Dune -- The Movie
Well, made it to the new Dune. I went with mixed feelings. Having read the books and even re-read a bit of Dune more recently, and seen the 1980s version (which, in some ways, I like given the steampunk nature of some of the technology), I wondred if the new movie would meet my expectations.
Blown away, I was.
And not just by the desert winds. Visually, the movie is beyond equal for making one understand the vastness of Arakis and the increadingly hostile nature of the environment.
Plot wise, the movie is very faithful to the book and the book’s core themes and the cast is well chosen. What I particularly liked is that the movie gave time for the characters to be introduced and developed. This was possible by the decision to split the book into two (or will that be more?) movies. Still, it has left me frustrated in that the next one won’t arrive for two years or so.
What went well?
The conceptualisation was particularly good. The way the intimate personal journeys of the main characters was contrasted with the big scenes was really well done. One got the impression that the characters operated within a much, much larger environment and this affected them in so many different ways. Hence, we got the macro/micro contrast that helped contextualise and move the story forward and made me rout for the good guy MCs.
Costumes were good too. Others have commented on the stillsuits but the other outfits also felt “right”. I think there was some “homage” to the Lynch version here, but equally, the book itself suggested the costumes.
As with any adaptation, there had to be changes from the book. None overtly damaged the storyline or the original book, though one never knows. It is inevitable in a book that is long on description, deep introspection, and interior monologue, all things that don’t translate to teh screen that well. The movie cuts back on voice over compared to the Lynch version, all to the good.
As a spectacle, this is how a science-fiction/fantasy story should be created on screen. Villeneuve has had the advantage of advances in CGI and SFF movies since the 1980s that he has used to the benefit of the movie in so many ways. Plus a really talented team who helped bring it all together.
Hence, well done to all who helped bring Frank Herbert’s masterpiece to the screen. In that regard, I did read Herbert’s own reflections on the making of the 1980s versionand how his vision had to be altered to make it into movie form. He wasn’t always pleased by what happened. I’d like to think he’d have given this new version the thumbs up. I certainly do. (And I still have a fondness for the Lynch version as a brave if flawed attempt to bring the sprawling saga to the screen.)
***
Will there be an even longer director’s cut? One can only hope so. There is so much that could be done to extend the story and one wonders how much was ultimately cut from the shoot to keep the movie within a reasonable length. Roll on the longer version, I say.
The Duel
It was a hot day to duel. Too hot. But hot enough to die. A day to get revenge. Agnes stood sweating in the baking sun waiting for her nemesis, the witch Natasha.
Out from under the trees, Natasha approached with her second beside her.
Their eyes met.
Agnes smiled. The witch too was flushed. Served her right calling this stupid duel. Besides, she'd no chance. Agnes flexed her rapier just to show she meant business. The business of death.
"It's a hot day, isn't it?" Natasha said, her voice as calm as the sultry day. She undid her blouse and tossed it aside. "If I'm going to kill you, I'll do it in comfort." With a gesture of indifference, she pulled down her shirt to reveal her full breasts.
Not to be outwitted, Agnes followed suit. Now they were both en deshabille. Open and vulnerable for the point of a blade. A frisson took her.
"To the death," Agnes growled. She raised her rapier. "En garde!" And lunged.
***
A story idea inspired by a writing competition that uses a picture and topic and asks for the first paragraph. Well, a bit more, I guess.
Excerpt
Magyar groaned aloud. "For the life of a troll there it goes again. Bloody 'eck."
He unsheathed the glowing sword. His eyes weren’t betraying him. It was getting brighter, he was sure of it. Another soul snatcher after his hide. It was getting pretty monotonous.
A roar echoed through the cavern, rattling the bones at his feet.
The bloated snatcher squeezed through the passage mouth and unfolded itself in front of him. More than twice his size and black in the enchanted light, it was one with the hellhole he'd managed to get himself stuck in.
He shouted at the thing, "Come and get it!"
The sword carried him forward eager to revenge its maker. Magyar had to grip it even harder for it not to fly out of his hands.
Flash Fiction — in more ways than one
"How did I get here?" Brunilda muttered as she looked up from her book. Somehow whilst absorbed in the latest potboiler by the spellbinding Tom Savage, she'd wandered into a forest. In front of her stood a young prince. "Who are you?" she asked.
