Yesss Virginia

Written By Daniel Hood

Illustrated By Aaron Siddall

Sitting at the dinner table on Christmas Eve, John O'Brien realized that, while he had rehearsed countless scenarios to deal with the innumerable crises entailed in rearing children, he had never considered this one.

"It's not his real birthday, you know," his son Sean went on, with all the insufferable wisdom of 14. "He was born some time in the spring - probably around Easter."

"Sean," O'Brien warned, "I think that's enough."

The boy did not take the hint. O'Brien loved him, certainly, and took a certain pride in his intelligence, but his son's habit of announcing the facts he had just learned as if they were startling new discoveries had begun to annoy him. Particularly when they affected Bunny.

Sean's sister stared skeptically across the table. She had been born on Easter, eight years before (hence Bunny, though her given name was Virginia), and that probably explained why she did not reject the idea out of hand. She turned instead to her father.

"But if he was born on Easter, why do we have his birthday in November?"

O'Brien knew the answer, but he fumbled for a second, throwing a glance for help to his wife. She hid a smile behind her hand, and Sean took the opening.

"Because, Virginia, the early Christians took over an old pagan holiday, to make their religion more attractive to the heathens."

"They can't do that," Bunny said, as though it were obvious. "You have to celebrate someone's birthday on their birthday." Again, she turned to her father, who was still thinking that Sean's answer sounded like it came right out of a textbook, and wondering when the boy had started using his sister's proper name, instead of the nickname everyone else used.

Just like him, O'Brien was thinking. Why can't he be a drug addict, like other kids, instead of a junior professor? A boring junior professor.

Virginia's comment caught him short, but his wife came to his rescue.

"Well, Bun," Debbie said, "think of it this way: if we had Christmas on the same day as his birthday, then he would only get one set of presents, right? And that wouldn't be fair, would it?"

Sean snorted, dropping his fork and placing both hands on the tablecloth in preparation of a stunning revelation that would sweep away this silliness.

O'Brien cut him off. "You finished, Sean?"

"Huh?"

"Good. It's our turn to do the dishes. Come on."

The boy obeyed immediately, and O'Brien felt a twinge of guilt. He loved his son - why couldn't he like him, too?

As they gathered up the remains of Christmas Eve dinner and took them from the dining room to the kitchen, Bunny asked her mother: "But if Christmas wasn't on his birthday when he was born, did Nick have to bring him presents?"

* * *

" 'Did Nick have to bring him presents,' " Sean said in the kitchen, scraping turkey and mashed potatoes into the garbage. He was small and dark, like his father. "Did you hear that? She still believes Old Nick comes out of the fireplace on Christmas Eve."

Maybe that's part of it, O'Brien realized. He looks so much like me when I was his age, and I didn't like myself then much. A small wave of self-disgust broke over him even then, standing by the sink and rinsing the dishes Sean handed him. He's a good boy, a good son. You should be proud of him. And you are. Still....

"So what's wrong with that?" he asked, succeeding in sounding reasonable. "She believes it. It's a nice thing to believe - that there's a God, and that he sent his son down to us. What's wrong with that?"

"Oh come on, Dad. That's not what she really believes in. She believes that there's a goblin who brings presents to all the good little boys and girls, and punishes the bad ones."

It was a fine distinction, and O'Brien, in his self-enforced generous mood, recognized it. He thought, too, that he might turn it to his advantage, might use it to help teach Sean a little wisdom to leaven all his knowledge. "OK, maybe she does. But that's good too - it's good that people should believe that innocence is rewarded, and that bad people get punished. Even if it doesn't happen in real life," he added quickly, "it's a good principle to believe in."

Sean accepted this thoughtfully, pausing in his chores, and winning a little more respect from his father. "I guess so. But still - the devil. I mean, do you believe in the devil?"

"I believe in evil," O'Brien said.

"Yeah, but with a small e or a capital E? I mean, do you believe that on the night he was born, Jesus went down into hell and fought the devil and freed all the souls that had gone there before he was born? And that because of that, Old Nick has to come out on Christmas Eve and bring presents to good people and switches and sulfur and brimstone to bad people?"

