Post by yewtree on Oct 15, 2005 15:02:18 GMT
The King sat at his vast walnut desk, contemplating his digital watch. He was dressed in his morning attire, which consisted of a long watered silk overcoat, a cravat, and trousers of a military cut which would not have been out of place in a Victorian officers’ mess. He tapped out a staccato rhythm on the desk with his long fingernails. A miniature of the Queen, painted by the court painter with an expression of determination, gazed up at him from the polished surface of the desk. The only other thing on the desk was a complicated clock which looked like a cross between an orrery and an engine of torture, but which could tell the time in several different worlds if only you knew how to program it. A vast map of the kingdom dominated one wall, drawn by Tarquin, the King’s cartographer, with a spidery hand. The panelled chamber was dimly lit, only a thin ray of sunshine penetrating the close drawn curtains and illuminating a few lazy dust motes. Tiny zephyrs danced in the light, using the warm currents of air to surf on the pale beam.
“Out!” commanded the King, and the zephyrs fled, giggling. The King frowned, and rapped the gong on his desk. “Bring in the djinnah,” he commanded.
The captain of the guard, a muscly kobold of stooped but stern appearance, shuffled in, followed by a djinnah. Her clothing was somewhat dishevelled. Various diaphanous layers of silk were torn and dirtied, as if she had been involved in a fight.
“What stories have you been telling?” demanded the King, rising from his chair. He lowered one eyebrow and raised the other, which he knew to have an intimidating effect.
“Folk tales, your Majesty, that I learned in my childhood,” answered the djinnah.
“And do you believe them?” The King advanced towards her, menacing.
“I don’t know, your Majesty.”
“My children believe them. And you have been telling them to my children. To my son and heir. Against my express instructions.”
There was silence.
“I thought -” began the djinnah.
“You thought I would not hear of it. You thought you would tell them there is another world, the world of humans. There is no such world. It is all lies. Foolish djinnah. You thought, because you were the gift of the Emperor, that I would not kill you for spreading such lies. I will not kill you. I loved you once, my pretty little djinnah. I almost drowned in your seductive almond eyes. But you have disobeyed me. I will not be disobeyed. Get out. Go. Run. Run!”
She ran out of the room, out of the inner chambers. The women shrank back from her, as if it would be contagion to touch her. She ran down the stairs and into the courtyard. The world seemed to have turned upside down. The heat of the sun pounded at her, weighed her down. She ran towards the gate. She had not gone outside since the Emperor had brought her here. Lady Fenimar was waiting at the gate.
“Run, Zafira,” she said, in a low and menacing tone. “We will follow you. We will run you down, hunt you down. You will die alone, with none to mourn you. Run.”
She ran, always aware of their pursuit. She ran out of the city, onto the moor. The width of the sky frightened her. Her lungs felt as if they could not draw breath. They were on fire and felt as heavy as lead.
She transformed herself into a hare, but Fenimar and her soldiers became great hounds with blood red eyes and slavering jaws. She changed into a hawk but they became crows. Returning to the ground, she went to earth as an adder, and they lost sight of her. She reappeared on the skyline half a mile ahead of them. She led them through tangles of gorse and across treacherous bogs. Lighter of foot than they, she stepped easily from tussock to tussock, while they floundered in the deep peaty pools. Making herself small, she hid among the heather and watched them as they extricated Lady Fenimar from a smelly pool, as she cursed and floundered. Now, seeing that dusk was dimming the sky, and a long streak of red was all that was left of the sunset, they decided to call off the pursuit. “The Hunter will find her,” declared the bedraggled Lady Fenimar, with a disdainful tone. Running over the heather, the wind's fingers catching at her hair, breathing hard at the unaccustomed exertion, all Zafira could hear was the skylarks as their insistent song lifted over the moor. Afraid that their giving up the pursuit was a trap, she stopped and turned to see if they were still following her, but it seemed they had really given up.
Thinking of the Hunter, she shivered. She was not sure if her shape shifting capabilities were great enough to conceal herself from him, the most feared of the King’s enforcers. Night was the best time for the Hunter. She wondered how much time she had before Fenimar and her band returned to the city to release the Hunter. She rose and walked on, desperately trying to think of a plan. None presented itself. It was getting darker and colder, and some of the brighter stars were coming out. The full moon showed herself above the horizon. Her rays made the landscape look blue, otherworldly.
