods a female form appeared, with a long bow in hand, and a quiver strapped to her back. It was Lady Xena, and when the huntress-warrior saw the pair by the river bank, she ran effortlessly across the green field, literally jumping the narrow road to Sir Kenneth’s castle, and tightly hugged the petite girl.
It took only a few seconds for Xena to realise Crystal was hurt. “This is no good, child,” she observed.
“But I am here, and we are about to fight Rhab-di again.”
Lady Xena straightened herself and surveyed the hills that surrounded the Far Away Place. Her green eyes were piercing, and she could see the smallest of creatures miles away. “I see nothing, but the signs are all around. I fear you are correct.” She placed her bow on the ground and quickly tied her long black hair into a pony tail, a ritual she followed prior to every battle.
Goldmire started to pace around the field, slowly building his mental preparedness for war. Each stomp of his foot on the ground sent tremors around him.
Trumpets suddenly sounded from the most majestic castle in the Far Away Place. The great gates opened and a silver armoured knight, riding a great white horse, rode out and followed the road toward Crystal’s group. Sir Kenneth wore red plumes on his full helm and he firmly held a long white lance with a gold blade at its tip. The horse galloped the span to the river bank in a matter of seconds, without a single bead of sweat forming on its muscular body, and he snorted when Kenneth reined him in.
The Knight effortlessly dismounted and took his helmet off, and dropped to one knee before the blonde-locked girl. “My Lady, I have seen the signs, culminating in your appearance. I am, as always, at your service.”
Crystal looked at her knight and her heart warmed with his conviction, and his strikingly handsome features. He was perfect, like Sir Galahad, and he completed the group that had, for the past four years, defeated the Foe that threatened to turn beauty into ugliness, harmony into chaos, and peacefulness into pain and misery. “Sir Kenneth, I will need your skills today.”
“As always,” he responded, echoing his former statement. He returned to his feet and saw the look in his compatriot’s faces, and then returned his gaze to her. “You are still weak. I had a feeling this may be the case, as it was only a few days ago that we had battled with Rhab-di. Will your magic be strong enough, my Lady?”
Crystal’s lips pursed and her eyes sparkled again. “Of course. We will defeat the black-hearted creature.”
Sir Kenneth dropped his head in acknowledgement and respect, and smiled. “As I guessed. You are a wonder, Lady Crystal.”
Just as the knight completed his words, lightening started to rain down on the hills to the east, and the few rays of sunlight were snuffed out by the dark clouds completely filling the sky. He jumped back into his saddle and unhooked his lance, ready for combat.
Lady Xena loosely nocked an arrow on her bow and simply stood still, eyes penetrating the eastern hills, having already spotted other signs that Rhab-di was going to attack from that direction. Goldmire stopped pacing and flexed his hands, mumbling words that could only be understood by his kind, but the intent was absolutely clear. Crystal shakily turned to the east and opened the palms of her hands to the heavens – large balls of light materialised in each. She focused on them, ensuring they were ready to defend her small group. She felt tired – more weary than she had ever felt before, and yet her magic was still strong. Her determination fed it.
The four did not move from where they were. They knew that Rhab-di always went for them – that was the creature’s purpose. Crystal secretly thought that the fiend actually targeted her, for she always sensed that her life, and the Far Away Place, were intimately connected.
Rhab-di appeared atop a hill a mile to the east. The creature was bigger than it had ever been before – a massive black cloud, shapeless, menacing. Lightning flashed from within, but it could not illuminate the cloud itself. It was a rolling mass of nothingness; of death.
Rhab-di, even without any sign of being a living, breathing creature, emanated a human-like malevolence. There was a shriek of glee that projected from the boiling cloud, and it seemed to sense Crystal’s weakness. It picked up its speed and came thundering toward the four warriors.
Sir Kenneth suddenly spurred his stallion and he immediately charged at the cloud, lance as steady as if it was resting on the ground. The gleaming head of the weapon penetrated the cloud and it flashed gold light, scattering – annihilating, a great swathe of Rhab-di’s mass. A shriek emanated again, but this time of pain. However, the cloud was huge, and the majority of it still remained, and it rolled effortlessly past the valiant knight.
Lady Xena fired arrow after arrow into the mass, and each time it entered the cloud, a giant chunk of cloud evaporated with a silver flash from the arrow head. The enemy felt this too, and Xena destroyed as much volume as Sir Kenneth, but still there was a tsunami left, heading for Crystal.
Rhab-di, despite his pain, was jubilant. Confident.
In a rage not ever seen by the mundane of humanity, Goldmire screamed out so loud that it shook leaves from trees, and then he slammed both his fists into the ground. A shock wave pulsed forward and lifted the very earth in a foot high wave, and when it hit the cloud, it shook the mass, the very vibrations causing internal disruption. Lightning bolts crossed each other, causing explosions and collapsing great pockets of Rhab-di’s gaseous body. And yet, after all of these attacks, there was more left of the enemy than what was taken away.
