Angels: Part One

Angels fascinate me. The history and meaning of these beings is some of the most interesting subject matter I have ever encountered.

The term "angel" comes from the greek word angelos which literally means messenger. However in Hebrew, this Malach (messenger/angel) is only one variety. Others, distinguished from angels proper, include Irinim (Watchers/High Angels), Cherubim (Mighty Ones), Sarim (Princes), Seraphim (Fiery Ones), Chayyot ([Holy] Creatures), and Ofanim (Wheels). Collective terms for the full array of numina serving God include: Tzeva, (Host), B'nei ha-Elohim or B'nai Elim (Sons of God), and Kedoshim (Holy Ones). They are constituted in an Adat El, a divine assembly (Ps. 82; Job 1). A select number of angels in the Bible (three to be precise) have names. They are Michael, Gabriel, and Satan.

So what then is the difference between angels, demons, devils and gods? It is a tricky question that I will be tackling in my "gods" series of articles. I am greatly looking forward to working on this subject matter, and encourage all viewers to come by regularly.

Veillard the Half-Mad

Written By Dan Hood
Illustrated by Aaron Siddall

In Alyecir, where duels are common and honor is as precious as blood, they call me Sir Veyardo, and are astonished at my prowess with a blade.

In the Southern Tier, where they love music and poetry, Veyardio is welcome on every stage, at every recital.

In the Freeports, the deal is everything; they call me Master Vellardt, and the contracts I write there are considered masterpieces.

In the hoary old city of Torquay, where knowledge is power, my name is Vellardus and my erudition is deeply respected.

In Harcourt, with its stifled canals and rotting piers, they call me Veillard the Half-Mad, and some wit always adds: "Yes, but which half?"

It is not the half that fights, or the half that sings. Nor is it the half that conducts business, or brings forth reams of ancient scholarship.

So which half is it, this half of mine that is mad? I fight like a demon, sing like an elf or an angel, barter like a Yezidi merchant and pontificate like a grey-bearded sage.

The answer is this: I am a master of all trades -- and the part of me that is mad is the part that was never an apprentice.

I do not know how I became what I am. How did I learn to fight, for instance? Skill such as mine is not inherent in a child at birth -- it is the product of long training, years of training. But I never trained.

And so for poetry. The thousands of poems and songs I know, I never learned -- and yet there are bards who spend their lives learning less than a tenth of what I know.

Business and scholarship: I do not remember the financial tricks that are second nature to me, the arguments and conclusions that come so easily to my mind and yet baffle the wise.

I should be content. Content? I should rejoice in my powers, my unacquired armory of skills and knowledges. I should own fleets, lead armies, rule nations, woo women.

However, I am half-mad. I do not know how I came by my gifts, and this torments me, even as I know it is ridiculous to be tortured. Who were my parents? Where did I grow up? What patient tutors taught me to sing, to fight, to do business?

These questions hound me through my wandering life -- for I do wander, from land to land, searching for the familiar, for something to remind me, to make the first break in the wall that hides my history from me.

Plunging from kingdom to kingdom, careering wildly about the known world, carrying my madness with me. With my talents, I gain place and make friends easily. But I lose them easily as well -- with my questions, my incessant investigations, my digging into the muck of the recent past, looking for news of a lost child, a kidnapped heir, a faerie-switched youth. And, too, I lose them with my fractiousness, for I grow irritable when my investigations yield nothing.

I fight duels. I kill men.

This is by way of an introduction. You know something of me now.

* * *

I went to the Midlands of Taralon because I had not been there before. My past was not in Harcourt or Torquay, the Southern Tier or the Freeports, all places where my skills might have come from. No skills come out of the Midlands. It is a jumble of petty domains, where equally petty lords try to carve pathetic empires out of a rich countryside, ignoring the feeble protests of the king in Torquay.

There was a rumor, though, of a lord who had died in one of their constant wars and left a son. The son was said to have been a precocious scholar -- and he had disappeared.

I went to the Midlands because I thought I might be this son.