"I'm introduced on page one hundred and four. I guess you haven't reached that point yet."
As he spoke, he dissolved and was gone.
Brunilda tossed the book away. "And that ends that..."
Still, she looked at the book face down on the ground and open. "Still, I'd have liked to see how it ended."
With a "pop" she too vanished.
Dieselpunk or Noir
Chapter One: A New Client
“Rick, you’re very silent today.” I looked up as Martha made her way along the bar towards where I sat reading the newspaper. She smiled seeing me look at her and went on, “Bad day? It’s early for you to be drinking. No case to be working on?”
“Yeah, it’s a bit dry on the work front at the moment,” I told her before changing the subject by picking up the paper I was reading. “Did you see the Times is full of that new Zeppelin the Nazis sent over here. There’s a big picture of it on the front page.” I read out aloud to her the leading article headline. “Super Airship Gross Deutschland breaks cross-Atlantic speed record.” I folded up the paper. “I saw it when it was docked to the Rockefeller Building. Ugly brute.”
“You still hold it against them, don’t you?” Martha observed as she pulled a bottle of bourbon from the rack behind her and held it up in a silent motion that asked if I wanted another drop. I nodded and she gave me a generous draft. It smelled strongly of old wood and alcohol. “It’s been twenty years since the Armistice,” she added, “Can’t you drop it?”
I laughed bitterly. “Is business so slow you have to make conversation?” I looked around the dimly lit bar. The Aviator was not big. There were six booths and a number of tables but the booths were all empty. At one of the tables, a couple of shift workers sat smoking and drinking beer. Otherwise the place was empty. I sniffed in their direction. Yeah, I thought, he is smoking a Camel. I also recognised the beer, the cheap stuff that Martha kept on tap. “Yep,” I went on, “It’s lonely in here, Martha.”
“It’s probably because you drive everyone away,” she mockingly retorted.
I looked up at the clock positioned below a large wooden propeller that hung on the wall above the drinks cabinets. It said four twenty two. I answered her. “Or you’ve opened too early today.”
She laughed at that. Then picking up a cloth and a whiskey tumbler she started polishing the glass. “Business is just not very good at the moment—not for you and not for me,” she opined sagely as she worked. She put the glass on a shelf behind her before selecting another for the same treatment. I liked it when she ignored my barbs. As usual she smelled of the cheap perfume she used and stale beer.
“We’re alike, you and I,” I said playfully having overcome my initial irritation at her distracting me from my paper.
“Yes,” Martha snapped back breezily, “we’re both broke.” She then laughed but I was unsure whether she was joking or was being totally serious. I had few greenbacks to my name; she seemed to manage. I tilted my head quizzically. She only smiled and continued to work on the glass she held in her hand. Eventually she beamed at me and added in a sombre tone, “I’m kidding, Rick, just kidding.”
“I can never understand you,” I admitted, baffled by her behaviour. I reflected that being broke—and at this point in time, I was certainly that—was nothing to laugh about. I took a sip of the bourbon, which burned as it trickled down the back of my throat. It left a warm glow. I unfolded the paper again and looked at the picture of the Nazi airship once more. I tried to imagine why they had sent it to America. The article said it was also visiting South America. I wondered whether the Nazis were trying to send us a message about their air power.
Any further thoughts were interrupted by a face at the door. This was quickly followed by the rest of the youth, whom I immediately recognised as the eldest son of the janitor of the building where I had my office. The kid looked worried as he crept into the bar. I could smell his anxiety. Seeing him, Martha immediately called him over. The boy looked at both of us in turn before stammering, “Me Dad sent me to say there’s a lady waiting in your office, Mr Horton.” His eyes quickly scanned the joint before he went on. “Said I’d find you here.”
“And so you did,” I answered kindly. “You did well coming to tell me.” I found a nickel in my waistcoat pocket and held it out in my hand. He snatched it and looked at it as if he had never seen its like before. “Go back to you dad and tell him I’m on my way.” The boy scarpered.
I stood up and went over to the stand to retrieve my fedora and jacket. I had not seen fit to wear a coat since the weather had been mild for the time of year. Anyway, it was just a two block short walk to the office. I nodded to Martha and made to leave but as I got to the door, the glass cabinet on the wall caught my eye. Inside were several medals but my gaze was drawn to the dark, sombre Croix de Guerre. Next to it was the citation. Someone had hand written a translation of the French text. “Who did this?” I asked her.
