Fifty-Fifth Beginning: Hersent

7/7/1996

HERSENT

I blame it all on the garage sale.  Not that this is in any way a reasonable thing to do, beyond the fact that doing so has saved me several hundred dollars in the last year, but I do so anyway.  Who or what else do I have to blame?  Myself?  That would hardly be spiritually uplifting.  The woman at the perfume counter?  I’m not sure I truly believe she existed.  And if she did or does, I’m not sure that I blame her, both because she suffered from severe extenuations and because, well, if I’m honest with myself, because I rather enjoyed the ride.  So the garage sale gets the blame.

Nasty things, garage sales.  I bought the book at a garage sale – for a quarter – L.L. F by X.  It had been published in French, in 1954, and it was sort of a history book on the French Middle Ages.  At least I think that’s what it is.  My high school French classes were longer ago than I’d care to admit.  I later bought a cheap French/English dictionary, but I’ve only translated the Table of Contents, part of the Introduction, the beginning paragraph of each Chapter, and a ballade.

If I remember correctly, at the time of The Incident I could play “Mary Had a Little Lamb,” “Aura Lee,” and “This Old Man,” courtesy of the YY.  I was still working on “Give a Little Whistle,” though, which was more challenging.

You may note that I’m referring to books a lot.  That’s because I’m the sort of person who refers to books a lot.  I’m also a person who carts books about, takes them home, and slaps cute little stickers on them that say: “Ex Libris – Beth Sharpwater.”  Other people, in conversation, say: “that reminds me of the time that I . . . “.  I’m more likely to chime in with: “you know, that reminds me of an article that I read . . . “.  Hauling too many books back from the library is my biggest vice and main source of exercise. Hauling them from garage sales used to compete, but I have, as mentioned, forsaken garage sailing as a token of disapproval.

Not that I couldn’t just as easily blame The Incident on my job.  Well, on my work, to be picky, since it comes and goes too often to be anything as steady as a job.  My main advertising (a newspaper ad and some fliers) claims that I am a freelance technical writer, editor, and proofreader.  I do this while I am trying To Write, despite a degree in a better paying field which shall remain nameless.  Both of these endeavors are actually supported by stints of temporary office work (I have great word processing skills) and by pregrading class reports for the local junior college crowd.

Young hopefuls that somehow failed to learn to wield the English Language in high school are recent immigrants give me their class papers a week before they’re due and I mark them up.  I’m brutal.  I mark every mistake and comment on every deficiency.  I get out my little red pen and make the pages bleed.  A lot of people can’t handle it.  The ones who can go on to get C’s and B’s that they wouldn’t have otherwise gotten just by making the corrections.  If they address the deficiencies as well, they get A’s.  Some of them even learn to write, after a few quarters. 

But it’s poorly paid work that comes in batches.  It’s like catching salmon commercially.  You work ‘til you drop while the papers are running.  The papers had been running just before The Incident, so I was a little groggy at the perfume counter.

Since I was a little groggy at the perfume counter because of my job (with the running pages), maybe I’m being too harsh on the garage sales.  But that silly, unreadable book sent me on a French Middle Ages binge.  Yes, I confess.  I’m a binge reader.  Ask any relative waiting for me to live up to my potential.  I waste countless unbillable hours looking up subjects in which no sane (that is, no billing) person would have an interest. 

So I learned about the lays of Arthur and the Song of Roland.  I learned about the Roman de la Rosa and the branches of Perrot’s animal tales.  I have no proof, but I am certain that this immersion left me with a weakness, a small vulnerability which the nonexistent woman at the perfume counter used to her advantage. 

Since I was, as maintained, a little groggy at the perfume counter, I can’t say that I noticed any portents of foreboding or even anything out of place.  I was just passing through on my way to drown my sorrows in the purchase of some hideously flashy socks, when a smiling perfume lady spritzed me.  At least I assume she was smiling.  They always do, don’t they?  As I blinked in a cloud of cinnamon and ginger underlain with a musky, animal aroma, she thrust a clipboard at me.  On it was a sheet of paper with one word: Hersent.

Being groggy with editing and a little miffed at suffering a delay in sock acquisition gratification, I whipped out my trusty red pen and added the caret, pound sign, caret, C that would correct the run-on word into: Her scent.

The woman was definitely smiling when I handed the clipboard back to her.  I wondered for a moment at the size of her golden eyes before I was blinded by a second spritz.  This one was piercingly ammoniacal, sending me coughing and wheezing and rubbing my eyes. 

“Come, my lady,” said a silken, chiding voice.  “There must be no further delay.  The charges of your husband must be answered in open court.”

A warm, firm hand propelled me forward by my shoulders, though I balked, wiping at my eyes. 

“Come, now, no false tears.  Make yourself presentable and attend with all speed and courtesy.”

A cloth was pressed into my hand and I mopped gratefully with it, blowing my nose for good measure.  What I saw when my eyes cleared sent me limp and staring.  Gone was the perfume lady, gone the perfume counter, and gone as well was the department store and the mall and city to which it had been attached. 

I was in a meadow, a wood, a castle.  Or, rather, I was in a piecework combination of the three.  Pushing me along with the pretense of following me meekly, was a nun whose appearance shocked me docile.  Disbelievingly, I floated where I was led.