I was not.

There were those who had known him, who knew even then where he was. I was not he.

But I stayed on in the Midlands. I bought a cottage in a small village by the small keep of a small lord. There was a stream behind my cottage, and it burbled quietly all day long. In the summer, the great scattered oaks of the countryside provided cool shade, and the days were sweet. Snow blanketed the land in winter, and it was a small joy to sit by the warm hearth. There was food in plenty and a measure of peace because, though his land was rich, the local lord's holdings were small.

Why did I stay there? I did not forget the past I did not know, and it did not cease gnawing at me. The people, though, did not know me. They had heard nothing of the prodigy who could could do everything except point to his origins, the genius who knew everything except where he came from. And they were farmers, after all, only tillers of the soil, which I knew I had never been.

In solitude, I found a small measure of comfort; in the simple surroundings I found nothing to remind me of my complexity. This is condescending, but it is true.

* * *

There is a phrase I often use: "Such a one as that might I have been."

It is what I say when I see someone even mildly special, in the bosom of his family or the thick of a fight with comrades at his back. When I see someone like that, I wonder what I should be now if I knew a family, home, friends. And I think, "Such a one as that might I have been."

And so I said when I saw the knight approach the gate of the small lord's small keep. It was a perfect keep, just the sort envisioned in a thousand tales and songs of courtly love -- there was a moat and a drawbridge, and pennons snapping in the strong spring breeze. The knight, too, was perfect, upright in his saddle, armor gleaming, lance like a pillar holding up the sky. Beneath his helm, I knew he was handsome and young.

There are assumptions in all the songs and stories of romance that I know without having learned, assured facts that composers and tale-spinners have no right to know. That a lord was stubborn, when none are alive who knew him; that a lady had golden tresses when not a lock has escaped the grave; that a knight was handsome, when no pictures survive his death.

This, however, was not a tale -- I had lived in the village for over a year, somewhat at peace, the edge of my madness dulled. I knew that this handsome knight sought the hand of the lord's golden-haired daughter, who would gladly have given it but that the lord refused it stubbornly. The rumors in the village spoke of second sons and insufficient bride-prices, of insolent demands, cold refusals, and tearful pleadings.

And so when the knight -- a true troubador's knight, a vision on a perfect spring day -- came to the stubborn lord's keep, some of my madness returned, tinged as it always had been with a certain romantic spirit, and I said to myself, "Such a one as that might I have been."

The knight was refused audience with the lord; a low retainer even went so far as to fire a bolt into the road to drive him off.

I watched from the village commons, and even as the bolt quivered in the dust and the perfect knight coolly turned his horse and cantered off, I could see myself in the same position. A different Veillard would have held the reins just so, tilting his lance at just such an angle as he rode away with dignity.

Or would he? Mightn't he have stormed the castle? As skilled as I am in war, I could take the lord's keep: he had only three retainers, and they were but poor soldiers.

I cannot answer; there is no different Veillard, a second son with an insufficient bride-price who can court golden-haired beauties. I am a blank slate, and a half-cracked blank slate at that.

* * *

As a teller of tales and singer of love songs, I despise irony. It is cheap; it mocks where mockery is inappropriate. But as a trader and intriguer of some skill, I appreciate it to the full. Thus the abduction of the lord's daughter by bandits within the week was both a sorrow to me and a source of amusement. Had the lord let the knight have his way, she should have been safe, ensconced in her new husband's arms.

The lord's grief was spectacular, his tears scattered widely -- but I could not help wondering if they were scattered for his daughter or for the money the bandits demanded as ransom.

I despised him a little, I must confess, thinking, "Such a one as that I would not be." I would not have clouded motives; I would not worry about money. A daughter would have been precious to a different Veillard.

Perhaps I am unfair; the lord collected the demanded ransom, but he could find no one to deliver it. The bandits had slit the throat of one of his retainers, and the remaining two refused point-blank to take the money to the secluded glen mentioned in the bandits' note; there was no one in the village willing to either.

