100 Theme Challenge: Vacation

Still not up to my aim of 1000 words a theme. But in this case I know where they are missing. I was going to write Marc divining the spirits' will but could feel myself getting to bogged down in how that would work. So I cut that scene. But I'm off to consider it none the less. Similarly there should be a scene between Marc and his family but I don't know them as well as I'm getting to know Allegretto yet.

Another reminder, these are more exercises and are unlikely to appear in the final work without serious revision.

But without further ado, enjoy!

#21. Vacation

I need a vacation, Marc said to his master at the end of the day.

What makes you say that? his master replied watching the apprentices sweep up, More importantly, what makes you think I'd allow such a thing. Unless you're keeping secrets from me, you have no reason for pilgrimage.

Not pilgrimage, Marc replied, why did I think this was a good idea?

Then what? Neither of us has the riches to squander of frivolous travels. For the first time in the conversation, Master Allegretto looked at Marc, Or did the bard say something to you?

Not as such. Marc's thoughts wandered to the velvet pouch and back further to the bard's... unusual... spin on some of the tales he told.

You're not doing a very good job of convincing me, Al noted as he moved to check the workstations. I know that you wanted to be a bard when you were a youngster but something must have made you see sense. Remember, it's a sad fool who thinks he can play a broken fife.

Says the master instrument-smith to the journeyman.

True, true. But dreams and the past are not things we can fix.

I'm not trying to.

Aren't you? If not, why do you want to go?

Curiosity, Marc answered before he'd properly prepared his response, Dorian, the bard, told some stories I've never even heard of. And half of those I'd heard before he knew different versions of.

So he's a poor bard. Al shrugged, Either memory wise, poorly taught or disrespectful of the songs.

I don't think it's any of those. Remember Agriope? She was old, his family must have been bards for generations, no way he was poorly taught.

Maybe he doesn't enjoy the family business. Not every bard became one out of the same yearning you used to have, Marc's master countered, and Marc could hear the emphasis on used to.

But he did enjoy singing songs. Or at least most of them.

You still haven't explained why you need a vacation.

They'd reached Marc's workstation and he collapsed in his chair. I really don't know. He found he was thumbing the crossbar he'd been given. It's just, nothing about that bard resolves. It all points to a great big mystery.

And I know what you're like about mysteries.

Marc grimaced, Yeah. I guess.

And you know what I'm like about wasting time and money.

Marc's grimace deepened, Yeah. I know.

I'll let you think about it. Don't be a fool, was Al's parting advice.

---

You look focused this morning, Master Allegretto said by way of greeting the next morning when Marc reported for work.

I did a lot of thinking last night.

And what did you conclude?

I did my best to ask the spirits for advice.

Always a wise move.

I believe they agree that I should follow up on this curiosity. I am a journeyman after all.

I suspected that you wouldn't change your mind. Al replied a little glum, You know I can't just let you go gallivanting off. I am your master after all.

I know, Marc answered meekly, losing most of the confidence he'd built up.

If this is really the spirits' will, they'll manage something.

But... as you say, you are a journeyman, so it is acceptable for me to send you on a journey. Marc held his breath, he'd worked hard for his master's respect but he'd known his request was unreasonable. I think you are responsible enough for me to trust with supervising the shipment of some of our instruments to Serenisma. And it would do you good to attend a couple of lectures at the academy there.

Marc was speechless, but managed a bow and a Th-thank you. Besides the vote in confidence in his skills and judgement, the delivery would conclude just before the Carnivale. The closest thing to an official bard tournament. If Marc wanted to find Dorian, he'd find him there.

Just remember, it's not a vacation.

100 Theme Challenge: Spiral

Not as long as the previous challenge. But here's today's writings.

#85. Spiral

Pela danced. She danced alone.

She spun, spiralled, jumped, stamped, danced, for these strangers, alone and unaccompanied. No music other than the bells and chimes in her dress. No partners other than the pavers beneath her feat and the fire in the torches.

Pela enjoyed music - when she didn't dance, she sang - but was wary of the bardmages. She trusted the spirits, made her offerings and prayers - and curses - but she knew in the depths of her soul that no one could truly tame them. So she never sang and danced at once, and never either with someone else.

Yes, it did hurt her earnings, the public didn't know - or care - what danger they skirted every time they put words to notes. But she felt safer not grabbing the spirits' attention. So her dress had to compensate by revealing much and hinting at more. In her paranoia, even the bells and chimes were slightly mistuned and placed so that her rhythmic movements wouldn't translate to a melodic tune.

So she danced, and that was all - she'd sooner court death than the scum that crowded her performances.

Pela danced alone, not just out of fear of being supernaturally noticed but because there was something everyone she'd met lacked. Something divisive. Not just her Traveller blood, though that created a barrier between her and the townspeople she danced for. It was more basic than that. She'd know it when she felt it. Pela felt a cruel mockery of it around the bardmages. She suspected the rabble felt it too, the way they distanced themselves from both her and them.