We turned into a clearing, a courtyard, a hall, filled with persons in full medieval regalia.  Note that I didn’t say people.  Like the location, the wearers of these fine clothes seemed, like the nun behind me, to be several things simultaneously.  They were human and they were also animals – some of them very small animals – and they were also a combination of the two, all at once.

I looked down at my own hands to give my eyes a stable focus and saw a fine, white lady’s hands, complete with gold rings, together with furred hands and a pair of wolf’s paws.  Beyond my shifting extremities, my skirt was stiff with gold embroidery over a lithe, graceful part-woman’s form.

Vertigo and a buzzing in my ears drowned out the beginning of the proceeding that began around me.  I was led forward to stand beside a surly looking Wolf/Lord.  This lord ignored me and stood forward to bow before a King/Lion.  Words were exchanged, but the only ones I heard were “rise Sir Isengrin.” 

Isengrin.  The name was familiar and, more, brought to mind a vague connection with the word: Hersent.

Isengrin rose and drew himself up to declaim.

“My beloved and great lord, grant me justice against Reynard for his adultery with my wife, the Lady Hersent . . . “

Reynard!  If there was one medieval character that I disliked, it was Reynard.  Reynard the Fox was not only the nemesis of Isengrin the Wolf, he was a vicious, mocking trickster who played bloody tricks on the other animals just because he couldn’t leave their gullibility alone.

Hersent, if I remembered right, had originally welcomed Reynard’s advances until he had beaten and peed on her children, at which point she had tried to drive him off.  He had tricked her into chasing him through too tight a burrow hole and then . . .

But Isengrin accused his wife of adultery because of Reynard’s lying boasts and Hersent, believing, lawyerlike, in her technical innocence argued that nothing at all had happened beyond Reynard’s lies and her husband’s jealousy.  Fortunately, Reynard refused to come to court and, barring extreme embarrassment, nothing happened to Lady Hersent. 

Lots of other animals were hurt trying to bring Reynard in, though.  Whatever happened, I was not going to enjoy it.  Even a department store perfume counter was better than this.

The revelation that there might be some sort of logic to what was happening had taken my attention away from the odd proceedings.  I refocused.  The nun/fox, I was sure, had never been in any of the stories.  And I wondered if there would be other discrepancies.

The King was regally dismissing the complaint “ . . . by so trivial a mischief.  Such a matter as this is certainly not worth discussing.”

Perhaps it would end here, I thought.  It hadn’t in the original story, however, and I suspected that Hersent, herself, would be here if she considered the matter to be dismissible.

A bear/man stood to argue the judgment.  He was different from the other . . . I could only think of them as characters.  Where the other shifting characters had human features of near perfect, youthful beauty, this beast was bald, middle-aged, and paunchy.  His face was not filled, like the others, with courtly irritation and self-regard.  His was an earnest and trusting face.

“You could say better than that, most noble lord.  All the kingdom assembled knows that Isengrin is not weak or timid.  He is well able to take such vengeance against Reynard as his anger and conscience demands.

Only his love for you, our honored liege, and for the peace you have proclaimed, prevents him from laying siege to Maupertius, whence Reynard has fled.  Send to Maupertius, my lord.  I will go myself, if you wish it.  Summon Reynard to court.  As you are a prince of this earth, judge and make peace between your lords and so bring this feud to an end.”

An handsome young bull/man shouldered up.

“Lord Bruin, how can you suggest that our lord involve himself in so tawdry a matter?  Reynard has committed so many misdeeds that it is a ool indeed to trusts him or stands for him in court.  How could we reach a judgment?  If it were my wife he had touched, no fortress walls in this world would hold me from castrating him and casting him, writhing, in the mire.  How could you so soil yourself, Hersent?”

My blush came as a delayed reaction.  They expected me to be involved with this.  I didn’t feel involved.  I felt totally at sea.  I tried to remember the details of Renard’s Trial, as the story was called.  For the life of me, I could not. 

The basic plot was that the King sent three animals to summon Reynard to court and the first two were tricked and maimed before the third brought him in.  At this point, Reynard got religion and repented, and the King sent him on crusade.  Reynard got halfway down the road before turning to mock, blaspheme, and run.  The next story in the series is The Siege of Maupertius.  Other than being the cause of the initial complaint, Hersent was not much involved in either story.

“Sir Bruyant,” said a badger/man, “we must not exaggerate this trouble . . .”

I did try to keep my mind on the proceedings.

“. . . it is not as if the receptacle has been damaged . . . “

Sometimes it was difficult.

“ . . . and you should be beaten if you ever show him any affection again.  Look at him!”

I was surprised when he indicated by husband.

“Isengrin.  He calls you ‘my dear’, but he drags you before us all in shame.  He deserves to be spurned!”

“Do not chide the Lady Hersent for loyalty to her husband, Sir Bumbert.”  The sly nun’s voice was soft, but it carried.  “Her husband and Reynard have been feuding for years and it is to her credit that she stands with him even though his mind is fevered with frustrated vengeance for other wrongs.

As regards her honor, why only in the hallway she was saying that she would willingly undergo an ordeal by scalding water or by fire to prove her fidelity.”

There was a murmur as all the creatures of forest and field approved of that as a noble gesture and possibly a very good idea.  I folded my hands at my waist and pondered my toes in a display of medieval modesty.  I prayed they’d stick to the next part of the script.