O'Brien pursed his lips and blew, a gesture of uncertainty. "No," he said at last, and slowly. "I guess I don't. I believe in God, but I'm not sure about the details. I think it's probably more of an allegory - a nice idea told in a nice way."

"Like advertising," Sean said. "That's all it is, anyway. I mean, they could have chosen any pagan holiday - why November 1? Because it would be attractive to the pagans. And why presents and stuff? Because it kept the common people in the Middle Ages happy. Why a harvest holiday? Why not a mid-winter holiday, or a spring holiday?" He was slipping again into textbook-mode.

"I know, I know," O'Brien said. "I know the 'pagans' thought about death on October 31, so the church chose that day to celebrate Christ's victory over death. You know that, and I know that. So we can be nice and skeptical about it, and just take Christmas as a time to get presents. But Bunny doesn't know it, and there's magic in that, Sean. It's good magic, and you should be a little more careful about it. It's for her to decide when she wants to start thinking like that. So lay off a little, will you? Let her think Old Nick brings her her presents, instead of me and your mother. OK?"

To his relief, Sean shrugged and then nodded. "Sure. Why not?"

"Good. Get the dessert out of the fridge, will you?"

Once again, the boy did as he was told, and O'Brien was grateful for the respite. The conversation had made him uncomfortable, not because he had had to defend Bunny's innocence from Sean's skepticism, but because, to a certain extent, he had been defending his own innocence.

A part of him - The pagan part, he guessed - wanted to believe the things Bunny believed. That God's son had been born not in the spring, but in some ancient autumn, with cold October winds howling around the manger. That it had not been a marketing gimmick to attract the heathen Celts and polytheistic Romans, but a matter of fact. That Old Nick really had been compelled to rejudge all souls, and bring rewards to the good.

He was uncomfortable defending these thoughts to Sean, because it reversed their positions. It made him the gullible child, and Sean the smart, practical adult. And it left him a little ashamed that a small part of his heart still clung to the simple faiths of childhood.

"You want your apple pie heated?" Sean asked. "I'll nuke it."

God, he's considerate, O'Brien thought. He's a good, good, good boy. I'll be nicer to him.

"Yeah, thanks. Better ask your mother and sister, too."

* * *

Later, they sat in the living room. There were masquerade parties in the neighborhood, but he and his wife had decided to spend the evening with the children.

Debbie and Sean were watching an old black-and-white version of A Christmas Carol. O'Brien distracted Virginia, because he didn't like that particular version; when he was five the scene of Nick trying to buy Scrooge's soul in that creepy old mansion had given him nightmares.

So he held her in his lap and read her a Christmas story, carefully holding the illustrated book up to block the view of the TV.

"...the doors were locked tight, and so were the shutters;

But the sound of his claws brought to all their hearts flutters.

They knew even then, as the fire burned low,

That Old Nick was about, his eyes all a-glow."

This isn't much better than the TV, O'Brien thought, but a quick glance at his daughter's face showed that she was all right: she followed his reading with one tiny hand, her finger occasionally straying to the comical pictures of Old Nick, at which she giggled.

"Daddy," she said suddenly, looking up at him with a strangely adult expression of purpose, "I want to stay up and see him."

Sean threw him a quick look, an I-told-you-so glance, but it softened into a smile and he turned back to the TV. O'Brien had to give him credit - since their talk in the kitchen, his son had shown no inclination to slip back into textbook-mode.

"I don't think you should do that, darling. He's a mean old goblin, and he doesn't like being seen."

"He might decide to leave you sulfur and brimstone," Sean said suddenly. "You don't want that, do you?"

"I'm not going to get that," Bunny pronounced, squirming in O'Brien's lap to face her brother. "I've been good. I don't see why I can't see him."

"I don't know, Virginia," he said, "but if you want sulfur and brimstone, I don't care. I'd stay away from him."

"Listen to your brother," Debbie said. "He's smart."

"Yeah," O'Brien agreed. "Listen to your brother."

Concerted opposition distressed the little girl. "He wouldn't leave me bad things just because I wanted to see him, would he?"

"Never know," Sean warned offhandedly. "He might just decide to grab you and take you away."

"He wouldn't! I've been good!"

"No, he wouldn't," O'Brien soothed, "but why take any chances? You know what he looks like - why would you want to meet him in person? I hear he's even uglier in person. So you should sleep the whole night through, and only come downstairs when he's gone and it's safe."

