Tag: fantasy

Savages and Beasts

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perhaps closer than people thought, same as the change Anton
felt might perk up between the archons of this school and the
children of the savages, a change that perhaps might lead to a
dialogue between the two sides. Yet a doubt lurked deep in his
heart that what he hoped for would be proven to be just that.
He arrived at the school. He greeted Sister Gladys at her
desk. The spectacled nun graced him with a broad smile; the
nun knew that this young man was her insurance, her security,
this young man would make it impossible for her lover, Father
Jerome, to fool around, something her mind relished and seeing
here in front of her this young man she felt as if she had to get up
and hug him: to thank him for being here to protect her interest.
Yet she didn’t get up, she didn’t say anything more than what she
had to, and Anton walked away towards his submerged kingdom.
His mind recalled the beautiful body he held in his arms yesterday
and his attitude suddenly sweetened to the point that a broad
smile spread on his face.
“Mary, what would she be doing this early in the morning?”
He thought to himself and his mind ran to her sweet lips
which were whispering her morning prayer before she would get
ready to go to her daily responsibilities. The day was excellent,
such were her spirits, such was the attitude of the sun up in the
firmament, and such was the emotion of the north wind that
was blasting the old oaks and the chestnuts trees outside in the
School grounds.
Time passed. Anton heard the bell that announced the
first recess. Kids got out of their classes; Sister Anna and Father
Peter were on duty out in the yard. He walked up and taking
Mary from her office they too walked outside. There they walked
slowly towards the big oak on the eastern side of the yard. Father
Peter and Sister Anna saw them but didn’t care to disturb them;

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763602

The Qliphoth

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For I must concentrate—I am making a strong black record for eternity.
Lucas will know it, one day soon. It is my legacy.My uttermost Will. This time
I must get it right.
So I sleep with the black notebooks as my pillow. It isn’t easy to reconstruct
my Holy Lore. I need the resources of the British Museum Reading Room, the
Bodliean Library, whatever. But the Oakhill doctors think that mad people
prefer Readers Digest. I have rely on my hand copied archives; my dictations
and visions from the Inner Plane; or memories of memories. I’ve been starting
all over again for years.
For Poll Pottage dispersed the treasures of the Lore. So shall she burn by
aeonic fire and be crushed by thunderstones in the End-Times! That woman
has caused me so much extra work, it’s worn out my astral body. It’s not just
the scriptorial battle fatigue, an ague in my old claws. No, this channeling is
hard and bitter work.
But today the woodentops must have under-dosed me. I’m still functioning.
Herewith a taster, a private view, just one sample of my wares drafted from the
black notebooks, a typical Nicholas Oscar Beardsley production. My methods
are multifarious. Last night I got up to no good underneath my smelly blankets.
This sample of the Teachings happens to take the form of an unusual
radiophonic transmission from the dead.
I do this trick as follows: take one transistor radio—the British-made “Roberts
Rambler” is probably the best, because of its plywood chassis, good for natural
vibrations—and hide it under your pillow. Press your ear very close to the
speaker. Tune close to BBC World Service on long wave, but allow the signal
to drift on the edge of intelligibility. Keep the volume to the minimum of audibility.
Listen for the radio years.
Soon, beyond the urgent twaddle of world events, the stratospheric squeal of
lost souls, the muezzin wailing from their burning mosques, all the rest of the
global anthem, you will hear, filtered through hiss and static, a voice. It is
clipped, brisk, extremely British,military, dry as sherry, so very reassuring . . . it
is getting louder already . . .
“. . . in 1910, I made the acquaintance of a military attache, posted to Central
Asia in the service of one of the great European powers. Despite our inevitable
differences, we shared the comradeship of bearing arms, and a common
interest in arcane matters. I was intrigued by his knowledge of esoteric
Tibetan beliefs and practices, especially when he told me that at a ‘gompa’ or
spiritual college north of Lhasa there was a ‘gyud pas’ or ‘high teacher’ who
had the gift of astral disembodiment.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562839