“And what would that profit me, good Sister Hermeline?” growled my husband, “except to make me richer by a burned wife?  I forbid it!”

I raised my palms and eyes in an I’ve-done-all-I-can-do-who-can-blame-me-for-giving-up gesture.  It was a mistake.  The sun and moon were out.  The constellations overlapped and the moon showed several phases.

[I know this story had a projected end.  I know that it hinged on something from The Trial of Reynard.  I suspect it required trial by ordeal to be valid in the animal’s world and for the main character to know some dirt on Sister Hermeling, so that she could swear that she no more blank than Sister Hermeline other blank. 

But that’s all there is in the folder and I don’t remember specifics.  Maddening, isn’t it.]

Fifty-Fourth Beginning: The End of the Stair

End of the Stair

. . . Lethilde felt the cold, polished hallway floor sting against her feet as she ran, panicked, through the shape-filled dark.  She heard the sharp sounds as her feet struck, heard beneath it the ragged sound of her own breathing, the beating of her heart, stumbling and afraid.  She did not waste perception on the sights in the unfamiliar hall, sights she knew by heart and would soon see again.  What Self she had she spent on slowing her feet, smothering the fear - - anything to keep from passing through the door at the end of the hallway, from what would come after . . .

. . . There was a sound above and Lethilde knew she had not been quick enough.  She hurried faster, clutching the remnants of her robes around her, feet flying down the carpeted stair, calves aching with unaccustomed exertion. One hand, seeking balance, brushed along the uneven, sometimes sharp stones of the outer wall. There was no inner wall, only a steep drop.

Lethilde felt her nose beginning to run and wondered if the steps would ever end. Surely she had come down far enough to reach ground level. Coldness twisted in her flesh as she wondered if the stair was spelled. This was a wizard's house. Could the stair be spelled to send strangers traveling round and round forever without moving at all between floors?

She heard an animal's whine and recognized it for a sound from her own throat. Then she saw the archway and hurried through it, terrified at her own imaginings.

Lethilde felt the cold, polished hallway floor sting against her feet as she ran, panicked, through the shape-filled dark. She heard the sharp sounds as her feet struck, heard beneath it the ragged sound of her own breathing, the beating of her heart, stumbling and afraid. She began to notice the pattern again and to hope that, like last time, she would be spared the sight of the thing at the bottom of the stair. A part of her withdrew as she raced along, tensed as her hand closed upon the doorlatch . . .

. . . The footsteps receded and Lethilde released her breath, thankful that whichever servant had passed had needed nothing in this supply alcove. Naked, she fumbled with the robe that she had grabbed, amazed that her hands shook so when she, herself, felt no anxiety. The robe was torn and rumpled and reeked with the fear she could not feel. She fastened it about herself as best she could. She listened carefully. Slowly and calmly she crept out of the alcove and down the carpeted stairs that ran in the tower down the side of the house.

Slowly she began to descend those stairs, listening as she went. Slowly she went and then faster and faster still, as the fear that had hidden, clenched in her bones, uncoiled itself to take her.

There was a sound above and Lethilde knew that she had not been quick enough. She hurried faster, clutching the remnants of her robes around her, feet flying down the carpeted, circular stair, calves aching with unaccustomed exertion. One hand, seeking balance, brushed along the uneven, sometimes sharp stones of the outer wall. There was no inner wall, only a steep drop.

Lethilde felt her nose beginning to run and wondered if the steps would ever end. Surely she had come down far enough to reach ground level.

Lethilde's Self stirred warily. Could the stair be spelled to send strangers traveling round and round forever? The pattern was edging her backward, further from the horror at the bottom of the tower, but that thought was not as comforting as it had been. She heard an animal's whine and recognized it for a sound from her own throat. Then she saw the archway and hurried through it, terrified.

The weight of unformed memory pressed and she shifted beneath it. She felt the cold, polished hallway floor sting against her feet. The memory centered on the stairway and she gave her perception to that. An image formed in the part of her mind that watched rather than ran. It was a symmetrical image - - a perfect helix with hallways at the top and bottom. She heard the sharp sounds as her feet struck, heard beneath it the ragged sound of her own breathing, the beating of her heart, stumbling and afraid. And at the end of the two hallways, two doors.

A panic rose within Lethilde's Self to match that of the self that ran. For if she was moving away from one door, she was moving toward the other . . . and both doors were closed on horror. Deep with herself, Lethilde began to scream. The scream grew to fill her senses, a rattling, grey scream that drowned out all other sound and then all sight, and then, mercifully, all sensation.

------

The blow across her cheek shocked Lethilde's eyes open and stopped her crying as suddenly and unexpectedly as a duck caught in a pond freeze. Her father's face swam into focus as she hiccoughed and sniffed. His expression was disdainful. It was a familiar expression. He handed her a handkerchief and turned pointedly to look out a window as she guiltily mopped her face into presentability.

At the window, her father smoothed his robes and beard and began to explain, with the obviously careful patience he used only when he felt himself to be speaking to one who, despite reasonable expectation, was behaving with the intelligence of a half-witted child. He explained again what he plainly thought would be obvious to all - - that a night, even a fortnight, spent with the son of the Wizard of Hilltower, was more than worth the price that man was willing to pay.