"Huh," she said, and nothing more.

What kid in their right mind, O'Brien wondered a moment later, would want to see Old Nick? I never did.

* * *

O'Brien turned off the light by Bunny's bed and, as if this were the cue she had been waiting for, she caught his hand and made him sit down. The light from the hall filtered in through the doorway, lighting a path to her closet but leaving the bed in darkness. Outside her window, the red and orange Christmas lights flickered on and off, on and off.

"Dad," she whispered, "did you put out the garlic?"

"Not yet, honey, but I will before I go to bed."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

She squeezed his hand. "And you put the screen on the fireplace?"

"I will."

"So Nick can't get in."

"Right. Don't you worry, he won't. He'll leave your presents, if you've been good. Have you been good?"

In the dimness, he could not be sure, but it seemed to him then that her face assumed that look of purpose that had surprised him before. "Oh, he won't hurt me. I've been good."

"Good." He paused, then bent down and kissed her forehead. "Merry Christmas, Bun."

He stood, but she would not let go of his hand. "Dad, do you believe in Old Nick?"

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

"I believe in him."

He kissed her again. "As well you should, sweetie. It'll keep you good. Now go to sleep."

"I believe," she whispered and, letting go of his hand, turned onto her stomach and put her pillow over her head.

* * *

Sean came out of the bathroom as O'Brien shut his daughter's door.

"Hey, Dad."

"Hey, kiddo. Going to bed?"

"Yeah. Is Virginia asleep?"

"Soon."

The boy smiled, but there was nothing mean about it. "Think she'll see Old Nick?" Like they were both adults, and could smile at the whims of little children. O'Brien found he did not mind this assumption of equality.

"If anyone will, she will."

"Yeah, I guess so. Good night. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas, Sean," O'Brien said, and as he passed, tousled the boy's hair.

Good kid.

* * *

He and his wife were up for another hour, getting things ready for the morning. They set up the ornamental screen in front of the fireplace - theirs was wood, an antique inherited from his wife's family, pierced like a Turkish harem window with inset diamonds of glass that reflected light and twinkled like stars. Then they set up the creche, the infant and his mother inside with all the animals, the Three Kings standing guard at the door, Old Nick cowering around the corner.

When the presents were finally spread out in piles around the screen, O'Brien and his wife gave themselves a few minutes on the couch, lying comfortably in each other's arms.

"Merry Christmas," she said, and kissed him.

"And to you," he returned, and kissed her back. Debbie broke the kiss to laugh, and he smiled quizzically at her.

"What?"

"I was just thinking about being bad," she explained, with a suggestive look.

"Careful," he warned, though he was warming to the idea, "you might get sulfur and brimstone for Christmas."

"That's what Bunny would say," Debbie remarked, and kissed him again. "I say something else."

"Oh," he said suddenly, and extricated himself from her embrace. "I almost forgot the garlic."

He jogged to the kitchen and got out the plate of garlic-laced rolls from the refrigerator. When he went back to the living room, his wife was propped up on one elbow, a reproving look on her face.

"Garlic?"

"For Bunny," he explained, carefully stepping over the creche to deposit the plate behind the screen. Then he returned to the couch and lay down next to her. "C'mon, darlin', didn't you like that stuff when you were a kid?"

"I'm not a kid anymore; I like other stuff now. Let's go upstairs - I don't want Old Nick spying on us."

* * *

Both O'Brien and his wife slept heavily afterward, but an hour or so before dawn he woke and shuffled quickly, still half-asleep to the bathroom. As he came back, Sean appeared at the door of his room, rubbing his eyes.

"Dad, did you hear something?"

"Just me in the can, kiddo. Go back to sleep."

"No, something else. From downstairs."

A red glow seeped through Virginia's open door. He had forgotten to turn off the lights.

Why's her door open?

Then they both heard the hiss.

Sean jumped down the stairs two at a time, his father right behind him, and then they both froze in the entrance to the living room.

"I knew you'd come," Virginia was saying, talking to the creature behind the screen.

"Yesss, Virginia. I came. But why thisss garlic? And thisssscreen? I have thingss for you, my dear. Come clossssser."