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0978186508

Blood, Feathers and Holy Men

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Eagle Talon and his son, Honiahaka Little Wolf, emerged from the forest with a
magnificent buck slung from a sapling pole between them. The two men paused to
rest and massage their aching shoulders. Below them stretched the mighty water,
birthplace of the sun and home to the great creatures who blew fountains into the
air. It was also home to the friendly man savers.
As Eagle Talon looked far out to sea, he remembered how his youngest son, Kosumi,
was washed out of his canoe by a savage wave. He thought he’d lost his son to
the sea, but two man-size sea creatures, those who blew fountains of water into the
air, came to Kosumi and swam him safely to shore.
From that day forward, the Nation declared these man-savers Friends of the First
Light People. Never again did they hunt them for food. Since that time, the sea mammals
leapt from the water to greet the young men whenever they sailed out to spear
the white fish or to dive for the clawed sea-cleaners.
Eagle Talon whispered his thanks once more for his son’s life. Then he whispered
his thanks to all the creatures of the sea that fed his family and his people.
Little Wolf saw it first and crawled on all fours to the edge of the embankment for
a better look and beckoned his father to join him. On the beach below was a great
canoe, big as a longhouse. Strange, white-skinned men with hairy faces shouted at
one another and banged at boards of split pine, inside. Outside, men were painting
the frightful beast whose head was a double serpent totem of scarlet, blue and green.
Eagle Talon and his son watched in awe. They must return quickly to the village.
Surely the sachem, White Eagle, would have an answer to the appearance of such
strange visitors.
Since Eagle Talon and his tribe greatly respected White Eagle as a wise elder, a
confederation of villages elected him sachem. He governed the people of his district,
upheld the law, allocated farmland according to the size of each family, collected
tribute, provided for widows and orphans, and taught all boys up to the age of sixteen
the arts of manhood. He also acted as arbitrator, whenever war threatened.
White Eagle sat erect. His grey hair flowed unadorned in long shiny strands to
his lower back. He wore a beaded doeskin jacket, pants and moccasins. The sachem
raised his hand to call for calm and addressed the gathering of braves.
“My brothers. These strangers have surely come in peace. Let us welcome them
with gifts of food, as is our custom. We will honour them with song and dance at our
Lodge Fire and celebrate Broken Wing’s success in the hunt. If they allow us, we will
help them repair their strange craft that they may soon be on their way.”
The gathered braves turned to one another in discussion. Then they voted by a
show of hands to follow the sachem’s advice.
White Eagle continued. “I will approach the strangers at their camp. Broken
Wing, Crow Foot and Eagle Talon will bring sweet corn, the gift of the gods, and
fresh salmon. I go to prepare my face and body with red earth as a sign we are men
of the earth.”
Freki, ever on the lookout, was the first to see the four Natives approach the fire.
They wore only tan breechcloths. Three of the Natives wore crow and turkey feathers
in long braids. They had their heads shaved except for a long strip of stubble…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562826

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763106

Poodie James

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to the surface and throwing columns of water into the air. He
thought about being water, whipping into froth, rising to ride in
clouds above the world, dropping onto hills and fields, roaring
down mountainsides, lazing in lakes, plunging over dams and falls,
spreading to meet the ocean, enveloping rocks and logs and sunken
ships, fish swimming through you, sunlight playing on you.
He wondered if the world was alive and all of its plants and creatures
lived on it, as funguses and bacteria live on animals and people.
Poodie lay on his back in the sunshine and watched a hawk
circle in slow turns above the valley, soaring on updrafts. The only
effort he could see was a tilt of the wings now and then as the hawk
drifted up. It rose so high that wings and body blended into a speck
against the blue, then regained form as the hawk wheeled down to
float up again. He tried to imagine wind pushing against wings,
rushing over feathers, the thrill of the downward spiral, the elation
of being lifted atop a column of air. He wondered what the hawk
saw as it hung above the hills and orchards, the streets and houses,
people, the river. One of the books at the library said that hawks
and eagles could see a mouse from high in the air. He waved, in
case the hawk could see him. He wanted to know the currents of
the river the way the hawk knew the currents of the air. Swimming
the river, he had to work against the flow and eddies of the water
and fight his way across, as if the river didn’t want him there.
Sometimes it lulled him in its embrace, but the river’s power
frightened him. The air welcomed the hawk and bore it like a
mother carrying a child.
September 17
Swam the river today. Maybe last time this year. Air cold, water warm.
Very tired when finished. Getting old? Found a man looking in the
window when I came back. Showed me a card from the health department.
Said he had to inspect my cabin. Showed him inside. He took
notes. He wanted to look at the outhouse. More notes. Showed him my
apple trees, ready to pick. I gave him apples. Wrote my name for him. “I
know,” he said. Nice man.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562868