The cloud was now only a dozen yards away, and while it had slowed considerably, it was going to encompass all except Sir Kenneth. Crystal had been in this situation before, but the foe was always more diminished than what she now faced. She threw both her globes of power with all her might and they entered the darkness, and as they fell into the blackness and collapsed, Rhab-di cried in pain as great volumes of the cloud sucked into a new-born whiteness. Crystal saw the great Rhab-di, second after second, shrink smaller and smaller. For a while she thought that this battle would end like all others before, with the enemy disappearing…
Then Crystal’s greatest fear came to realisation. The magic had ended and there was still some cloud – no more than six feet in diameter. Goldmire leapt for the gas but the cloud evaded him; Xena had run out of arrows and drew a dagger but it was too late to intercept the foe; Sir Kenneth cried out in despair as he was far too many yards behind Rhab-di.
She invoked another two globes just when the cloud encompassed her. They were small conjurations: faint, barely holding their shape. She was spent… there was so little left in her. She fought with all her might, all the determination she had that made her so special, and then… she felt her globes collapse and drag the entire cloud into them, as well as herself…
As she became distended and one with the bright light of her magical globes, she saw the face of King Saxon – that warm and kind face – and she was able to feebly speak. “My King, I’ve failed you! We’re all lost!”
He shook his head, as he too was sucked into the white light. “No, you did not fail, my dearest one. You fought a great battle and war.”
She was one with the light.
***
The heart monitor flat lined.
Crystal’s mother and father collapsed by her still body on the hospital bed, weeping uncontrollably. Dr Saxon, Crystal’s surgeon, couldn’t help but sob as well. He loved the dear, little fighter, and he was there with her since she was first diagnosed with rhabdomyosarcoma four years before.
He looked at her pale face and saw peace, but also a trace of that incredible determination that allowed her to fight and win many a battle over four years, where perhaps other children would have given up much earlier. He was proud of his own achievements, because he gave her some life and she grasped it with both her hands and became a wonderful person and inspiration for all who knew her.
He then turned to the small table next to her bed and saw the little diorama that Crystal had built and augmented over the four years. A small scene with three castles and a river running through. Three figurines were placed close together next to the river bank – a knight on a horse, an Amazon warrior, and a strange monster that seemed to have come from some fast food children’s meal. She loved her table, he thought. It was the world she went to when she was most in pain, when the chemo was overwhelming, when the radio therapy beat her down, or when one in a long line of operations had taken place when another malignant tumour was cut out.
He knelt and joined Crystal’s parents at the bedside and wept with them. He could barely speak but he needed to say one comforting statement. “She’s at peace now. She is now without pain in a Far Away Place.”
Themba wondered why the other children were so cruel. Just for a lark, at dusk, Fulathela, Gebhuza, Gazini and Hlengiwe quietly snuck into his family hut and wrestled him to the ground. They covered his mouth and carried him out before the rest of his family could tell that he had been abducted.
The sun had just disappeared behind the distant hills of the KwaZulu Natal plains and there was still some light left to see where the boys were taking him. Carrying him like a flimsy tree trunk, the sixteen and seventeen year old Zulu youth – all warriors – easily handled the younger Themba. He could smell their dusty sweat and could sense their excitement, all at his expense. What are they planning?
The boys were running with their captive, and Themba could see that their intent was to take him past the small hill near their village, and out of everyone’s sight. He struggled again for he now feared for his life.
“Do not squirm so, Themba,” Hlengiwe said, the eldest and leader of the group. “For if you do, you will suffer.” The tall, slim warrior was good at forming a stern face when it suited him, and on this occasion it was fierce, almost demonic.
The captive had little opportunity to respond, as Gazini kept his hand tightly clamped over Themba’s mouth, not even providing him the opportunity to bite. He did stop struggling, however, as there was a glimmer of hope if Hlengiwe offered the choice between ‘suffering’ versus, presumably, ‘non-suffering’. But he still wondered, what are they planning for me?
As the last vestiges of sunlight dissipated from the land, Themba saw that the four warriors were taking him to the largest and oldest of the boabab trees in the region. It was called the Wooden Tomb, as it had a hollow going so far back in time it was central in his people’s legends; and when a villager died, his or her body was interred inside the tree. A door was fashioned a thousand years before and it was often repaired or replaced. It had fasteners attached to the boabab to ensure that creatures would not come into the tomb and desecrate the corpses, and the women of the village whispered that it also stopped the restless spirits from leaving the tree to try to complete some unfinished business…
Themba couldn’t believe he was really headed for the Wooden Tomb, and so he hopefully imagined that the boys were headed for some other destination near the ancient tree. As their course continued toward the bulbous giant, he started to experience fear that he never thought was possible. This was not a worry that he was going to be roughed up in some childish prank; it was fear of the place of death; it was horror.
The boys stopped and dropped their burden before the Wooden Tomb’s door. Themba landed heavily, but found he was now able to speak… or cry out for help.