I think I should have volunteered, but the perfect knight came first. He rode onto the commons, where the lord had just finished pleading for someone to carry his treasure off to the forest and bring back his daughter. With magnificent disdain he peered down at the lord.

"I will rescue your daughter."

"Such a one...." I muttered admiringly to myself, from beneath a shady oak at the edge of the commons.

"Ah," the lord said, and once again I despised him for his baseness, "but then you will demand her hand."

The knight stiffened. "I will not, sir. I will rescue her for love, and demand nothing. And if you will not give me the treasure to carry, I shall go anyway, undoubtedly to die for love."

In my head, I heard echoes from a thousand stories, and nodded my approval. The lord, however, still hesitated. Then I remembered a particular story, and stood up.

"I will go with him, my lord, as his companion. Then he may not demand the lady's hand, for we will both have rescued her." The lord beamed his gratitude, and the knight frowned. "Though it would be fitting to recognize both his courage and his worthiness," I added, which caused the lord to scowl. The knight, to my surprise, continued to frown, but then I realized that a different Veillard might well have resented my intrusion, however well-intentioned. A different Veillard would not have wanted to share the glory.

As I have said, though, I am not a different Veillard, and the horsetrader in me suggested that the knight should be grateful for whatever assistance he could get.

* * *

We rode off that very afternoon, the treasure in a chest lashed across the withers of his horse. I did not wear armor, in deference to his position as the head of our party of two. To anyone who cared to look, we might have been knight and squire. I rode behind him, for the woodland trail we followed was narrow.

It was a quiet ride; we did not speak, each sunk in his own reflections. He, I did not doubt, was thinking of his beloved, helpless in the hands of cruel bandits.

I, on the other hand, was enjoying the day. Bandits do not frighten me -- I am equal to ten bandits. There is no hubris in this, only plain-speaking. I take no pride in talents for which I cannot account.

The day, though, was beautiful; the woods alive with birdsong and bursting with spring growth, heady with the scent of flowers and the magic of deeds worth doing. I was following a perfect knight (who might have been me) in search of a beautiful lady. I was a fool.

He made us stop the night, though another hour's riding would have brought us to the rendezvous.

"I will not meet them at night," he told me, making a bed for himself on the hard ground.

Such scruples! I marvelled at and admired his chivalry then, even as I told myself that a night meeting might be better. Trickery is best served by darkness. Nonetheless, he would not be moved, and I did not try.

He lit a fire, though I counselled against it.

"They may see, and attack us in the night."

"I will not hide myself," he said with pride. "Let them come."

I thought that I had offended him, because he was sullen all through our dinner, staring moodily at the fire, darting occasional angry glances my way, frowning with ill-suppressed displeasure.

My mood was good, however; I took pleasure in his displeasure, because I understood it to mean, not that he did not like me, but that he did not like me there, intruding on his lover's errand.

"I admire you," I said, in an attempt to mollify his anger. "You are a true knight."

He laughed harshly and poked at the fire.

"No, truly. If my life had been different, I hope I should have been like you -- a knight on a righteous quest, a figure out of a story."

He peered at me across the fire, a penetrating gaze, and asked in what way my life would have to have been different.

I told him of my past then, of waking on that beach ten years ago, without clothes, without money, without memory. Since then, I have been scouring the land for some hint of who I am, incessant and fruitless search.

Again a harsh laugh greeted my words. "And now you scour the Midlands, and you thrust yourself into my affairs, and you say you 'admire' me! Ha!"

I was a little hurt by this, but then I remembered his treatment at the hands of the lord -- the refusals, the humiliations, the bolt in the dust between his horse's hooves. There is only so much adversity a person, even a perfect knight, can be expected to bear with equanimity. I think a different Veillard might have known this.

In any case, I gave up, leaving him to his taciturn moodiness. To a certain extent, I told myself, it was appropriate. Does not every great hero have his dark times, his moments of suspicion, when he feels every hand is against him?