She came to an escarpment at the top of a valley, hidden in the folds of the moor. There, ahead of her, was a stone circle, and dim shapes flitting among the stones. The suggestion of a fire flickered in the middle of the circle. The shapes seemed to appear and disappear, half in and half out of the world.
As she entered the circle, the shapes became more distinct, and the scene around her changed. The moor wavered and faded, and was replaced by a wood in springtime, with hawthorn and wild roses. The stones disappeared. The people stopped dancing and stared at her, open mouthed. She stared at them, fascinated.
“Hello,” one of them said at last, tentatively.
“Hello,” said the djinnah. “I’m Zafira.” She reached out a hand to the man who had spoken. “Touch me,” she said. He took her hand. “My name is Rob,” he said.
Zafira stepped out of the circle. “I will be safe now,” she said.
“From what?” asked Rob.
“The Hunter - Fenimar - the King,” said Zafira.
“Who are they?” asked Rob.
“The Hunter is a dark elf who can transform himself into a great winged monster. He hunts outlaws, people who have fallen foul of the King.” Zafira stopped, afraid that the mention of his name would be enough for him to hear her across the thin divide between the worlds.
“And the others?” asked Rob.
“Fenimar is an efrit. She came to the kingdom at the same time as me, a gift from the Emperor. She is close to the King, and has a great deal of power. She was hunting me, but turned back. The King is absolute monarch of Nemet, in the world of Faerie.”
“How did you get here?” asked one of the women.
“You had opened a gateway into the world of Faerie, and were dancing in a stone circle on the moors as well as in this place,” said Zafira.
“Is the gateway still open?” asked one of the men. “Our circle is still open.”
Zafira looked with her inner eye. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Then we had better close it,” said the woman who had spoken before.
Each of the group took up a position on the outer edge of the glade, and bade farewell to the guardians of their circle. The woman took the great sword from the altar and swung it around the edge of the glade. Zafira felt a lot safer now that the circle was closed, but then the realisation began to dawn on her that she was in another world, not all of whose inhabitants might be as friendly as these people seemed to be. She had heard a story once from a mermaid whose grandmother had accidentally manifested in the human world and been exhibited at a travelling fair.
“You didn’t seem very surprised to see me,” she said inquiringly.
“Well, we’re witches,” said the woman. “We believe in faeries and magic.”
“You are humans?” asked Zafira.
“I was the last time I looked,” said Rob.
“You see, you’re a myth in our world,” explained Zafira, “and I was hounded out of the palace for telling stories about humans.”
“At least telling faery stories isn’t a crime here,” said the woman.
“Yet,” said Rob darkly.
“How do we know her story is true?” asked one of the other men, who had been hanging back a little from the centre of the group.
Zafira raised herself up to her full height - a little above the treetops - and folded her arms.
“I, Zafira, daughter of Schavad, do not tell lies. Behold.” She projected a picture of recent events into their minds, from the moment of her arrest to the point at which she had manifested in the midst of their circle.
“I think it is time we had something to eat,” said the woman. “Will you join us, Zafira?”
“If I eat here, I will be trapped here forever,” protested Zafira.
“Oh dear, I forgot about that,” said the woman. “We are warned in our folk tales not to eat anything in the world of Faerie either. How long can you go without food, though?”
“Quite a long time. One of my ancestors was kept in a bottle for several centuries with no ill-effects.”
“Well, I hope you will excuse us if we eat. It is our custom to do so after a ritual, and I’m famished,” said the woman. “Goodness me, we still haven’t introduced ourselves. I’m Tara, this is Steve, Karen, Tim, Phil, and Megan.”
“Pleased to meet you. I will keep watch while you eat,” said Zafira.
The witches sat down in a circle and produced various boxes and bags from their rucksacks, which they had stowed under the trees. “Oh dear, three people have brought quiche again,” said Rob. “Bloody synchronicity.”
Zafira sat a little apart, so as not to be tempted to eat, but listened with fascination to the conversation. The humans seemed a little shy in her presence, but then, she reflected, they probably hadn’t seen many faeries before. She felt a little nervous, knowing so little of their world, but she had done quite a lot of research in the palace library, finding such classic works as The Secret World of Humans, by Professor T. Oberon, and My Life with Venus, by Tannhäuser.