“That was Andre,” she replied. “He told me what it said. You never told me how you earned it, Rick. Why?”
“It’s of little importance,” I assured her.
She left the bar and came over and peered at the handwriting. “It says, you shot down three enemy fighters on your own after the other members of your flight had been hit.” She looked at me as if I was a stranger. “That was brave.”
“I was young and foolish,” I told her bitterly regretting my decision to allow her to display my medals in her bar. I almost asked her for them back but bit my tongue before I could speak my displeasure. Removing them would simply be petty and, besides, I had nowhere to store them.
She patted my shoulder. “You were not the only one.” I looked at her but said nothing. I had known she had been part of the American Expeditionary Force but she had never spoken of her role. I wanted to ask her but feared being delayed.
I placed my hand over hers and said, “Tell me about it next time.”
I slipped out the door into the gathering darkness of a November night. Above me the last of the blue sky was just visible between dark grey clouds, edged in deep orange by the light of the setting sun. Across the street, lights were already on in the two ot the three shops that fronted the building and in the windows of the floors above. A car sped past, its headlights briefly blinding me. Turning away, I hastened down the pavement towards my office. All around me, the aromas of the city assailed me. What I picked up most was the stink of exhaust fumes, rotting detritus and body sweat. But behind these were subtler odours.
Well It Should Be Better Than This!
I’ve written a sequel of sorts to The Sorcerer’s Lackey which is called Hamlette and the Prince of Darkness and in a moment’s semi-inspiration I ran some key words through the fantasy plot generator. Let me know what you think.
I’d say the story I wrote is somewhat better than below. But that would be boasting, wouldn’t it?
And I like the reviews!
To the Attack…
How about this for a a Warhammer fanatic? Going forward to the attack with a scythe. No armour. Just grit to get at the foe.
Sword and Sorcery
Thre is a genre of fantasy that I love to read. Namely, the sword and sorcery kind. These are swashbuckling stories that often have an anti-hero as the main character. One can think of Conan, Elric, and all those who go in their wake.
Well, I’m doing the same.
My character is called Thakar and he’s a Norseman, a pirate, a fighter, mercenary, spendthrift. You get the idea.
I like the resonance of the name according to various symbolisms of the letters that make up the name:
T speaks of the character’s vibration of impatience and fantasy, a fan of novelty who is always trying something new
H suggests hope and tenderness, being a dependable person
A is for a down-to-earth nature and being inclined to showcase, in most conditions, a more rational than emotional stance
K is symbolic of being outgoing, sometimes mischievous and explorative
A a craving for finding reasons to laugh every day, this being one of the life golden rules to abide by
R may be in detriment because of their bad temper and their inclination to think less of others
According to the fate/characterisation that goes with the name, such a person has a very high destiny factor, only a decent chance in love, and high monetary potential, but only so-so on family and friendships.
The number one characteristic, it appears is:
“vibration of number 1 is that of a leader, acting on incumbent potential and attempting to demonstrate how amazing they are at what they set out to achieve. These people enjoying showing off their boldness, and their inborn driving capacity means they are likely to master any situation. On a higher plane of life, the goal of number 1 hints at setting the right example by acting with honor and determination”
Red is his colour, the colour of rebellion and fire, and is associated with temperaments that don't seek for the approval of those around.
The charismatic totem animal is the Falcon. Such a person who has the Falcon as totem animal thinks fasts and acts even faster.
Now, I don’t pretend to believe all the above, but isn’t it interesting that I chose a name for my hard-bitten adventurer which ticks so many boxes in terms of feeling right? I have read a lot of stories with similar characters and just felt that Thakar was the right name for mine. It must be my subconscious at work.
The lesson: let your subconscious do the hard work but check afterwards. Who’d be impressed by a stalwart hero called Cohen? Well, on the Discworld, quite a few apparently. But that’s inverting a trope and making a joke. If I was writing a comedy, my stalwart hero would be called Lenny—or Hapless.
Work-in-progress
Whatever we tried to do, I knew the inevitability of us confronting the savages ahead of us. We could simply continue as we were or stop and wait for them to come to us. Neither option appealed.