Still gazing out into the streets, he listed, one by one, her reasonable fears and, one by one, discounted them. Lethilde tensed, knowing that her fear was not a thing that could be named and banished, like a milk-sprite. Lethilde relaxed, recognizing this time as a relatively safe one.

Her father would win the argument, of course; had won it. She would be sent to Hilltower in a closed litter carried by two dark men and preceded by another man with a lantern. She turned her attention back to the man at the window. He was saying, matter-of-factly, that it was not as if she were a virgin or as if she were likely to marry, even young as she was, burdened, as she was, with a deformed bastard daughter. There was no trace of sarcasm or censure in his tone as he said this.

Lethilde let her perception waft back to her own actions. These consisted of tormenting a sodden handkerchief with both hands and trying to keep the breath from aching at the back of her throat as she tried, desperately, to construct some argument that would keep her from her fate. This being impossible, Lethilde let her perception wander. She could go through the motions well enough without attending. Her father's voice droned on.

A moment of silence caught her attention. She looked up to see her father looking at her expectantly. The moment extended. An answer was required but neither Lethilde nor her Self had one. It didn't matter. Wouldn't matter, Hadn't mattered.

"Well?" said her father, his hands clasped behind him in a scholar's pose. He considered himself to be a scholar, her father did, though others called him Deyron the Scribe and set him to copying contracts and business messages. He had named all her fears and patiently refuted each. Therefore any fear she still harbored was, by definition, irrational or, worse, willfully wrong-headed.

"Good," said her father, as if she had agreed, and her heart fell within her. "Good," he said, and her heart lightened, remembering that the talking was over. Deyron would construct her no more patient sentences of carefully, slowly chosen words. The was a right word for the expression of every thought, every sentiment, and Deyron, by his own admission, knew them all. He had, so he said, a natural way with words. There was a proper action for every situation. Deyron knew those as well, or could calculate them, given time and quiet.

That Deyron was constantly surrounded with idiots who could not see the proper action for their situation, and therefore acted differently, inconveniently, was Deyron's curse. That these idiot's actions imposed upon the time and quiet he needed to be sure of his own actions was his infuriation.

Lethilde was plainly in the wrong, plainly behaving improperly, and, therefore, plainly infuriating. Being his daughter, she had no excuse. She had had the advantage of his teaching.

Deyron turned, equally satisfied with the outcome and his own generous patience. Lethilde's perception drifted. It was time for supper, which would be eaten in tense silence. There was no point in wasting perception on this. It was not terrifying, but it was not comfortable. Best to think of other things. Everything here had already happened. Everything would happen again, with no help needed from her. Lethilde could not remember the Wizard's son's name. But until she entered his rooms there was nothing that could not be . . .

. . . though expected, the knocking was early. Supper was not yet finished. Deyron was plainly not pleased as he left the table. Lethilde's numbed fingers could neither raise her filled spoon to her lips nor set it back in the bowl. Her mind dulled. She could not decide which of these actions she should seek to accomplish, though it was important that she know. Her Mind cleared. Something had happened. There had been a jump.

Deyron returned, irritated, and began to explain something that Lethilde couldn't hear, hadn't heard, properly. He looked disgusted when the spoon fell from her hand with a splash and clatter. Lethilde saw that her hand hadn't moved . . .

. . . the rocking would have been soothing if her food weren't arguing with her stomach. There were no windows, just slots high up in the box, and those were covered with a fringe of tassels. It was dark and close but at least she was not required to move or speak or be looked upon.

There had been another jump. How was this happening? Was someone . . . she didn't want to think about that. There was a small lurch as the man to the rear of the litter stumbled . . .

. . . Lethilde was walking up a carpeted stair. Although she kept her eyes carefully on the stair, she knew that the old man drawing her along was watching closely, enjoying her. Somehow she had thought that anyone described as somebody's son would be young, but this was not true . . .

. . . "You blush so marvelously," was the sound, and the feel was of the backs of his fingers, loosely curled, stroking against her cheek. There was wine in the cup in her hands; she could smell it. It was stronger than the scent of her fear. She would drink it down to ease things if only her throat would open. Lethilde wondered how she could keep holding the cup. Her hands felt so limp and looked so dead.

The hand lifted and turned, fingers sliding down her neck, slowly, from ear to collar. He said other things. She did not attend, had not attended. Lethilde didn't remember, didn't wish to remember, what came next. Especially not jumping like this. Before there had been time to go as limp and dead as her hands. . . .

. . . The man was angry with her. He was pacing back and forth, punctuating his complaints with sudden sweeps of his arms. Lethilde saw him at the edge of her vision as she sank down into herself. Soon she would be small enough to hide, surrounded by a protective cocoon of unhurt, unfeeling flesh . . .

. . . eighty-three . . . eighty-four . . . eighty-five . . . What was this?

Oh, yes. The tapestry. She had counted the stitches in a white rose . . . eighty-nine . . . Her body must be somewhere. Such cold toes . . . ninety-three . . . It was easier than she expected . . . ninety-five . . . ti ignore it again. Poor body . . . ninety-eight . . . now there were two selves ignoring it . . . one hundred . . . And, counting the body, three selves ignoring him . . . hundred and three . . . Oh, yes, he's angry about that. I can hear him complain . . .