When the witches had finished eating, they packed up their boxes and bags, extinguished their fire and replaced the turf.
“Would you like to come home with us?” asked Rob.
“Yes, please,” said Zafira. She followed them across several fields, back to their parked camper van. “Where are the horses?” she asked.
“Our - er - chariot is driven by an engine,” explained Rob.
“Out!” commanded the King, and the zephyrs fled, giggling. The King frowned, and rapped the gong on his desk. “Bring in the djinnah,” he commanded.
The captain of the guard, a muscly kobold of stooped but stern appearance, shuffled in, followed by a djinnah. Her clothing was somewhat dishevelled. Various diaphanous layers of silk were torn and dirtied, as if she had been involved in a fight.
“What stories have you been telling?” demanded the King, rising from his chair. He lowered one eyebrow and raised the other, which he knew to have an intimidating effect.
“Folk tales, your Majesty, that I learned in my childhood,” answered the djinnah.
“And do you believe them?” The King advanced towards her, menacing.
“I don’t know, your Majesty.”
“My children believe them. And you have been telling them to my children. To my son and heir. Against my express instructions.”
There was silence.
“I thought -” began the djinnah.
“You thought I would not hear of it. You thought you would tell them there is another world, the world of humans. There is no such world. It is all lies. Foolish djinnah. You thought, because you were the gift of the Emperor, that I would not kill you for spreading such lies. I will not kill you. I loved you once, my pretty little djinnah. I almost drowned in your seductive almond eyes. But you have disobeyed me. I will not be disobeyed. Get out. Go. Run. Run!”
She ran out of the room, out of the inner chambers. The women shrank back from her, as if it would be contagion to touch her. She ran down the stairs and into the courtyard. The world seemed to have turned upside down. The heat of the sun pounded at her, weighed her down. She ran towards the gate. She had not gone outside since the Emperor had brought her here. Lady Fenimar was waiting at the gate.
“Run, Zafira,” she said, in a low and menacing tone. “We will follow you. We will run you down, hunt you down. You will die alone, with none to mourn you. Run.”
She ran, always aware of their pursuit. She ran out of the city, onto the moor. The width of the sky frightened her. Her lungs felt as if they could not draw breath. They were on fire and felt as heavy as lead.
She transformed herself into a hare, but Fenimar and her soldiers became great hounds with blood red eyes and slavering jaws. She changed into a hawk but they became crows. Returning to the ground, she went to earth as an adder, and they lost sight of her. She reappeared on the skyline half a mile ahead of them. She led them through tangles of gorse and across treacherous bogs. Lighter of foot than they, she stepped easily from tussock to tussock, while they floundered in the deep peaty pools. Making herself small, she hid among the heather and watched them as they extricated Lady Fenimar from a smelly pool, as she cursed and floundered. Now, seeing that dusk was dimming the sky, and a long streak of red was all that was left of the sunset, they decided to call off the pursuit. “The Hunter will find her,” declared the bedraggled Lady Fenimar, with a disdainful tone. Running over the heather, the wind's fingers catching at her hair, breathing hard at the unaccustomed exertion, all Zafira could hear was the skylarks as their insistent song lifted over the moor. Afraid that their giving up the pursuit was a trap, she stopped and turned to see if they were still following her, but it seemed they had really given up.
Thinking of the Hunter, she shivered. She was not sure if her shape shifting capabilities were great enough to conceal herself from him, the most feared of the King’s enforcers. Night was the best time for the Hunter. She wondered how much time she had before Fenimar and her band returned to the city to release the Hunter. She rose and walked on, desperately trying to think of a plan. None presented itself. It was getting darker and colder, and some of the brighter stars were coming out. The full moon showed herself above the horizon. Her rays made the landscape look blue, otherworldly.
She came to an escarpment at the top of a valley, hidden in the folds of the moor. There, ahead of her, was a stone circle, and dim shapes flitting among the stones. The suggestion of a fire flickered in the middle of the circle. The shapes seemed to appear and disappear, half in and half out of the world.