Next to Julienne, Ines burst out, “What do we do?”
“Don’t show fear, dear,” Julienne answered. “We keep going.” I wanted to question her judgement. Surely, we didn’t know who these were. We were not the all-conquering representatives of the British Empire, we were the lucky survivors of an aeronef crash. I’d read about Livingstone’s journey through darkest Africa and his self-confidence in his mission. I’d no equal confidence in what we were doing. Our weakness was only too plain.
Within a few short minutes the group ahead of us was no more than thirty yards away. Given their burly but short physique, they had to be related to those behind us. They wore not cloth, as I’d first assumed but hides, and were barefoot. Most carried stone-tipped spears and knives. One had a stone axe. These were true savages, tribesmen from pre-conquest days, aboriginals. This would complicate matters greatly since they might be hostile. The reverend Peirce had mentioned some of the difficulties of interacting with the natives. We’d only my gun and few extra bullets. And Passepartout’s machete. We didn’t stand a chance.
The hunting party stopped when they reached the road and faced us as we slowly approached them. We halted about ten yards apart. They must have thought us as strange as we thought them. We stood watching each other. I quickly glanced over my shoulder. Those following us were leaving the road and detouring around us to join the others. It suggested peaceful intent, which gave me some hope.
“Maman, aren’t you going to talk to them?”
“Shush, Magali, let’s see what they do.”
Our exchange broke the ice for one of the men raised up a hand in a gesture of peace and said something. It didn’t mean anything to me.
Passepartout imitated the gesture and then whispered at us, “Do what he does.” I copied it as did Julienne and Ines and then after a moment, Magali.
The others in the hunting party repeated the gesture. This was followed by a lot of babbling that might have been Hindustani for all I knew. I’d no ideas as to the language.
“Put the stretcher down,” Julienne commanded in a quiet voice. I was only too happy to comply given both its weight and how tired I was. Julienne took a few steps forward and faced their leader. She pointed at herself and then at use before making several gestures that mimicked what she was seeking. This caused more talk from the natives. Undeterred, Julienne continued her hand signals.
After a bit, the leader waved at her. This caused Julienne to wave back. She then repeated her attempt at sign language. The leader nodded, pointed at a spot beyond the road, and barked something at his companions. They muttered back before shuffling off in the direction they’d been travelling.
Julienne waved at us. “We must follow them.”
Money Money Money
Anything goes when it comes to money, or so the saying tells us. And you know what? That’s true. Money is anything we’re willing to accept in exchange for goods and services. After WW2 in Europe, for a short while, people used cigarettes as money. Or conch shells. Or huge stone wheels. Or cocoa beans. Anything!
What does this suggest for a fantasy story, then?
Well, we tend to write fantasy with not too much concern for how things are paid for. If it was science fiction, we’d all have “credits” that are e-money, or crypto, to use a current term, to pay for things. Not so easy in a fantasy world unless it has some advanced technology. But wait! Why not?
Imagine money being made by magic? It’s not something I’ve heard being used. But think of my opening words. Anything goes. Why not have spells or enchantments as money? Why not indeed. And perhaps conspicious consumption is literally burning money by using up the spells or enchantments.
And think of the possibilities for plot turns and twists when money is simply magic. It moves from a sideshow where the stalwart heroine pays for a night in the inn with coins from her purse to being integral to the plot. A lack of money (spells/enchantments) might literally be a huge obstacle for our gallant heroine winning the day. It might come down to starving in order to have the spells to defeat the dastardly antagonist.
Anything goes…
Random writings (from Society of Fantasy Writers group submission)
"No, My Lady, that wasn't the deadly forest dragonet." He held out his hand. "Let me help you down."
"If it wasn't a dragon," Lady Elspeth demanded, as she took his hand, "what was it?"
"That," he answered, "was a forest ombigon. Really quite harmless, I assure you." He shook his head. "Of course, if you exclude their penchant for stealing bright things. And if you ignore their stink. And if you don't catch forest itch from them. And the bad luck they're said to bring."
She snatched her hand away from his. "I'm staying here until you kill it."
He frowned at her. "That, My Lady, isn't such a good idea."
"Why ever not?" she retorted. "I'll be much safer here out of this..." she waved her hand around at the forest, "...this ombigon thingy."