. . . The room comes back from far away. Lethilde is floating about her body. There are two of her floating, but one self cannot see the other, which is lonely. Meaning comes back to the shapes that become him drinking by the fire, his back to them. There must be somewhere else someplace if only she could think about wanting to be there . . .

. . . The footsteps receded and Lethilde released her breath, thankful that whichever servant had passed had needed nothing in this supply alcove. Naked, she fumbled with the robe . . .

. . . There was a sound above and Lethilde knew that she had not been quick enough. She hurried faster, clutching, one hand brushing along the uneven stones of the outer wall, the inner wall only a steep drop . . .

. . . the cold polished hallway floor stinging against her feet, she heard the sharp sounds . . at the end of two hallways: two doors.

Once again her hand closed upon the doorlatch. Once again her shoulder struck the sticking door. Once again it gave way suddenly. Once again she stumbled onto damp stone steps only to slip and fall - fall down and down, down onto symbols drawn in blood on a black glass floor - down into pain and roaring . . .

I KNOW THE REST.

Lethilde gasped at the shock of being reconnected to her body. It felt as if she had been dropped into it, raw and naked and unfamiliar, from a height. She felt her hands on herself, felt the meaninglessness of the robe. She watcher her hands touching - arms, shoulders, face. She felt a panic at not being able to see her face, as if it might be missing if she could not see it. Was this a feeling of past panic that she could jump away from?

No. The panic belonged to this place and time, to this event that she would not be jumping away from. Not seeing her face was just the thought occupying the moment when the panic had returned. It was a normal thing. The panic belonged to the shapes in the center of the room, to the death that she felt swimming in her veins.

YES. HE KILLS YOU. I AVENGE YOU. BEHOLD!

A large, grey shape, difficult to see in the dim room, lifted the limp form of a wizard. If this was the Wizard of Hilltower, he looked much younger than his son. He looked handsome and vital and merely asleep in a strange, lumpy chair. But the chair bent a noseless, mouthless face to the wizard's chest and, as Lethilde watched, the wizard aged.

Had he been dead? Was he dead now? There was no outcry, no moan or movement. Was there pain?

Slowly the wizard wrinkled and withered and began to collapse, as if hollow. Lethilde stepped back, bumping the stone wall behind her. A glance revealed no exit but the circling stairs that lay beyond - - that. She looked back. The wizard was a brittle, folded mass, small enough to hold in two hands . . one hand.

The chair straightened. The wizard was now a handful of crumbling dust, drifting down the chair's - the demon's front. He was certainly dead now. Lethilde was the double circle of symbols that the wizard had used to summon and contain the demon. The inner one was smeared.

YES. YOU FALL. YOU DOOM HIM. HE KILLS YOU. YOU REMEMBER?

"Why? Can't you pull that from my mind, too?" Lethilde's voice was a small, dry croak in the echoing dark.

DISTRESS. APOLOGY. KNOWLEDGE NEEDED. WHERE COME? WHERE DANGER? WHO MASTER?

"You eat master."

NO. EAT WIZARD THAT KILLS MASTER. RELEASE. EAT OTHER. EAT WIZARD SON THAT CHASE YOU DOWN TO DIE.

"No."

MASTER SUMMON. MUST SERVE. COMMAND.

"No. Hush and let me think." Lethilde tried to remember what had happened since the stair. If felt strange to be going through her memories alone, after the demon's rifling. Her mind felt bruised.

The stair seemed the most real thing in her memory. At the top things had happened, unavoidable things, things she didn't want to think about. At the bottom . . . what? She had fallen. She had smudged the wizard's circle. Had she? It seemed so. But how had she smudged only the inner circle? How had she come to be outside the circles and across the room?

Had she walked through that wide, intricate outer circle, the demon would have been released into her world. But the demon was still trapped. She tried again to remember. There was the fall, the landing. With the landing came pain and noise. Slowly the memory came, but it was a vague and dim thing next to the scenes the demon had pulled through her.

In the memory, the demon roared in triumph and hatred and reared above her, terrifying and indistinct. The wizard roared in anger and contempt, handsome eyes icy. As the demon lunged, the wizard turned, his hands flaring. Lethilde had been thrown across the room by the bolt, had felt the death of his spell enter her and curl, larval and waiting. She remembered one other thing as well: looking into a demon's eyes is a mistake.

COMMAND.

"No. Wait. Can you undo the wizard's spell, the one that's killing me?"

NO. RELEASE. EAT OTHER.

"No." The thought of the demon loose in the town was unbearable, the final obscenity of a hideous night. She had not actively cooperated with the other. She would resist this, too.

The demon did not seem troubled. Perhaps, being a demon, he could not be troubled. Perhaps it showed differently. Perhaps . . . Lethilde looked at the blood of the circles. It had been arranged as plump little puddles, puddles that were beginning to dry. Perhaps the demon could cross a circle of dried blood. Perhaps it only needed to wait.

"I release you," Lethilde croaked.

CANNOT. MUST SERVE. ASK.

Lethilde groaned. She was beginning to shiver. She had been unable to forestall her father or the so-named son upstairs. How could she forestall a demon?

"If I ask and you give and I say . . . say . . 'I release you, return from whence you came,' would you have to go?"

There was a shuffling and a smoldering.

YES.