He offered to take the first watch, and I went to sleep. I dreamed of that beach, where I was born fully grown, thrust into the world with all the skills I would need to survive, except a way to explain them.

* * *

My sleep is ever light, and so I woke when the knight left the camp, though he had tried to be silent. I did not move, smiling a little at his clumsiness. Who can be quiet in armor? And besides, the treasure in the chest clinked loudly as he led his horse away.

I let him get a quarter of an hour's lead, lying by the dead fire and silently applauding his courage and desire for singular glory. Then I rose and slipped after him like a wraith.

The moon was high and the path clear; he was easy to follow.

As I trailed him, I know I was smiling, beaming like an idiot. Here, at least, was a story I had earned, a romance from my present, not my unknown past. And I blessed him, this surly paragon of knighthood, jealous of his fame and his honor and his lady-love.

"Such a one," I said to myself, over and over and over, mouthing the words like a prayer. Oh, Gods, to be another Veillard, with another lady waiting at the end of the trail -- my lady. The bandits, I remember thinking, could be the same. Bandits are cheap, like irony.

Except there were no bandits.

* * *

I came to the edge of the glade appointed in the ransom note, and saw the perfect knight and his beauteous lady, arguing in fierce whispers in the moonshine.

"And I say we should kill him!" the knight was saying. "He wears his sword like a soldier, but he has no armor. I could cut his throat as he slept." The moon played over his armor, limning him in silver.

The moon did wonders for his lady as well, turning her golden hair into a shower of molten silver, showing her heart-stopping face with its expression of scorn.

"Will you always kill? Must you be so simple? There was no need to kill old Yowen, and I tell you there is no need to kill this meddler."

"And if the 'bandits' hadn't killed a man, do you think your father's retainers would have hesitated to ride out here? Would we have been able to get away with this?"

She conceded his point with little grace. "All right, Yowen was necessary. But this other? We have the money -- we can leave, ride off. We will kill an animal, daub a bit of clothing with its blood, create signs of a struggle. When this fool wakes, he will discover the signs, and assume that you went off to rescue me on your own. We can leave a piece of my veil as well -- then everyone will think we are both dead. We can be in Torquay in a month, and live like kings on father's money."

I had long since stopped muttering my prayer.

"I still say we should kill him," the knight persisted stubbornly. "Why leave a loose end?"

Their voices grew a little heated, serpents' hisses in a scene suited only to tender whispers. Two handsome lovers meeting in moon-drenched glade, yet where they should have caressed, they gestured angrily; where they should have kissed they spat. I was dull as a stone, rooted to the spot, unwilling to comprehend this treachery.

They argued on, until finally she turned from him and mounted her horse.

"Fine, kill him if you will. I'm going now -- you may catch up." She took hold of the reins of his horse, on whose back rested the treasure.

"Oh no," he said, quickly retrieving the reins. "I'm not leaving you with the money. If we have to leave him alive, we will -- but I'm not leaving you with the money."

They were frozen now, mutual suspicion revealed. There is no honor among thieves; perhaps there is no honor among lovers, either.

I stepped out of hiding, drawing my sword as I went.

What was my intention? The result would probably have been the same, but a different Veillard would have known what he meant to do as he stepped from the woods. I waited, however, and only fought when the knight drew his sword and attacked me.

In the heat of the fight, even as he pressed his attack desperately, I wondered at the master who had taught me swordcraft. The knight flailed madly and I parried easily; who ground this into me? Who had had the patience to instill me with a thousand defenses, to train me til they came by instinct?

The knight fell on my sword within a minute, run cleanly through. He cursed me as he fell.

The girl fled while we fought, remembering even in her haste to grab the reins of the treasure horse.

I caught her less than an hour later.

* * *

The lord was truly grateful for his daughter's return, and I bitterly regretted my earlier thoughts: he offered me the whole of the treasure as reward.

Some will say I should not have told him of his daughter's deception. Certainly it would have been easier for me -- he turned me off his land, shouting that I lied, that I was a bandit myself, that I defamed his daughter and the memory of the young knight who had sacrificed his life to rescue her.