"I should then inform you, My Lady, that you're standing in a patch of poison ivy."
With a shriek, Lady Elspeth jumped down into his arms.
Exercising those muscles...
Here is a short piece that I wrote in response to a competition for the first paragraph based on a picture of a stranded boat:
The storm had flung the boat onto the shore. And for that succour, I was grateful. But salvation had come too late for Julianne. She'd gone overboard when we'd nearly been sunk by a huge wave. I sat staring at her belongings. A scarf, her purse--I dare not open it, the thought of what I might find was too painful, a pair of trainers. All that remained to remind me of her.
A frisson ran down my spine as if someone had walked on my grave. I wasn't superstitious but it was as if her possessions were haunting me. I shook my head to clear it but still the feeling I was being watched remained.
"You coming?" Charlie yelled at me from the shore.
"Yeah!" I shouted back. While something held me back, I couldn't stay.
I rummaged around in one of the cupboards and found a bag. Without too much thought, I filled it with Julianne's possessions. Little did I know then what it was to mean.
Work in Progress: February
The chariot bumped and rattled as the horses thundered along the track. To either side were olive groves. Each tree grew in its own space in the hard rocky ground, a lush island surrounded by brick-red dirt where sprouted the remains of desiccated plants. Hunefer bit his tongue in anguish. Buneb would be searching for them. There was no hiding there. Flight was still their only hope. Khaba had shot their immediate pursuers but more could appear at any moment. Without a place to hide, the ape-men set after them left no room for Hunefer to slow down.
A bump in the track made the chariot jump and Hunefer had to grab the handrail in order not to be thrown out. Behind him, Hunefer felt the king knock against him. “My lord!” Hunefer cried out, fearful that Khaba would be cast from the chariot.
A hand clasped his shoulder. “Faithful Hunefer, I am grateful for your concern. I am used to wild rides, so do not concern yourself. Watch the road.”
“As you command, my lord.” Hunefer wanted to look back the way they’d come but dare not. “Are Buneb’s demons still chasing us?”
“They are now dead, pierced by my arrows.”
Some good news then. Hunefer concentrated on guiding the horses. Both lathered from the wild ride and he knew that before long they’d be blown. He had to slow down even if it meant the ape-men might catch up with them. He pulled on the reins to bring the horses to a canter. It also meant the chariot didn’t rattle as much.
“Don’t slow,” Khaba said.
“But, my lord, the horses!”
“They will avail us little if the winged vipers catch us?”
Hunefer exclaimed, “Flying snakes? That is sorcery.” More from Buneb’s conjurors and magicians, no doubt.
“I fear so, loyal Hunefer. I spotted the fliers heading our way and coming from the direction of the palace.” Before Hunefer could question this, Khaba went on. “I know all the birds in Aegyptus, and these are like none I know. They are all wrong.”
With a flick of the reins and a touch of the whip, Hunefer set the horses to galloping again. It meant for a wild ride as the chariot bucketed and rocked as they sped once more over the rough road. Ahead, the hills grew larger and the way led towards a steep-sided valley.
Hunefer cursed under his breath as he was nearly tossed out once more as the chariot jumped in the air. He could only hope Khaba was holding on securely. There was a crack as the chariot hit the ground. It didn’t quite disintegrate but part of the box fell away. The remainder felt far from sturdy.
A hand pushed him down. “Get down low,” pharaoh commanded.
Hunefer did as instructed. It was only a matter of time before the chariot disintegrated. Only a miracle could save them. He whispered a prayer to Amun but at the same time eased up a little on the horses. Another jar like the last one would finish them.
Khaba shouted from behind his back. “Here they come! Prepare yourself.”
Work in Progress: January
Well, this is the start, as it currently stands, of a story.
The palace glittered in the sunlight. In front of him, the huge columns decorated with immense hieroglyphics and bass relief images of the gods cast sharp shadows across the main entrance. To either side, the tall capsulised towers expressed the majesty of the Pharaoh. On the upper half were vivid scenes of Pharaoh’s conquests below which were huge bass-reliefs of the gods paying homage to the Pharaoh. But the splendour of the palace wasn’t what interested Buneb, even though he planned to take it for his own. He still had to fight to take what he’d been promised for the way in was blocked by a solid mass of the Pharaoh’s guard. Shields up, spears poking out and swords at the ready, they presented a formidable obstacle to any attacker. Nevertheless, Buneb sneered at the defenders holding him back.