The figure behind the screen pranced anxiously, its cloven hoofs clicking on the hearth. A red sack lay open by its side.

"Dad - " Sean began.

"Honey," O'Brien called to his daughter. "Come here."

"Dad - "

"No!" the thing in the fireplace said, and poked its head over the screen.

"Holy shit," Sean breathed, and fainted.

"Dad, I told you he'd come!"

"Yes, Virginia, now come here."

"Come here, Virginia," the creature said, beckoning with one long-nailed finger. "I have goodiessss for you."

"Virginia," O'Brien said, as sternly as he could manage. "Come here!"

With a shrug and a look of casual apology, she turned from Old Nick and went to her father. "I told you he'd come."

"Yes dear," he said shakily, and when she was safely behind him, took a step toward the fireplace. He wanted a poker, but they were all too near the creature.

However, even as he stepped forward, the creature hissed its disappointment, laid a finger alongside of its warty nose, and disappeared into the cracks of the fireplace.

O'Brien took a deep breath - the deepest he had ever taken.

"Hey, Dad, look at this! Sean fainted! What a baby!"

It took a wet towel to bring the boy around, and the first thing he did was throw his arms around his father and hug him fiercely, which O'Brien decided he liked.

"Oh, jeez," Sean said, "why didn't they choose a different day?"

* * *

"Well," Debbie O'Brien said the next morning, on finding not just her husband but her two children in bed with her. "Isn't this Christmasy?"

THE END

Upcoming Events!

I hope that you all had a good-to-excellent Holiday (for those in the US). Mine was excellent, with much food and family quality time.

I am pleased to announce that author Daniel Hood and I will be collaborating on future projects. So make sure to check back, as there is to be some quality storytelling (and artwork) taking place!

Also, watch out for future Mythic Aspects installments, as there is a wondrous series in the works, one that promises to be intriguing to fans of the fantastic!

Mythic Aspects: Nature Spirits and Fairies

Nature Spirits and Fairies are an interesting part of mythology, full of a long and complex cultural history. Much like giants, hags, dragons and other beings, nature spirits and fairies are a remnant of ancient gods, whos powers and authority has been diminished as the ages pass.

Many hold that the many tales of "good folk" under hills and in deep wilderness point towards a dim cultural memory of ancient religious practices rather than spirits and gods. With fairie "maidens" such as the Banshee actually pointing towards priestesses of ancient agricultural cults. The mythical proclivity for stealing human children may in-fact point towards the tendency towards human sacrifice practiced by these ancient Sun King religions.

I should note here that all cultures have blood sacrifice ceremonies integrated in their history and philosophy (including Christianity).

Another thing to note concerning Fairies and Nature Spirits is that they are never depicted as terribly "good" in ancient tales, though they sometimes are helpful. Such beings are, by their very nature; fickle, amoral, and very, very strange. A mortal having dealings with such beings almost always runs afoul of the strange and seemingly arbitrary "rules" of the encounter. Terms such as "The Good Folk" point more towards a desperate attempt at appeasing the fickle and often cruel gods of the old world rather than a definition of their habits.

Still, the poems and songs relating towards fairie-kind, and the ancient gods are some of the most beautiful that I have ever heard or read. One, telling the tale of an ancient battle between the gods Amathaon ab Don, and Arawn and King of Annwn (Underworld), of which follows:

"Sure-hoofed is my steed impelled by the spur;
The high sprigs of alder are on thy shield;
Bran art thou called, of the glittering branches."

And thus,

"Sure-hoofed is my steed in the day of battle:
The high sprigs of alder are on thy hand:
Bran by the branch thou bearest
Has Amathaon the good prevailed."

-Cad Goddau,The Battle of the Trees

There will be more postings on these elusive and intriguing creatures soon (along with accompanying artwork). The piece depicted above will be developed and posted here as well.

Also, writer Daniel Hood and I will be working on future stories together, so stay tuned!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Princess Carry-Me and The Giant

Written by: Daniel Hood
Illustrated by: Aaron Siddall

Once upon a time, a princess and a giant were companions on a quest. What the quest was, exactly, does not matter, except that it was a long one and involved a great deal of traveling, so they were forever wandering over parched steppes or crossing cruel mountain ranges or struggling through fetid swamps, and the princess, though possessed of a bold spirit and a sweet nature, had very dainty feet.