Even as I rode away, I thought anew: "Such a one as that might I have been." Now, however, I meant the lord, blinded by his own love for the his daughter, and his baseless faith in romance. So, though I could have slaughtered his pitiful retainers, I let them ride me to the border of his small domain.

I could not blame him for his anger. A different Veillard might have -- but, for the last time, I am not a different Veillard. In the Midlands I am Veillard the Bandit, and my treachery is a byword.

But there are lands I have not seen, where a half-mad man might have come from.

I will go there and look.

THE END

And What of The Gods?

Ancient gods are the backbone of most mythology. As the ages of mankind have come and gone, a great many gods of all shapes, sizes and temperament have been worshiped and feared. As the ages have passed most of these gods have either been forgotten, or diluted into a form and nature more palatable to modern sensibilities, or been forgotten altogether.

That said, it is my intent, that in the following months I will post overviews of a number of dimly remembered gods from antiquity. I will do my best to give them justice and to review them well. But I ask you all to speak up if I ere too greatly.

Coming Events and Then Some

Hello all,

Next week I will be featuring yet another story written by my good friend Dan Hood and illustrated by me. So make sure to stop by and check it out.

For those of you who do not peruse my other pages for updates, below is the finished version of my Dragon Rider illustration whose pencils were featured in the Mythic Aspects: Dragon's write-ups.
Also, stay tuned for further Mythic Aspects articles. I should be posting a great many more of them after the holidays.

The Basic Fantasy Game

Today I would like to do something a little different and post a game review, something I may or may-not do in the future. I am of the generation that first encountered Dungeons and Dragons. When this game came out, those of us already in love with fantasy fiction, books, movies and the like, were enthralled. D&D (as us nerds call it) called out to the adventurer and hero deep within our pale awkward chests.

Since those days, the game and its many copycats have gone through many changes. Rules changes, company changes, and a tricky and fickle audience have transformed the game in many ways, some good, some bad. In attempts to market the game to a wider audience, many D&D products leave the passion and energy of fighting fantasy behind in exchange for a uniform design that everyone can recognize. As though all dragons look alike...

Still, with the acquisition of TSR (the big daddy RPG company) by Wizards of the Coast the newer iteration of Dungeons and Dragons gave us the Open Gaming License by which independent game publishers might produce supporting products for the core D&D game. This had the predictable result of flooding the market with a great many sub-standard products by get-rich-quick crowd, but there were also some really good products as well.

Which brings me to the Basic Fantasy Role-Playing Game by Chris Gonnerman. Rather than seeking to "get rich" off of a D20 license product, he set out to create something of quality. The Basic Fantasy RPG is an excellent game, with rules simple enough to pick up by young children but with enough "meat" for older players to enjoy. Though this is a D20 licensed game, it is a bit different from the present Dungeons and Dragons game.

The rules have been paired down so as to be easy to create a character. Fleshing out the characters history and non-combat characteristics is left up to creative license rather than a huge list of skills, proficiencies and the like to muddle through.

Games can take place in any world of your choosing. Historic settings (with magic and monsters), favored worlds like Middle Earth, Conans Hyboria or even a world of your own making, like The World of Ebonyr. All it takes is a little effort and a love of those settings. Of course, you dont need a setting, but can just start the game at the mouth of a dungeon and take it from there.

All-in-all I like this game. It hearkens back to childhood daydreams and wonderment, and seems to be a good way for parents to play with their bookish children. Children with a dislike of reading can also benefit from this and similar games, as the excitement of a dungeon crawl or a battle with a dragon will make them want to hear of more such tales.

The best part of all of this (for the frugal buyer) is that the Basic Fantasy RPG is available as a download for free through the website. Print copies can be ordered very inexpensively (around $8.00 for a 147 page book).

So get a copy and make some memories!