He called out, “Aruthra, send in your lovelies.”
To his rear, the demon ululated loudly, the cry echoing off the walls. The spears in front of Buneb wavered at the inhuman cry. Lesser men would have fled at the sound. But not these soldiers, they remained at their post. They’d sworn to defend the Pharaoh to the last, and to the last it would be if they resisted.
From behind him, Buneb heard the strange disquieting screeches of the grey-skinned devils Aruthra had conjured up to aid him. He shivered as their shrieking reached a crescendo. A tremendous yelp came from the horde. It began to shift and flow forward.
Buneb stood in Aruthra’s shadow with his immediate guard surrounding him as the devil-monkeys surged forward on either side. These huge demon-apes fashioned in the hell-pit from whence Aruthra came had taloned feet and claws for hands. Their teeth were like those of a sabretooth tiger. Savage beasts whose only intent was to kill. They bounded forwards eager to reach the soldiers.
The first ranks fell to the arrows of the defenders, but others quickly replaced them. Baying like hounds bringing their prey to heal, they charged at the massed ranks. Screams and yells punctured the air as the charge collided with the defenders. A soldier was yanked from the shield wall and set upon by several terrors and torn asunder. Other demons fell to the soldiers’ spears and swords. But there was a never-ending supply of creatures to make up their losses.
Slowly, but surely, the guardsmen were torn asunder by the unrelenting horde until, at a cry, they fell back. Some tried to close the palace door in the face of the onslaught. They nearly managed it except for the dead blocking the gap. It burst wide open. The remaining guards ran off. But far from pursuing the fleeing soldiers, the grey demons pulled back.
It was now his turn. Buneb bellowed, “Forward!” With his guard around him, he went forward. He had to clamber over the dead and dying but once inside the doorway, the antechamber was clear. The immense hall was used to receive envoys. And it was just the first part of the palace. On the dais, the throne and the councillors’ chairs were empty. Soon he’d be sitting there. Buneb salivated at the thought. He searched around examining the various exits. Where might the Pharoah have taken refuge? Without the pharaoh, his victory was empty.
Buneb shouted at his men, “Find him! Show him no mercy!” He turned away as his soldiers spread out to search the palace. He spotted the priest of Set with them. He called out, “Hannu!”
The man turned and seeing Buneb gesturing at him, broke away from the soldiers around him and rushed over.
He fell on one knee. “Yes, my lord?”
“Where is he?” He didn’t need to elaborate. Khaba, the Third, Pharaoh of Aegyptus, was the only one who mattered, though the king’s magicians would also have to be dealt with. Hannu had already despatched the one sent to defend the outer entrance. He lay where he’d fallen, a shrivelled corpse, his clothes in tatters, making him look like an unwrapped mummy. But others lurked in the palace ready to weave their sorcerous spells on his soldiers and him. They’d sworn to defend Amun’s Chosen and would die rather than let Buneb’s soldiers capture the Pharaoh.
“I’ll cast, my lord.” Hannu produced a set of bones from a little bag he had attached to his belt. He threw them on the ground and consulted the pattern for a moment. “They’re in the royal bedroom.”
Buneb smashed his fist into his other hand. “We go at once.” He gestured. “Come!”
With his escort trailing, Buneb strode purposefully through the huge hall and towards the doors beyond. It was time. The attack on the palace was taking too long. The defenders had put up more resistance than he’d expected to Aruthra’s demons. His spies had misled him about the discontent within the guards’ ranks. Each moment allowed Khaba to make his escape.
MC's name
As I always do, when I choose a main character’s name, I look it up on the internet. Why? To ensure I’m not committing a big mistake in choosing the character’s name. Names matter.
The name of my MC in my current WIP, is THAKAR, a Norseman. A fantasy name as I don’t think the name was used by Norsemen historically.
Well, one of the things that came up in my search is the meaning of names and, low and behold, this is how one such site described the name:
Talent analysis of Thagar by expression number 1
“You are a natural leader, independent and individualistic. You are extremely ambitious, original, and courageous. You employ new and unproven methods. You are an explorer and an innovator. Openness to too many peripheral influences limits and frustrates you. You are self-reliant, confident, and energetic.”