As she entered the circle, the shapes became more distinct, and the scene around her changed. The moor wavered and faded, and was replaced by a wood in springtime, with hawthorn and wild roses. The stones disappeared. The people stopped dancing and stared at her, open mouthed. She stared at them, fascinated.
“Hello,” one of them said at last, tentatively.
“Hello,” said the djinnah. “I’m Zafira.” She reached out a hand to the man who had spoken. “Touch me,” she said. He took her hand. “My name is Rob,” he said.
Zafira stepped out of the circle. “I will be safe now,” she said.
“From what?” asked Rob.
“The Hunter - Fenimar - the King,” said Zafira.
“Who are they?” asked Rob.
“The Hunter is a dark elf who can transform himself into a great winged monster. He hunts outlaws, people who have fallen foul of the King.” Zafira stopped, afraid that the mention of his name would be enough for him to hear her across the thin divide between the worlds.
“And the others?” asked Rob.
“Fenimar is an efrit. She came to the kingdom at the same time as me, a gift from the Emperor. She is close to the King, and has a great deal of power. She was hunting me, but turned back. The King is absolute monarch of Nemet, in the world of Faerie.”
“How did you get here?” asked one of the women.
“You had opened a gateway into the world of Faerie, and were dancing in a stone circle on the moors as well as in this place,” said Zafira.
“Is the gateway still open?” asked one of the men. “Our circle is still open.”
Zafira looked with her inner eye. “Yes. Yes, it is.”
“Then we had better close it,” said the woman who had spoken before.
Each of the group took up a position on the outer edge of the glade, and bade farewell to the guardians of their circle. The woman took the great sword from the altar and swung it around the edge of the glade. Zafira felt a lot safer now that the circle was closed, but then the realisation began to dawn on her that she was in another world, not all of whose inhabitants might be as friendly as these people seemed to be. She had heard a story once from a mermaid whose grandmother had accidentally manifested in the human world and been exhibited at a travelling fair.
“You didn’t seem very surprised to see me,” she said inquiringly.
“Well, we’re witches,” said the woman. “We believe in faeries and magic.”
“You are humans?” asked Zafira.
“I was the last time I looked,” said Rob.
“You see, you’re a myth in our world,” explained Zafira, “and I was hounded out of the palace for telling stories about humans.”
“At least telling faery stories isn’t a crime here,” said the woman.
“Yet,” said Rob darkly.
“How do we know her story is true?” asked one of the other men, who had been hanging back a little from the centre of the group.
Zafira raised herself up to her full height - a little above the treetops - and folded her arms.
“I, Zafira, daughter of Schavad, do not tell lies. Behold.” She projected a picture of recent events into their minds, from the moment of her arrest to the point at which she had manifested in the midst of their circle.
“I think it is time we had something to eat,” said the woman. “Will you join us, Zafira?”
“If I eat here, I will be trapped here forever,” protested Zafira.
“Oh dear, I forgot about that,” said the woman. “We are warned in our folk tales not to eat anything in the world of Faerie either. How long can you go without food, though?”
“Quite a long time. One of my ancestors was kept in a bottle for several centuries with no ill-effects.”
“Well, I hope you will excuse us if we eat. It is our custom to do so after a ritual, and I’m famished,” said the woman. “Goodness me, we still haven’t introduced ourselves. I’m Tara, this is Steve, Karen, Tim, Phil, and Megan.”
“Pleased to meet you. I will keep watch while you eat,” said Zafira.
The witches sat down in a circle and produced various boxes and bags from their rucksacks, which they had stowed under the trees. “Oh dear, three people have brought quiche again,” said Rob. “Bloody synchronicity.”
Zafira sat a little apart, so as not to be tempted to eat, but listened with fascination to the conversation. The humans seemed a little shy in her presence, but then, she reflected, they probably hadn’t seen many faeries before. She felt a little nervous, knowing so little of their world, but she had done quite a lot of research in the palace library, finding such classic works as The Secret World of Humans, by Professor T. Oberon, and My Life with Venus, by Tannhäuser.
When the witches had finished eating, they packed up their boxes and bags, extinguished their fire and replaced the turf.
“Would you like to come home with us?” asked Rob.
“Yes, please,” said Zafira. She followed them across several fields, back to their parked camper van. “Where are the horses?” she asked.
“Our - er - chariot is driven by an engine,” explained Rob.