Ken Kirkby – Warrior Painter

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I’m aware that you are frequently faced with idiots and liars and
scoundrels but, in telling this story, I hope to explain that I am none of these
things. You need to know there are people in this world who actually do
give their entire lives to something bigger than themselves.”
“We have an hour,” she replied.
Fifty-nine minutes later, Ken had told the story of Isumataq and of the
cause of the Inuit. “That’s the preamble—now here’s the paperwork,” he
said, sliding neat folders of material across the table to her. “Here’s how the
money came in and here’s how it went out. For myself, I’ve always lived a
Spartan life. I’ve no real interest in possessions or material things. Money is
simply a necessary tool, like a hammer or a screwdriver—or a paintbrush.”
Some time later the Judge looked up and announced, “You don’t owe
a penny, Mr. Kirkby.”
“I know. If I did, I would pay it.”
When he emerged from the meeting, Ken felt as though his feet were
gliding above the rain-washed pavement. It had been worth the battle and
his sense of justification made him giddy. Karen was out of town again, but
when he phoned to share the good news, her bitter response was “Well, I
guess rules just don’t apply to you.”
He spent the evening in company with his long-time friend and fishing
buddy, Ron Gruber. Since Ken’s return to Vancouver, Ron had watched his
friend’s relationship deteriorate. He was increasingly concerned as he saw
Ken slide steadily into that solitary and dark place from which there seems
no escape. Ron was one of the few people in the world Ken could talk to
about personal matters and he told him of his concern that Karen seemed
determined to alienate her colleagues. As he put it, “It’s like watching
someone you care for deeply move dangerously close to the edge of the
cliff, and there’s no way to save her.” He harkened back to earlier situations
when Karen had set herself on collision course, and then dragged others
with her into disaster.
It was not Ken’s nature to give up without a fight, and it took several
months more before he would accept the end of their relationship. He’d
committed to change his life for Karen and he meant to do everything
humanly possible to retrieve the closeness he’d once had with her. But even
that steely resolve wilted when, before leaving on another business trip,
Karen voiced her opinion that they had nothing whatsoever in common…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562902

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00CB8W4CG

Ken Kirkby, A Painter’s Quest for Canada

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A painting that goes in hockey arenas, that is toured across the country
from one end to the other, telling the story.
Then a whole flood of ideas and memories came into my mind crystal
clear. Grandmother doing her dance and her song in the winter – becoming
mesmerized and overcome by heat and emotion – going outside and the
Northern Lights roaring overhead – and she came out and stood beside me
and put her arm in mine and told me that those were the spirits of her ancestors
dancing. And she sensed the difficulties I was having over the loss of the
two women that I had loved so profoundly. She had said, “It’s a good thing
to let them go and dance”.
During her song and her story, there had been the need of an Isumataq
– a person or an object in whose presence wisdom might show itself. The
painting would be called Isumataq. And the dream driving all of this was
Nunavut.
That was the moment in which the whole thing exploded in one clear vision.
It must have been working quietly in my brain all this time and now
here it was – all together. Now it poured out and it all came together like a
jigsaw puzzle – every piece moved into its proper slot.
Covered in sweat, Ken’s body shook with nervous energy. His whole
being thrilled and he felt himself to be outside his body – completely
outside space and time. The vision was so clear, so compelling, that it
possessed him. He knew it would come to own him – night and day – and
he didn’t care. He gave himself up to it. He paced back and forth, details
of Isumataq whirling in his mind and dropping into place like numbers
on a slot machine.
He drove home that night with a new excitement coursing through
him. When he told Marsha he was going to create a giant painting on
the scale of the Sistine Chapel, she smiled and shook her head. In the
morning he told Diane who began to plan a studio renovation to accommodate
such an enormous painting. While they were hunched over the
sketch, Salvador appeared in the doorway, a bottle of brandy in his hand,
and a smile on his face.
“I have the equipment, the idea, the staff, and the availability of rock.
How would you like a giant Inukshuk in your studio?”
Three days later, Salvador pulled up in a new Saab, followed by a flatbed
truck – groaning under the weight of massive blocks of granite – and
two extended cab pickups loaded with burly men. At two in the morning,
after hours of heavy labour, a seven-foot tall Inukshuk towered over
the studio. Salvador waved his arm at it like a magician wielding a wand.
“There. Is it to your liking?”
“It’s perfect,” Ken said.
Salvador’s next project was an Inukshuk at the Columbus Centre!
Dragging Ken and Joseph Carrier to the lobby, he gestured grandly…