Lethilde sat down to think. Presently: "Does giving information count?"

YES. IF INFORMATION IS SIGNIFICANT.

"What is behind you there?"

THAT IS NOT SIGNIFICANT.

"I know. Just answer."

WIZARD'S WORKBENCH.

"What is on the workbench? List everything and what it does."

Lethilde only half listened to the sorcerous recitation. As she had suspected, most of the information was meaningless to her. The demon's voice boomed brokenly on and on as her insides shifted warmly. The floor was getting colder. It was so hard to feel the words. How was she going to find a way to . .

"What was that?"

WISHES. IN BOTTLE.

"Show me." A dusty bottle, plain as a vinegar bottle, drifted over to bob before her face. Within swam three blue lights, smaller than fireflies. "Explain how the wishes work."

OPEN BOTTLE. MAKE WISH. WISH COMES.

The demon was too pleased with this. There had to be something wrong with it. Something wrong, and thinking was so hard - so very hard to do. Lethilde couldn't feel her hands or her feet. Don't think about that. Think about what would please a demon. Oh, yes. Wishes cause trouble if not wished properly. All the old stories said so. And if she died before she used them all, she could be leaving the demon with a wish.

Lethilde reached drooping fingers toward the bottle, then paused. The wizard hadn't used the wishes.

"Is the bottle spelled?" There was a long pause.

YES.

"What will the bottle do if I open it?"

BREAK.

Oh, yes. But there were breakings and breakings. "Killing me?" There was a longer pause. Above, the voices of the son and servants murmured in an unimportant froth of concern. They had found her gone, evidently, found the open door above. They did not sound like they were coming down.

"Can you open the bottle in such a way that I get the wishes but an not hurt?"

DIFFICULT.

Was the demon arguing. Lethilde could not argue. Could not afford to. She had lost every argument she had ever been part of in her life. Don't think of that. Fingernails were beginning to curl back like drying leaves, lips to droop and drool. Take a breath and concentrate on the words or they won't come out right.

"I command you to open the bottle in such a way that I get the wishes but am not harmed and I command you to be gone to whence you came as soon as this is done."

A roar of demonic rage echoed through the castle. Lethilde heard it flinging itself, panting and growling, against its bonds. Definitely an argument. She had nothing to fight with - had never had anything to fight him with.

"I command." It was foolish to repeat it. Foolish to waste her energy making the words. But there was nothing better to think about and many things to forget.

"I comman'."

The silence as the threefold command took effect was painful to the ears. Lethilde saw the blood of the circles begin to glow and shrink inward. She wondered vaguely what would happen to the demon if it hadn't completed its task by the time the circles shrank to its size. It was a think she was never to learn.

The bottle quickly floated far up over her head, mouth downward, and exploded outward in a tearing pulse of orange light and glass shards. The shards rained and bounced in the dark glass room, pinging gaily, as the floor beneath the demon turned molten, allowing it to dive in and disappear a moment before the circle clenched.

Thoughts came slowly. Over. No. The wishes. The son. Lethilde could imagine him with the wishes. She tried to wish for three glasses of water to use them up, but she could not speak, could no longer sit up. She sprawled sideways as the three small lights floated in a swirl before her eyes.

At least she had banished the demon. Over, now. No more trying. Relax. Ignore this. Think of Ella. Little Ella curled in her basket by the hearth. Little Ella with her club foot. Over.

One of the blue lights expanded, shaped itself into an image of a toddler, curled in a basket. Over. A toddler who could not toddle. Over. No. Not over.

Not over? Tired as she was, Lethilde had a vague feeling that it was not over.

No. I'm tired. Think of Ella. Think of Ella and die quietly. I'm tired.

Think of Ella.

Lethilde thought of Ella and slowly thought of what Ella would look like with two straight legs. She thought of Ella walking . .. and wished.

The light puffed itself out, unraveling into the wish. Lethilde let it go and was glad.

Two more. No. So tired. Think of Ella. Think of Ella living in a town where that up the stairs had two wishes. So tired. A glass of water? No. Think of Ella. Ella with father.

Lethilde thought of a wife for her father, a mother for Ella, and other children for her to play with. She thought of this with a vague sense of financial ease. She wished before the image was clear, hurrying, and the wish raveled away.

So tired. But as the end came there was a sudden sense of desperation, an urgent need to do the last wish properly. Lethilde felt herself wishing without knowing what for, as if the wish were trapped inside her, fighting to get out.

The last light formed an image of Ella. The image grew, changing. Her daughter was growing up without her, would never remember her.

Lethilde wished her last wish as her eyes closed, thinking the words that she could not say, for she could think of no way to form an image of what she wanted.

"I want my daughter to know that I love her, that I'm thinking of her. I want to see her grown and know that she knows that I love her."

Lethilde felt her body drop away, felt herself float upward. She thought of seeing and sight came. Below her something huge spread and ran amid the tatters of an impossibly large, ruined robe. Someone else's problem, now. Within her was an urgency. Examining it, she laughed, though a twinkle is the only laugh a wish can give. Floating, she hurried homeward, not noticing the panic she caused in the hallway.

Some wishes last a long time. She would last until her daughter was grown, embedded in her father's hearth, an unknown source of love and comfort. Everything would be fine, now. No more arguments. Everything would be fine.