“Do not think they can hear you,” Hlengiwe stated, reading the young boy’s mind. “And if you try, you will regret it.” He again had that ferocious look about him.
“W.. what are you doing?” Themba whimpered. “Have I done something to make you angry?"
Fulathela, who never spoke much, and had even less brains, laughed. “Look, he is about to cry like a woman! What chance has he to become a warrior?”
Hlengiwe held his hand up, to silence him. “You may be right, but our test will make sure.” He then turned to Themba, who was still lying in the dirt. “You will spend the night in the Wooden Tomb, and if you walk out in the morning with a brave face, you can join our group. If you emerge as a frightened child, you will become our slave.”
Themba realised he had no choice but to endure what was in store for him. The warrior spirit was a strong ethic instilled in the boys of the village and he couldn’t face being called a child, when he was so close to his initiation ceremony. He displayed the emotionless face of the Zulu warrior. “I will face the dead with bravery and return with pride.”
Hlengiwe laughed. “We shall see.” He pointed to Gebhuza and Gazini and they opened the door, allowing Hlengiwe and Fulathela to unceremoniously dump him into the hollow of the boabab.
The door was shut very quickly and Themba could hear its four straps being wound on their fasteners. It was already dark outside, and he saw nothing but blackness when he was pushed into the massive cavity. He lay on the ground, hearing his breath come out in rapid cycles, the fear of the unknown turning his body ice cold. He was only a few feet away from the door, and he had no idea how far away he was from the remains of hundreds of years of dead villagers, and his own ancestors.
He did smell them though.
He lay on the floor, frozen in abject fear. He couldn’t move a muscle and he controlled his breathing so that it slowed to a crawl, in order to reduce his movements further. There was an overpowering musky smell, almost sweet, but it was associated with decay, like the mould on a dead tree. There seemed to be a coolness as well, but it wasn’t comforting like being in shade and a comforting breeze wispily blowing by; it was like Death’s home.
He waited. He didn’t know for how long, and it seemed agonizingly long, but he did not move an inch. He was starting to shiver.
A hollow voice came from the darkness ahead of him, sounding as if it originated only a few feet away. “Who are you, child?”
Themba nearly jumped out of his skin. “I, I am Themba.”
The voice, still faint and airy, as if it was caught on the wind, responded. “A good name. It means ‘trust’. I like it.”
“Who… who are you?”
“Never mind; at least for the while,” the disembodied voice replied. “I want you to do something for me.”
“What…?”
“I want you to gather the bones and what is left of the bodies here and carry them for me to the far end of this tomb."
Themba couldn’t imagine anything more repulsive. He shook his head.
The voice grew in volume and it’s tone was grave. “Listen, Themba. If you stay where you are you will die. Either the cold of the dead will seep into your bones and cause your heart to give way, or you will walk out into the sun tomorrow morning and die of shame. Do what I ask and you will live.”
Themba heard the truth in those words and got to his feet. He could feel the ache of the clingy cold of the Wooden Tomb.
The voice continued. “Open your eyes – tune them to this world of the dead.”
Themba concentrated, and slowly, but surely, he was able to see what it looked like inside the tree. It astounded him and terrified him at the same time. Based on the size of the tree from the outside, he expected enough room inside to be much like a small hut; but it was huge – it had the width of a hut, but it stretched back for hundreds of yards, and he could faintly make out hills, trees and a river beyond. However, just before him was a semi-circle of bones and desiccated corpses, some grinning as if there was some secret joke among them, others looking like they were agonizingly reaching out for some object.
The voice echoed in his ears again, but Themba could not work out where it came from. “Boy, pick up these bones and take them to the river and lay them on its bank. Every single piece. Do this and you will not die.”
Themba obeyed, and after a score of journeys, he laid the last set of bones on the river bank.
“Good work, Themba,” came the voice. Suddenly a group of bones gathered together and transformed into a whole man, of about sixty years. He had the look of the people of his tribe. “I am Qinisela."
Themba fell before his feet in supplication. “I am honoured. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
The old man laughed. “You already have. A mortal is needed to move the remains beyond the boabab, to make room for the new dead, and more importantly, to allow us to pass to the land beyond – here. You have enabled me, and my kin to move on…” He swept his hand around him and the bones and corpses were replaced with villagers, many of whom he knew before they had died. “Now go, Themba, for it is morning, and your father will be opening the door to the Wooden Tomb.”
Themba now started to understand why he was abducted.
Qinisela raised his hand before the young boy could speak. “Yes, Themba, your father knew that you were taken to the tree. It was planned. For some, the blessed, entering the boabab tree and helping the ancestors to journey to their final resting place, is their rite of passage to become a warrior.” The old man smiled, and for Themba his face then seemed somehow familiar. "Yes, grandson, indeed, you have proven yourself; you have done a worthy deed!"
The Chronicles of Evyntyde 