Nice, really, since my MC is a lot like that.
So what’s in a name, then?
Everything that I wanted, it appears.
Natural leader—tick
Independent and individualistic —tick
Extremely ambitious, original and courageous—tick
Employs new and unproven methods—tick
Explorer and innovator—tick
Self-reliant, confident and energetic—tick
Well, who would have known my name choice would so well be described.
Work in Progress
The temple complex was old, as old as the city itself; and the city itself was old beyond counting. In its initial expansion, Aegyptus had conquered the lands up to the Red Sea and since held them against all attempts to wrestle them away. At times, the armies of Judea or Babylon had come close and then the priests had packed up and left; but soon returned once the threat had receded.
The torches set next to the pathway flickered, highlighting the ancient hieroglyphs carved into the stone columns, whose caps were lost in the night. A gentle breeze made the flames waver and the shadows danced, seemingly alive. Weak-minded folk might have taken the spectres as the tormented souls of the long-buried builders come back to haunt the living. Such was the superstition and fear of the people of Thebes that none would dream of approaching the place of worship after sunset.
In his desire to get to the inner sanctuary, Thoth-Set hurried along the paved path between the pillars oblivious to a spectacle he’d witnessed many times. The summons had been explicit. He was required at once. It had to be grave for him to be disturbed in the middle of the night. He mentally went over the various possibilities. The hem-coven’s schemes were much like a net, if one part broke, there were other strands that could be pursued. There was one exception. Someone had betrayed them, and this had allowed Tiki to escape. He’d done what he could to repair the damage but still her flight rankled him. Despite his inquisitions, he still hadn’t found out who’d alerted her bodyguard. His spies had quickly informed him of her plans, but it had been too late by the time he’d gathered his assassins. It was but two weeks that he’d been forced to act precipitously as the ship she’d taken drifted out to sea on the current. The spell he’d cast that night had left him bedridden for three days. Treachery and being shown up to be weak were two things he’d never forgive the betrayer. When he finally caught up with him, the man would suffer a horrible and prolonged death.
His attention was drawn to the entrance to the inner part of the temple. There, two guards stood impassive. They might have been twins. Massive men with heavy staffs. He could sense their eyes were on him. He marched towards and then past them. They didn’t seek to stop him.
He proceeded into the hypostyle. After the jasmine scented night air, the interior smelled musty from the whiff of incense. Only two lamps held the gloom at bay, one near the entrance, the other at the far end. Most of his walk would be in darkness. His footsteps echoed as he made for the far glow where the pit was.
As he got nearer, a form detached itself from the ombre and blocked the door. Like the guards at the door, it held a long staff. Another guard. But the thought struck him: they weren’t allowed into the inner parts.
Thoth-Set didn’t break his stride and kept walking towards the door and the light. When he got closer the light didn’t blind him and, with a shock, he recognised the face of the individual in front of him. Theop, a wab priest who served Hem-Netjer-Tepi. What the high priest was doing sending his apprentice to meet him, he’d no idea. He knew the way intimately; he didn’t need an escort.
“Theop, what are you doing blocking my way? Stand aside.”
Theop raised the staff and commanded, “You are not to enter.” It was a threat.
Flash fiction: Fairy Lights
“If you go to the woods tonight
When winds blow, and moon is bright,
You may see a bird that is not right
Perched upon an old rowan tree.
Fireflies and fairies, it will be,
A dancing, all merry and glee…”
“Stop, Enid, that’s a silly childish song to be a singing tonight.”
“Clara, it’s true I tell you. I’ve seen it.”
“You’re mocking me.”
“Come,” Enid did offer, “I will take you there.”
She took Clara’s hand and pulled her towards the dark woods.
At first Clara resisted, but then let herself be led.
Above them, the harvest moon drifted in and out of the clouds, colouring them silver.
Then beneath the trees, it was dim, but Enid led with sure foot. Under mighty oaks and past decaying trunks, they went, their feet stirring leaves, which rustled and crackled to the gentle rhythm of their stride. Deeper and deeper they went till ahead a faint light, like marsh gas aglow.
Clara tugged at Enid. “What’s that? I don’t like it.”