----

Deyron looked up from his manuscript when the baby stopped crying, pulling a thick layer of justified satisfaction over the small guilt he felt, smothering it utterly. He blinked to see the small, blue light dancing before the child's eyes.

Good. Lethilde had finally seen her duty and had pleased the wizard's son sufficiently to be rewarded with this small bit of minor magic. Things were working exactly as he had planned, exactly as they ought. Everything would be fine, now. There would be no more arguments. Everything would be fine.

Fifty-Third Beginning: The Cat and the Book

             Now, let’s get this straight, here – I’m a rational person.  Well, I’m a person who believes in rationality, anyway. I fully believe that there must be a rational explanation for everything.  I don’t, for example, believe in astrology.  (Of course, being a Capricorn, I wouldn’t.)  There have been two events in my life, however, that have defied rational explanation.  I’ve grown rather fond of the pair of them and would like to share them here.

It’s not that no one has ever come up with a rational explanation for what happened.  It’s just that none of these explanations ever match my memories of the events.  They are mostly of the “you must have been mistaken” or the “you know, dreams can seem very real” variety.  And that’s perfectly rational, considering the stories I was telling.  Let’s face it.  I wouldn’t believe stories like these. 

And it’s not that these were major events.  I think I enjoy the triviality of my little mysteries most.  It reaffirms my estimation of the way the universe works.  Sort of a Murphy’s Law of the Occult:  “Just because it defies all known laws of space and time doesn’t mean it’s important.”  It all began with the cat.

The cat’s name was Jessie.  He was an orange marmalade ex-tom with a twin brother named Patrick, and he was not enjoying our move to California from Ohio.  We were driving a 24 foot rental truck and towing our car.  I ahd put the cats in the car for the trip, with food and water and a litter box.  Windows had been rolled down slightly less than an inch.  The cats had basically freaked at first and then settled down to hating it.  By the end of the first day the headliner of the car was covered with cat hair.

We stayed the night at my in-laws and when we left the next morning, the cats seemed to have settled more.  I checked them carefully before we left.  Then we hit (-80 and drove at a steady 60 mph until lunch.  When we stopped for lunch, a checked that cats again and there was only one.  Jessie had somehow flown the coop.

Do not bother commenting with rational explanations.  I’ve tried them all and they don’t fit.  The friend helping me drive is sure that Jessie was hiding under a seat and zipped out when I opened the door.  This even though we had noticed him missing and were watching the door carefully when we opened it.  I believe in rationality, too, but not quite to the point of saying “I didn’t see that.” (1)

The next event was a little odder and a little more trivial.  I mean, we missed Jessie and worried about him.  He was a good cat.  This was about a book.  You see, I have a vice.  I read too much.  It interferes with homework and housework and life and everything.  I have to be careful not to allow too much reading matter into the house or I might submerge and never break surface again.

So, one day I was browsing at the Walden’s at the Woodland Mall, reading the backs of science fiction and fantasy paperbacks, when I found a marvel.  Have you ever gotten hooked on the first book in a trilogy and then suffered through years of torture while the author wrote the next two books?  I have.  So you can imagine my surprise when, having hooked myself on the most recent Jo Clayton trilogy, I found the second and the third books available the week after I’d finished the first. 

Unfortunately, I had homework due and I knew that if I bough both, I’d read both and the homework would get seriously punted.  I read the backs carefully, agonizing over whether or not to risk buying both.  On the back of the third book was a synopsis of what had gone before.  It included a plot twist in the second book that I hadn’t anticipated.  I agonized a little more and then, in a spasm of virtue, put the third book down and bought only the second.

I read the second book knowing from the start that the plot twist was coming up.  I watched for it the whole book and it finally showed in the final chapter.  Then I did my homework and set out to buy the third book.  I couldn’t find it in Davis.  It took me awhile to get back to Woodland, and when I did I couldn’t find it there, either.  So I asked at the desk.  It seemed that the book was not in print.  It was not due to be released for six months.  Swearing that I had held the thing in my own two hands and had read the back of it was no help at all.

Six months later it came out and I bought it.  The cover was not the same.  The synopsis on the back was, though.  I enjoyed reading it.

What is the point to these occurrences?  None that I can see.  What is the point in remembering them fondly and sharing them with friends and strangers?  You got me there, too.  But keep watch for further events and I think you all should, too.  Just don’t tell me about them when they happen.  I’m a rational person and I probably won’t believe you.  

Fifty-Second Beginning: Deja Clue

[This one was published in Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazine.  They own the print rights.]

[Together with the previous limerick/cartoon, this concludes the body of my published work.]

[[Hey, I got $25 for this one and $20 for the other.  I got paid.]]

Fifty-First Beginning: Vampire Limerick

[Previously published in Dragon Magazine.  I think they still hold the copyright for all print.]

[[If the Wizards want it taken down, just let me know.]]

At Last, the Astrology Table

At last and hallelulia!

It will be easiest if I just post a link.

Yes, the table is set up to be used for Dungeons and Dragons character creation.  If you're using a different game system or using the table for characters to write stories about, you'll have to make adjustments.

You can't make changes to the online spreadsheet, but you're free to copy it and make whatever adjustments you like.  I'd appreciate links back, if you post a changed table, so that I can see how the little thing is getting on in the world.  