She danced for money, not love or joy. She had once but those days were long past. Money bought food, shelter and travel. Money open doors. Money would help her find the family she was looking for. A family where that elusive feeling of wrongness would settle and she'd find harmony.

Pela danced like she travelled. Tracing the same path, never returning to the same spot. Her spiral to the world's straight line. Like the troupe she yearned for, she moved with the seasons.

Her steps spiralled in, a tinkle of chimes following, a spring in a piece of clockwork, storing energy, keeping time. She spiralled out, releasing herself, jumping with an outwardly joyous spin.

Pela danced. She danced alone.

Blog Necromancy, Spirit Song and the Hundred Theme Challenge

It's alive! Or at least temporarily revived.

Yes, I'm posting again. Someone introduced me to the Hundred Themes Challenge and I've decided that writing one a day should be a good way to get myself into the habit of writing something everyday. I've randomised the order so that I don't use up the tempting themes first.

In the long gap since my previous attempt at starting this blog, I admitted to myself that Covenant (my Australian High Fantasy) had a terminal case of first novelitis, and have shelved it for now.

So I have a new project, current working title Spirit Song. A quest to end an eternal spring in a renaissance Italy ripoff, in a world with music based spirit magic.

I will be doing my best to writing and post something each day, either a response to the Hundred Theme Challenge, or world building musings. I doubt that all these challenges will make into even the first draft, but they should provide useful character studies at least.

Today I have the prologue and first challenge for your entertainment (see posts below).

Spirit Song: Prologue

As mentioned a my first post for the day, I have a new work in progress, Spirit Song. In this post, I would like to share the prologue (or following the musical theme, anacrusis) I wrote.

Prologue (or Anacrusis)

Dorian huddled alone under an old tree as drizzle fell around him. He could've easily sung the rain away, or raised a shelter from the earth but opted to leave things be. The tune of the evening was sombre, and that suited Dorian just fine.

No need for me to freeze though.

The tired enchanter scanned the forest floor with a practised eye, searching for dry wood. Choosing a few likely branches, he hurried to grab them before they got any wetter. After a few trips he'd amassed a respectable pile and began to sort.

He knocked branches together, listening to the hum they produced. Fire and wood were not harmonious combination, a battle of predator and prey. In this forest at least, Dorian had walked under trees eager to burn. So he searched for a stick with that same burning tone. He was almost finished with his pile - and being to rue never purchasing any flint - when he found a branch with just the right resonance.

Good. This'll make life easier.

He lay the branch across the fire pit he'd prepared, and sharply hit it. He closed his eyes to better tune into the branch and the fire sleeping inside it. He took a deep breath, and began to hum. Softly at first, building into a loud, drawn out, "Re".

The stick hummed in sympathy, its vibration building with Dorian's crescendo until it could take no more and ignited. It wasn't complicated enough to even really be a spell, just an inefficient use of power to get what he wanted. But he was tired, and didn't trust himself to compose a true spell.

Satisfied, he carefully built up the fire and relaxed beside it. The cheerful crackle played over the rain's quiet drumming, the duet far richer than any human could hope to recreate. But Dorian's experienced ear could hear the fatigue in the very background. A fatigue so old that people mistook it as normal.

Better not to dwell on that. He'd had a long day, and tomorrow was another chance to find her and break this cyclic curse. The day was approaching and maybe this year would be the year he succeeded.

"May I join you?"

Dorian whirled to face his sudden guest. And smiled, if warily, gesturing for his guest to sit.

The man sat down on the far side of the fire, unconcerned with the rain falling on his unsheltered shoulders. His green eyes were smiling, hidden in the knots of wrinkles on his ancient face. His gnarled hands reached towards the fire as branches to the sun, seeking warmth and light.

Comfortably settled, the man broke the silence.

"What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"The same reason I go anywhere, " a bitter laugh, "Chasing a myth. I hear that she passed this way."

"Aye, she was in these parts. Only a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, she didn't run into me." The older man stared at his arthritic fingers. "No kiss of eternal youth for poor old Forrest."

Dorian sighed, "I'm not sure it would be such a boon."

"Then why leave you home and family to seek her so devotedly?"

Dorian eyed his guest suspiciously, I would never, pausing to gather his temper before replying, "it is for my family that I seek her. Not myself."

"I apologise for the slight, but I am still curious. Tell me bard, how would eternal youth be a curse?"

Dorian smirked, and recited,

"Once a man did desire endless youth,
so fair maidens would hold him uncouth.
The spirits rolled their eyes,
and prepared a surprise,
for all girls hold a babe close in truth."