“That, you doubter, is what we came to find. Not a fairy ring but a fairy delight. See, they’re dancing in the moonlight.” She tugged. “Come, we should go closer.”
Clara resisted. “I’d rather not.”
“What are you afraid of? That they’ll cast a spell on you?”
“Yes.”
Enid laughed. “They’re like us.” She took a step and tugged Clara forward. “I’m going closer.”
“Oh, very well, then.”
Still holding hands, they approached the specks of light, a swarm of fireflies. Except the specks were fairies. They were dancing around a bird using intricate patterns that never seemed to repeat themselves.
How long they watched the frolicking, they didn’t know. All their attention was focused on the spectacle. It was as if they could read a story into the wild cavorting. A story of the elder races now banished from the world but given the night to return and remember when they did not have to keep hidden and confined.
The twirling grew wilder and wilder until…one of the fairies must have spotted them hiding in the shadows.
A ripple ran through the swarm, the dancing forgotten. They flew off in every direction.
“Oh!” Clara cried, “they’re going.”
“And so, must we,” Enid told her, “back home.”
They trudged through the woods, retracing their steps. The leaves didn’t rustle in the same way. Nor did the oaks seem as fine as before. The moon shone less bright.
By the time they’d got back to their burrow, the pale blue sky towards the east heralded the coming day and the rising sun.
Clara took one last look towards the forest. “I’ll miss them.”
“We must hide,” Enid urged, “the people mustn’t see us. They wouldn’t understand.”
She gently led Clara inside.
The First and Last Paragraph of the Story
We gathered in the woods on that afternoon in golden sunlight that streamed through autumn leaves turning our glade into a golden retreat. Never had it looked so beautiful, nor had Esther and Rachel. It would be a long time and a difficult journey before we once more could embrace. Each to her fate. Those fates that, the wise one says, are worse than death. Mine certainly was.
…
We hugged each other. How could it be possible? We'd survived against the odds. Against forces eldritch intent on turning us to their evil purposes. The sun speckled us in kaleidoscope colours through red, orange, yellow leaves. It was fall again, a whole year that felt more like a lifetime of pain and despair. But Esther and Rachel were there, and that's what counted. It would, however, be many more falls before we were able to look back on what had happened and not shudder.
Some work in progress
Eventually, she’d managed to acquire all the things she’d been asked to buy and, basket laden, she made her way back towards the mansion and whatever fate would befall her.
She was still within the precinct of the market when she spotted the soldiers, about ten of them and in their midst a tall negro, with his hands bound behind his back. They were pushing and shoving him forward. Many people stopped to watch. Tamarr knew what was coming. A public punishment. She wondered what he’d done to deserve such a thing.
All around her the crowd surged to see the spectacle. There was no question of her getting away as she was wedged firmly, her basket pressing uncomfortably into her bosom. She tried to shift it only to make matters worse.
The soldiers stopped at a post that had been erected as a stake to tie convicts where they could be lashed, or worse. One of them untied their prisoner and retied his hands to a ring set in the wood for that purpose.
One of the soldiers, better dressed than the others, addressed the crowd. “See today what befalls any slave who dare strike his master.” He turned away and motioned to another soldier. “Proceed.”
The man took a whip from his belt and whisked it around in the air making it snap. Then with a swing of his arm, the whip flashed across the negro’s back. In response, he groaned loudly. Tamarr noticed where the whip had flayed the man’s flesh blood was already welling up.
The whip snapped again. And again.
Tamarr could barely bring herself to look at the savagery. She closed her eyes. It was then she heard the murmur from those around her. One voice muttered, “This is Buneb’s doing. When Nefertiti ruled, she’d never have permitted this.” Another one answered, “Keep your voice down, you don’t know who’s listening.” But the first voice reposted, “Why do we put up with this?”
Tamarr opened her eyes and tried to spot who’d spoken. But she couldn’t without turning her head and giving away that she’d eavesdropped on their conversation. And what then?
The whipping eventually ceased. The prisoner had collapsed, his back a mass of torn flesh. Blood flowed freely from it, big drops falling into the dirt to colour it red. Two soldiers untied him and dragged him away.
The spectacle over, the crowd began to break up as people went about their business. Tamarr found she could move. She shuffled between the moving mass of people, using her basket as a shield to prod a path through the throng.