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562830

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073573

In Turbulent Times

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had been told what to do if Nora Carrick took one of these seizures. Yet they all stood back along the grey walls, and the children ran to a safe distance and watched with eyes and mouths wide open while the young girl’s legs jerked up and down, and her head struck the ground, and her mouth opened and closed expelling a kind of froth like a rabid animal. Joe saw what was happening as he reached the square on his way home from the harbour. He rushed forward, wrapped Nora in his jacket and placed his pen-knife between her teeth. He remembered Dr Alexander’s saying she could bite her tongue during this stage of her fit unless something like a fountain pen was thrust between her teeth on one side of her mouth. With one knee on the ground, Joe held Nora against the other while her convulsive movements began to subside. He wiped her face clean with a handkerchief. He had seen that face so many times before but never till that moment did he notice how pretty it was. Her eyes below the straight-cut fringe of hair were closed. She had rather prominent cheek-bones and a dimple at each side of her mouth when she smiled. She was not smiling then. Her cheek rested against his dark-blue jersey as if she were listening to his heartbeat. Her black hair smelled sweetly with a soft fragrance as if freshly washed with a scented soap. That smell lingered in his nostrils for days, and each time it came back to him it brought exciting new feelings, like those he used to feel in his stomach at the approach of Christmas or a birthday or at the prospect of an outing. And yet different too. More subtle, more gentle, and somehow infinitely sweeter. And he would recall the pale, round face framed in its black, shiny, scented hair pressed against his heart, and the eyes flickering open, so dark and deep and troubled those young, serious eyes. Joe could not remember if he had felt then the same exquisite feelings he had had later when, unbidden, the picture of Nora’s face returned to fill his mind for days on end. Nor could he remember if he had noticed then the rounded outline of her young breasts which he later recalled as having been in contact with his heaving chest.
How momentous those few minutes had been for him, and yet how many of the minor details he had been oblivious to at the time. Perhaps the significance of the scene had been a later invention. He remembered how the crowd had closed in around him, and everyone looked at the peaceful body in his arms as Nora awoke from her frightening ordeal. Had she taken his hand and held it till Dr Alexander came and led her to his car? Joe thought she had but now he wasn’t sure. He remembered standing in the square with his jacket hanging over his arm, watching Dr Alexander’s car drive away …

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562904

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763270

Wellspring of Love

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how many more times he would be called upon to rescue his headstrong
sister from danger. Mentally, he checked off the incidents that
had landed Rachael in trouble throughout their childhood. The day
he had stopped Bill Harrison, the man he then thought to be his
dad, from giving her a serious beating. That day, Ronnie had taken
the beating in her place. The time Rachael took four-year-old Bobby
and ran away from their temporary home at the Harrisons, into the
middle of the worst prairie blizzard the Alberta community had seen
in years. That time Ronald lost fingers, toes and part of an ear – and
almost lost his life – in an effort to save them.
It grieved him to know that Rachael still felt guilt over his loss. So
many times he had tried to tell her it was not her fault, nor was it her
fault that Bobby, too, had lost fingers and toes as a result of the storm.
She said she believed him, but he had seen her recoil sometimes when
she looked at his hands, or saw his feet when they were swimming in
Emblem Lake. He knew her reaction didn’t stem from squeamishness
– no girl he knew was less squeamish than his sister. No, it was
the knowledge that she had led both him and Bobby into a situation
that could have taken – and almost did take – all of their lives.
But right now there were more immediate concerns. How could
he make Rachael understand that Tim, no matter how innocent, no
matter how gentle he had always been, at eighteen years old had a
youth’s hormones raging through his system? No doubt Rachael was
right – Tim Buckley would not knowingly hurt her. He had been her
playmate since she and Bobby had been adopted by Morley and Tyne
Cresswell eight years earlier. The Buckleys lived not more than half a
mile across the fields from the Cresswell farm, a fact that accounted
for the well worn path between the two houses.
Ronald, while working in the fields, had often seen Rachael and
Bobby on their way to the Buckley farm. But he had rarely seen Tim
coming alone in the other direction. Only when he had company did
his parents allow the mentally challenged boy to leave their yard.
Now, however, Tim came and went at will.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562917