Forest laughed whole-heartedly, "Yes, well you do need to be careful with wishes and spirits, " noting Dorian's glare had returned, "Which I doubt anyone knows better than you."

Yes, their price is always more than you have.

Gathering his welcome was wearing thin, Forest rose. "Thank you, bard. For warmth, cheer and company. Good luck on your quest. Although, if I could make a suggestion, no tree wishes to stand alone. There is a promising young man in the valley, who might accompany you."

"Thank you for your company, and advice. I will consider it."

Dorian didn't watch the Old Man of the Forest leave, since it was pointless. It may have been unwise to betray his bitterness to the spirit but he'd managed to refrain from insulting him. Which was fortunate, as he may have never escaped this forest, spirit quest or no.

He stared into the fire, looking into the past, the family he'd left behind and the goal he sought. With a snort he lay down and let the tune lull him to sleep.

I don't need company, I am alone. Always.

100 Theme Challenge: Precious Treasure

As mentioned a my first post for the day, I have a new work in progress, Spirit Song, and am starting the 100 theme challenge. In this post, I give you the first challenge, number 36: Precious Treasure.

#36: Precious Treasure

She's beautiful.

Marc examined the instrument lying there, silenced. Just beyond hearing he could hear it singing. Not just because he'd heard it the night before, or because he always imagined his patients' voices. No, every string, wave in the varnish, line in the grain, pulsed under his fingers. This was no normal instrument. It must be old to have such life, and ancient to have such patience.

"Can you fix her?" the owner asked, though that wasn't quite right. Partner fit better, as the bard relied on the instrument as much as it did on him. Or even nephew, as something this old would be a family heirloom, as much a person as its temporary owners.

"I believe so, " Marc replied only a tiny fraction of his curiosity and excitement breaking through his practised professionalism. "I cannot say that I worked on such a piece in a long time. Of either type, quality or age." It wasn't his imagination that it hummed at the praise.

"Yes, lyres aren't very common around here, or even any more, " the bard said. Even if he earnt his bread through performing, he seemed rather reluctant to engage in mere small talk.

"What's her name?" Marc asked, it wasn't right to operate on a patient without knowing their name.

"Agriope, " he answered.

"Like the story?"

"The very one." A challenge, did you dare argue with him? An obviously accomplished bardmage?

He couldn't mean what I think he means.

Marc didn't take the dare, "Where are you from?"

A brief storm on the bard's stoic face, "From the sea, a place no one visits."

There was silence, Marc considering what else he dared ask one of his idols. The bard merely silent, nothing he wanted to share.

"Be careful with her, " he said, breaking the silence, "She is very precious to me." With that he turned, a left Marc's workshop.

Alone, or more accurately the only human in the room, Marc examined the lyre again. The back of the soundbox and the arms were intricately carved with images of forests, animals and inhuman dancers. They were dancing, or at least that's what his eyes saw.

Cautiously, still awaiting her to snap at him for daring to touch her, Marc plucked one of her strings. The soft La that rang out was nearly perfect. He would need one of his tuning forks to get it further. But holding in his hands he could feel what he couldn't hear. The whole body resonated with the sound but in places sections had split and warped, adding dissonance.

Marc let out a sigh. The bard obviously cared for her, both emotionally and physically. This was a simple check and touch up. There were no serious breaks or replacements to be done.

A shift in the hum gave him a second's warning before his master came in.

"Already started? Good. Paid triple for midday tomorrow." With that terse instruction he was gone before Marc could report the simplicity of the job.

Gently placing her on the workbench. Marc ducked out to light a pinch of incense for steady hands. He couldn't bear to hurt her even beyond the repercussions from his master.

Settling in his place again, he gazed over his tools before picking Agriope up again. Less cautiously but no less carefully, he plucked the other six strings, floating in the sound.

"Agriope, my name is Marcato of Florona and I will be repairing you today."

The echoing tones resolved into a major chord.

Relax. It's just an ancient, foreign instrument. What's the worst that can happen?

---

The line of sunlight worked its way across the room slowly. Across the floor, up the stool, across Marc's back before gaining his shoulder and lancing his eyes from there. Head cradled in his arms he groaned, and scrunched his eyes against the glare.

Haven't had enough sleep for it to be morning.

Groggily he blinked and looked at his night's work. Agriope lay exposed on a drying rack nearby. It hadn't taken very long to glue the cracks in her soundbox and add another coat of lacquer to prevent further. It had however been quite late, or maybe early, by the time he finished carving a new crossbar for her.

The piece had snapped when Marc had released the tension on the strings. But not so messily as to prevent him using it as reference for the carving. Not that he had been totally faithful. Marc had taken the opportunity to fix tuning pins to the crossbar. A luxury that Agriope had not previously possessed.

Taking a deep breath, of air slightly heavy with solvents, Marc began putting his patient back together. The new crossbar fit with only a slight sanding, and the new strings were nice and taut.