Her name was Carry-Me (which she insisted, despite its spelling, was pronounced ka-REE-may), and early on in their quest she had a horse to ride, so that the daintiness of her feet did not matter. At some point, however, whether through an evil plan of their Enemy, or because the horse had to leave to pursue its own affairs (the historians are not clear which), she found herself a rider without a mount.

Just then she and the giant were facing the soft, leaf-carpeted floor of the Quiet Forest, and the loss of her mount did not distress her. It only became an issue when they reached the edge of the Forest, and found before them a smoking expanse composed almost entirely of razor-sharp obsidian.

The giant, whose name was Maximactacus, possessed both a degree of kindness not usually found in his kind, and the thick-soled feet that usually are, and so he marched out of the forest onto the plain. Shards of obsidians crunched loudly under his toes, and it was a few moments before he realized that the princess hadn’t come with him. He turned and found her still standing at the edge of the forest, frowning at the sharp black stones.

“I think I brought the wrong shoes for this,” she said.

“You mean you brought the wrong feet,” the giant said, with a laugh. “Shall I carry you, Carry-Me?”

“It’s Kharímé,” she said, somewhat testily. “And despite the spelling, I prefer to make my own way.” Then she sighed, and apologized. “I suppose you had better carry me after all — but only until we get past these rocks.”

And so Maximactacus scooped her up and they made their way across the Plain of Blades. Both fully intended that Carry-Me should return to the ground when they reached the far side, but there they discovered a shallow sea in their path, and no boats.

“I shall swim,” the princess said.

“It’s many leagues across,” the giant said. “Can you swim that far?”

“I shall have to,” she replied, but sounded doubtful.

“Perhaps I might just —” he began.

“If you wouldn’t mind just a while longer —” she began at the same time, and they both laughed, and then Maximactacus sat Carry-Me on his shoulder and waded across the Basin Sea.

After that, it became more and more common for him to carry her wherever they went. At first they both assumed that it was only a temporary measure. When they reached the Carpetlands, for instance, Maximactacus set Carry-Me on her feet and started off on the grass, but she called him back.

“Is it soft?” she asked.

“Very,” he said, and bounced a little to show how springy the turf was.

“I only ask because I traded my slippers to the Weird Wizard for our release, and these cursed feet of mine are so dainty. Would you mind very much?”

“Of course not,” he said, and picked her up. Much as she liked making her own way, Carry-Me began to think being carried had its advantages. They made much better time, because the giant’s stride was very long, and she enjoyed being up so high, with the wind rushing in her face from the swiftness of his passage.

Still, she was both proud and bold, and so, later on, when they came to the Royal Road of the Ancient Kings (and after she had a chance to acquire some suitable footwear), she started walking on her own on the smooth paving stones that stretched straight away to the horizon.

This time it was Maximactacus who stopped. “Are you sure you want to walk?”

“Of course. Why not?”

“I only thought the stones might hurt your feet.”

“Oh, these old highways were laid by the best mage-engineers. I hardly notice it.”

“As you like,” he said, though he watched her footsteps carefully over the next hour or so, and finally called a halt. “You’re limping.”

“I am not! Or only a little — and I’m sure it will pass.”

“Don’t argue with me,” he said, picking her up. “I’m a giant, and you’re no burden.”

In fact, she really wasn’t a burden, as she weighed very little and he was very strong. What’s more, he too had noticed how much more quickly they went, and he liked having her up high, so that he was not forever having to stoop down to hear what she said.

By slow degrees, they reached a point where Maximactacus carried Carry-Me everywhere they went. She would cling to his back when he had to climb a mountain range, or sit on his shoulder when he had to ford a river, but mostly she rode in the crook of his arm, and they were both quite happy with the arrangement. The giant’s back no longer ached from stooping to listen, and as he was careful to switch carrying arms on a regular basis, he found both growing even stronger, so that he felt more prepared than ever for any foes they might meet. The princess’ feet never hurt, and she found that riding gave her time to ponder the many riddles they needed to solve to complete their quest.