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763327

Jazz with Ella

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Suddenly Jennifer turned cold. “Paul, we met that group two days ago. You’ve been with her ever since!”
He nodded. “And you didn’t even notice I was gone, did you?” He pulled on a t-shirt.
Guilt swept over Jennifer. Why hadn’t she noticed? She was supposed to be looking out for the students. The buck stopped at Professor Chopyk, but she was closer to the students, more in touch with their needs—or so she had thought. The answer came back quickly. Because she was too preoccupied with her own love life, that’s why. “But you could have been followed…the authorities….” she spluttered. “Dammit, even Soviet people can’t just go where they wish. Saratov and Toglyatti are closed areas to most Russians—much less to westerners.”
Paul continued to nod.
“How did you get back here?”
“I swam, remember?” It was his turn to laugh at her. “No, I hitched a ride on a farm truck. Vera arranged it. It wasn’t so far. The Volga twists and turns a lot here and the boat did a big loop. Really, we aren’t that far from Toglyatti or her father’s farm as the crow flies.” He pulled a sweater over his T-shirt. “I had a bad moment early this morning when I thought I wouldn’t be here early enough. I knew the ship usually steamed off at first light. But it’s not leaving early today.”
“A good thing!”
“There was another bad moment,” he went on, “when I discovered that I had arrived on the wrong side of the river.” He stopped attending to his wardrobe and studied her. “I appreciate your concern, Jennifer, but I’m a big boy now.” He moved toward the door.
“Wait a minute.” Jennifer stopped him and looked into his cool blue-grey eyes, so much like Volodya, she thought, same high cheekbones, same mane of dark hair. “So you’re not seeing her again?”
He didn’t reply.
“We’ll be in Kazan soon. Then you’ll be too far away to swim back to see her.”
He was silent.
Jennifer sensed that her words would make no difference but she continued. “You’re still thinking about her. She won’t be allowed to leave the Soviet Union, even for visits, unless she’s a model Communist. You know that?” A part of her brain registered the fact that he was packing.

https://draft2digital.com/book/3562892

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1926763246

Arrows

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voices when the breeze allowed it. Looking for so long into the
distance, we were completely unprepared to turn and see five men
behind us.
Even before we could rise from our crouching positions, five big
warriors, scowling fiercely, materialized from the bushes, pointing
arrows at us.
“I looks like you may never get to know Guacaipuro, my friend,”
said Tamanoa.
I could not imagine ever responding with such aplomb. This was
his way of retaining control of himself, not showing fear. He was
showing me what to do, how to face death. Or to avoid it. I
mimicked Tamanoa’s stalwart behaviour, literally at ever step, as
the Indians led us into the village; two ahead of us and three behind.
In the days and months that followed, our captors would assume
Tamanoa was my servant because he was a half-breed, and yet it
would be Tamanoa’s ability to interpret their speech and their
behaviour that would keep me alive. Without Tamanoa, I would
never have been able to develop the language skills that enabled me
to talk to Apacuana, and I would never have survived to tell this
tale. But it was God’s will, or the way of Mareoka, to make everyone
assume I was the leader.

I was as lost as I have ever been as we marched to the village at
arrow point. People gathered on the trail and around an open space
dominated by the imposing figure of a man who could only be
Guacaipuro. The sun shone directly above our heads, gleaming
silver on the silky raven-black hair of Guacaipuro, whose face was a
mask chiselled in stone. His eyes were ominous black slits. The
hollows of his cheeks were elongated shadows.
He stood immobile, his chest heaved, and deep lines creased his
brow. The corners of his mouth were pulled down in outright
loathing. He held a spear, the butt resting on the ground.
As we approached, he held the spear almost to my chest, glaring

https://www.amazon.com/dp/0981073522