7/17/14

Son of the Son of Comments to 50th Beginning

How to Use Astrology to Create RPG Character Personalities

Do you want to play RPG or LARP characters with definite personalities but don't quite know how to develop them? Do you try to develop personalities but end up playing the same character over and over? Do you tend to develop one-dimensional, single-trait characters? Then take a try at rolling up a natal horoscope for your character. It is not necessary to believe in astrology to use the system to produce complex characters - characters with their own motivation and contradictions. All it takes is a twelve-sided die.

BASIC CHARACTER
The basic personality of a character can be found by rolling a rising sign, a sun sign and a moon sign. If you're feeling Freudian, you can think of them as the ego, the superego, and the id. Astrologically, however, the rising sign is the image a character projects; the sun sign is her (or his) sense of identity, her rational goals; and the moon sign is his (or her) unconscious urges, his unknown resources.

These three signs form the core personality. Additional planetary influences can modify the personality, but not change it radically.

PLANETARY INFLUENCES

In medieval times, only seven planets were known. When rolling a horoscope for a character, it is best to use the medieval system. Not only is this usually more authentic, depending on the gaming system you are using, but it is less complicated as well. Complex characters are all very well and good, but there's such a thing as going too far. Also, since the outer planets move so slowly, age cohorts all have them in the same sign. This lends a commonality to age groups that would be missing if all characters rolled their outer planets individually.

Inner Planets: MERCURY and VENUS are not free be in any sign. Since their orbits are inside of earth's, they can never be far from the sign that the sun is in. As a rule of thumb, Mercury can only move within one sign to either side of the sun sign and Venus can only move within two. That means that Mercury can only be in one of three signs, once the sun sign is known, and Venus con only be in one of five.

Influences:

MERCURY is the planet of communication and intellectual ability. Mercury's sign indicates the sort of thing that the character is likely to talk about. Recurring conversational gambits begin here.  It may also affect a character’s voice or style of speaking.

VENUS is the planet of comfort. The sort of things that the character finds familiar or beautiful are determined by the sign that Venus is in. Purchases, especially of clothes or homes, may be influenced by Venus.

MARS is the planet of action. It is easy to find the energy to begin to do the things that pertain to the sign of Mars. If there is no support for the activity elsewhere in the chart, though, it will be difficult to find the motivation necessary to finish these activities. Many impulsive acts begin here.

JUPITER is the grand benefic. It influences the character's religion and generosity. It may indicate the sort of things that the character does well and easily.

SATURN brings limits. This is the area where the character will struggle and make mistakes. It is a recurring lesson. Recurring nightmares may begin here, if the character is subject to portents.

SIGNIFICANCE OF SIGNS:

Now roll up a sign for each planet and assign the traits to the categories. Here are some of the personality traits traditionally associated with the signs of the zodiac. If you don't like mine, try checking out a book from the library or making up your own.

ARIES: Enthusiastic and assertive. Good at beginning, but impatient. Self-assured and blunt. An independent, ardent competitor.

TAURUS: Persistent and hard-working, but stubborn and slow to change an opinion. Comfort seeking, rather than ambitious. Cautious but courageous. Not talkative - calm and sure.

GEMINI: Restless, tending to chatter, gossip, and fidget. Cool and decisive in a crisis. Charming, but uninvolved.

CANCER: Protective/possessive of people, places, and possessions. Would rather stay at home, but will make sacrifices for friends and family. Moody - fears ridicule. Some cancers fall apart over little things but handle true crises with calm.

LEO: Proud, outgoing, dramatic, and self-centered. Wants all of the attention. May sulk if ignored. May cause a crisis just to liven things up and get a chance to take the spotlight.

VIRGO: Seeks purity, perfection, and wholeness. Urges others to seek same. Can turn into a nag. Disciplined and over-organized. Sometimes misses the forest for the trees. Sometimes uses sardonic wit for the "betterment" of others.

LIBRA: Amiable, peace loving. A good arbitrator if uninvolved, but a little wishy-washy otherwise. Can see seventeen sides to any argument and sometimes has trouble deciding things. Seeks harmony but can get fussy.

SCORPIO: Passionately intense but intensely controlled. Can be cruelly blunt. May have a brooding, self-destructive side. Can look at you as if he knows exactly how you'd cook down in a compost pile. Likes to take things apart. A seeking intellect, uninterested in surface appearances.

SAGITTARIUS: A cheerful, enthusiastic extrovert. Generous and helpful but oblivious to social nuances. Can be blithely blunt. Idealistic, energetic, and often inspired to quests.

CAPRICORN: Industrious, unobtrusive, and ambitious. Can be bossy or strait-laced. Understated sense of humor. Determined to rise slowly to the top. Any wild risks must be analyzed first and found to have a good probability of advancement.

AQUARIUS: Adaptable, inventive, and gregarious. Creative and rational, intuitive and eccentric, may be rebellious when confronted with rules. May be devoted to, but detached from a group.

PISCES: Secretive and nebulous. May be forgetful and absentminded. May be blissfully mystical. Decides by the feel of things rather than by analysis. Sometimes vain. Occasionally treacherous.

 [I keep saying that I might post the planet/sign/character trait table and I keep finding stuff that should possibly be posted first.  This set of instructions can either be used instead of the table or in addition to the table.]