So it went for all the long months and years of their journeying, with Princess Carry-Me’s feet hardly ever touching the ground, and then only after Maximactacus had carefully chosen a spot to set her down. They grew to be inseparable friends, and the arrangement suited them both very well: She unraveled riddles with greater and greater ease, and on those occasions when he was forced to set her down and fight, he found himself mightier than ever before. If either noticed any disadvantage to her being carried all the time, neither mentioned it, and so they continued on that way, crossing the Pitiless Gravel of Doom, the Acid Marshes, and Stubtoe Wood in the same fashion as they did the Sighing Silken Sands, the cushioned lands of the Kingdom of the Clouds, and the Soothing Mudflats of Warm-Milk Bay, with Carry-Me on Maximactacus’ arm regardless of whether the footing was safe or not.

Exactly how close they were to completing their quest when they met their untimely end does not matter, because the fact is that they did not complete it. After many months and years of eluding their Enemy, they were ambushed by his minions in the Canyon of Dust. Though the dust there is quite comfortable to walk on, Princess Carry-Me was in her usual spot on Maximactacus’ arm, and so sudden was the onslaught that he did not have time to carefully choose a safe place to put her so he could meet the Enemy’s creatures with all his strength. They swarmed over him unopposed, and when he finally deposited the princess out of reach on the upper rim of the Canyon, he was too late to save himself.

The princess, unfortunately, found her feet even daintier than ever, and her legs quite weak from months and years of being carried, and so she only managed to drag herself a short ways before the Enemy’s minions finished off Maximactacus and came after her.

Historians differ on what the moral of this story is; some question whether it has one at all. Most are willing to agree, however, that princesses should walk from time to time, and that questing giants should be ready to fight at the drop of a hat.

The Elves Godmother

There was once a serving girl who worked very hard at her job. She was industrious and clean, and swept the house every day, emptying her sweepings on a great rubbish heap outside of her masters house.

One morning when she was about to begin her morning chores, she found a letter on the rubbish heap. As she could not read, she put her broom in the corner, and took the letter to her employers.

They were all surprised to find that this letter was from the elves of the woodland, who asked the girl to hold a elf-child for them at its Baptism. The girl did not know what to do, but, at length, after much persuasion, her employers convinced her to go, as they told her it was not right to risk insulting the elves by refusing.

The next day, an elf arrived and escorted her, through the forest to his kingdom, which was cunningly hidden beneath a nearby hill. Everything there was small, but more elegant and more beautiful than can be described this side of heaven.

The baby's mother lay in a bed of black ebony ornamented with pearls, the covers were embroidered with gold, the cradle was of ivory, the bath-tub of gold.

The girl stood as godmother, but after a while as guest she wanted to go home again, but the little elves urgently begged her to stay three days with them. So she stayed, and passed the time in pleasure and gaiety, and the little folks did all they could to make her happy. At last she set out on her way home. But first they filled her pockets quite full of money, and then they led her out of the mountain again.

When she got home, she wanted to begin her work, and took the broom, which was still standing in the corner, in her hand and began to sweep. Then some strangers came out of the house, who asked her who she was, and what business she had there.

She was surprised by this, as she had only been gone three days ago by her own reckoning. But after talking with the strangers she found that she had dwelt amongst the elves for seven years and never knew it. Her old master had died and new owners held the house.

Mythic Aspects: Hags and Witches #1

By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm.
-Dr Radovan Karadzic

First off, it needs to be stated that there is a difference between Hags and Witches. Witches in popular and obscure folklore references humans (male and female) with magical powers. How they come by these powers vary tremendously from culture to culture, and in different times.

Holdovers from older faiths, witches (in the old world) were the often misunderstood practitioners of ancient ways of magic. Practitioners of these old faiths had to hide their activities to one extent or another, so there was ample ground for paranoia and misunderstanding.

Hags on the other hand are rather different creatures, though with many parallels and connections. Hags are not human beings but holdovers from ancient female mother goddesses. Many such religions had an all female priesthood who were often quite voracious in their appetites for sacrifice (notably male infants and men).

Much like Ogres and Trolls were degenerated Titans, Hags are degenerate fertility goddesses, nymphs and similar beings. They always appeared as elderly women, but were predators of the most dreadful sort. They used their appearance to snatch away children and to slay the strongest men with their terrible claws and fangs.