The Flower with a Pearl

There was once an old castle in the midst of a large and thick forest, and in it an old woman who was a witch dwelt all alone. In the day-time she changed herself into a cat or a screech-owl, but in the evening she took her proper shape again as a human being. She could lure wild beasts and birds to her, and then she killed and boiled and roasted them. If any one came within one hundred paces of the castle he was obliged to stand still, and could not stir from the place until she bade him be free. But whenever an innocent maiden came within this circle, she changed her into a bird, and shut her up in a wicker-work cage, and carried the cage into a room in the castle. She had about seven thousand cages of rare birds in the castle.

Now, there was once a maiden who was called Jorinda, who was fairer than all other girls. She and a handsome youth named Joringel had promised to marry each other. They were still in the days of betrothal, and their greatest happiness was being together. One day in order that they might be able to talk together in quiet they went for a walk in the forest. "Take care," said Joringel, "that you do not go too near the castle."

It was a beautiful evening; the sun shone brightly between the trunks of the trees into the dark green of the forest, and the turtle-doves sang mournfully upon the young boughs of the birch-trees.

Jorinda wept now and then: she sat down in the sunshine and was sorrowful. Joringel was sorrowful too; they were as sad as if they were about to die. Then they looked around them, and were quite at a loss, for they did not know by which way they should go home. The sun was still half above the mountain and half set.

Joringel looked through the bushes, and saw the old walls of the castle close at hand. He was horror-stricken and filled with deadly fear. Jorinda was singing --

"My little bird, with the necklace red,
Sings sorrow, sorrow, sorrow,
He sings that the dove must soon be dead,
Sings sorrow, sor -- jug, jug, jug."

Joringel looked for Jorinda. She was changed into a nightingale, and sang, "jug, jug, jug." A screech-owl with glowing eyes flew three times round about her, and three times cried, "to-whoo, to-whoo, to-whoo!"

Joringel could not move: he stood there like a stone, and could neither weep nor speak, nor move hand or foot.

The sun had now set. The owl flew into the thicket, and directly afterwards there came out of it a crooked old woman, yellow and lean, with large red eyes and a hooked nose, the point of which reached to her chin. She muttered to herself, caught the nightingale, and took it away in her hand.

Joringel could neither speak nor move from the spot; the nightingale was gone. At last the woman came back, and said in a hollow voice, "Greet thee, Zachiel. If the moon shines on the cage, Zachiel, let him loose at once." Then Joringel was freed. He fell on his knees before the woman and begged that she would give him back his Jorinda, but she said that he should never have her again, and went away. He called, he wept, he lamented, but all in vain,"Ah, what is to become of me?"

Joringel went away, and at last came to a strange village; there he kept sheep for a long time. He often walked round and round the castle, but not too near to it. At last he dreamt one night that he found a blood-red flower, in the middle of which was a beautiful large pearl; that he picked the flower and went with it to the castle, and that everything he touched with the flower was freed from enchantment; he also dreamt that by means of it he recovered his Jorinda.

In the morning, when he awoke, he began to seek over hill and dale if he could find such a flower. He sought until the ninth day, and then, early in the morning, he found the blood-red flower. In the middle of it there was a large dew-drop, as big as the finest pearl.

Day and night he journeyed with this flower to the castle. When he was within a hundred paces of it he was not held fast, but walked on to the door. Joringel was full of joy; he touched the door with the flower, and it sprang open. He walked in through the courtyard, and listened for the sound of the birds. At last he heard it. He went on and found the room from whence it came, and there the witch was feeding the birds in the seven thousand cages.

When she saw Joringel she was angry, very angry, and scolded and spat poison and gall at him, but she could not come within two paces of him. He did not take any notice of her, but went and looked at the cages with the birds; but there were many hundred nightingales, how was he to find his Jorinda again?

Just then he saw the old woman quietly take away a cage with a bird in it, and go towards the door.

Swiftly he sprang towards her, touched the cage with the flower, and also the old woman. She could now no longer bewitch any one; and Jorinda was standing there, clasping him round the neck, and she was as beautiful as ever!

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.