Good as new.

A quick check of the clock tower visible from Marc's window if you leaned over just right, told him that he had just over an hour before the bard would return for his lyre.

That hour passed quickly enough through menial tasks that Marc had been putting off in favour of larger more pressing concerns. In fact, he was sweeping the workshop when one of the apprentices informed that his client had returned.

Strictly, the velvet was only meant to be used for presenting newly crafted instruments. And even then really only those finished by the workshop's master. But a combination of Marc's seniority and the obvious quality of Agriope permitted him to. Not that he expected the bard to take the velvet anyway.

The bard was standing in the anteroom, settling with the master. Marc tried to ignore the sum of coins changing hands. He waited patiently for them to finish before coming forward.

"Agriope, sir bard." Marc said, holding it out.

The bard picked her up carefully, strummed her once, not bothering to separate the notes. Satisfied with the sound, he looked fondly at her. A look which became unreadible when he saw the new crossbar.

"What did you do to her?"

"I'm sorry but the crossbar split when I unstrung her, " Marc answered, and held out a small velvet bag. "I glued it but it wouldn't be strong enough to do its job anymore."

The bard stood there for a moment not taking the bag. Just looking at the new crossbar, and fiddled with a tuning peg absently.

Marc held his breath, the bard was probably asking Agriope what she thought. He had last night but the bard would be more able to interpret her response.

The bard smirked slightly, "She says to thank you. And that you should keep it." A pause, listening to it again. "Treasure it."

With all the enigmatic disregard that those who dealt with the spirits earnt, the bard strummed a short tune and went on his way.

Marc made his way back to his station and retrieved the crossbar. His finger idly tracing the waves carved on it while his eyes rested on the bird hovering.

I wish I could fly away.

test

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Past Poetry

Following up on Flashpoint and because I've been a bad writer and not actually written anything, here are two poems I wrote for the same course last year.

The first is about how nice a really early morning train ride can be, and the second an attempt at collating my thoughts about Australian identity.

Dawn Start

Darkness, outside and in,
from which voices call
you out of slumber
You silence them
before they harshly resolve
The cosy quiet of
the sleeping house surrounds
your mind unwalled, ungrounded
as you go through
the daily routine, into

Half-light, rising gently
falls upon your cheeks
as you descend a hill
(Everest in the evenings)
You feel a cool wind
finishing the shower’s task
Duties try to worry weakly
through the heavy hush
you dismiss them
Colours awake with

Dawn, entering shyly
forms while you wait
You feel the day
the hint of heat in the air
(a taste of the hell ride home)
So subtle it can’t be felt
you can smell it (just)
The Alamein arrives
(nursing wounds from last night)
Wordless you watch as

Full light, rallies around
you sitting in sociable silence
Eyes wide, mouths closed
A quiet opposite to the day’s end
(a crush of stares, loathing, exile,
anxiety, fear and accidental guilt)
Outside the window, unheard,
an eucalypt drops a limb
Discordant, screeching voices enter
The moment breaks

Core of My Heart

I love a sunburnt country
Thought I was born elsewhere
Come with me as I search
To find the heartlands
Like Sturt and Hume and Hovell
We’ll cross the Great Divide
To find the Inland Sea
Where our Aussie Spirit lies

The skies are grey, the winds cool
But you cannot trust them
It’s not our sung harsh clime
Even Mild Melbourne
Rains floods once or twice a year
So swirling chaos drowns
And shares months of scorching nights
We heat stroke to black outs

I’m born of old Britannia
My brother in Sharjah
We came on an aeroplane
Stunned by a land bizarre
Dad was born up in Eildon
Amidst a thunderstorm
Is it his blood I follow?
Five steps back over countless?

The tragic ring barked forests
Replaced by sprawling roads
On this eldest continent
We pass an ancient train
Graffiti Rainbow Snake
Sloughed by an urban life
Of flying footy saints and
Slithering liberal demons

The hot wind of the desert
Is sung to be our soul
It has many other names
Mateship and the Fair Go
The old adage She’ll Be Right
All these part of the truth
An impossible platypus
Yet real, with a sting, streuth!

As we walk through the bustle
A colony in dance
We might chance a glimpse of it
Matilda’s waltzing prance
Ned’s black box, the ghostly gums
All facets of the Spirit
It’s hidden inside, outback
Where we rarely visit

I tried to reach it once
Hiked four days and three nights
One day we’ll roam the desert
See the wildflowers
Radiant Southern Cross above
We’ll as prophets search
But I can guess what we’d find
There is no Inland Sea

An opal hearted country
Black veiled rainbow gold
Changing with every look
Contradictions unfold
City dwelling, bush yearning
The platypus returns
Although we didn’t catch it
We know now where it dwells