#christmas inklings challenge

[secretariatess]

The Milkmaids and the Partridge

So, because I usually write other world fantasy, where Christmas doesn't actually exist. So writing a fantasy Christmas story for me . . . wouldn't be undoable, I guess, but it would take a lot more work than I wanted to put in.

So the theme was "Twelve Days of Christmas," which is meant of the literal days of Christmas and not the song. But I'm being very loose with all of this and using inspiration from the song, and inspiration from the real Christmas story.

It's more of a fairy tale than anything, so hopefully it's enjoyable despite my liberties, lol. It's under 5k words (which is surprising for me!)

For the Christmas Inklings Challenge, @inklings-challenge

 Once upon a time, in the Realm of the Ten Lords, there was a humble dairy farm on the outskirts of the town.  This dairy farm, known to most as the Starry Night Farm due to its uniquely painted barn, was owned and run by eight milkmaids.  These milkmaids were not sisters by blood, but considered themselves such all the same because of how close they got over the years.  The start of their friendship is truly an interesting story, but it is not the story right now.

 These milkmaids all lived in the space over the barn.  It was not a very large space, as they did not have many cows, but it kept them warm and provided beds for them, so they were quite content with their lives.  Their cows produced some of the finest milk in all the realm, and so they had met many a traveler seeking to taste the milk.

 Now one of their duties was to make sure their pastures were fit for their cows.  A good pasture led to happy, healthy cows, and that was part of their secret for their milk.  The milkmaids took this task very seriously and always kept a sharp eye out for anything that might pose a danger to the cows.

 It was one morning that Spirit, for that was the name of one of the milkmaids, noticed that there was a patch of foxtail growing in the corner of the pasture.  Now see, foxtail was not very good for cows, as the spikelets of the foxtail could get into the noses and ears of cows and cause great harm.  Spirit promptly got rid of it and thought that that was the end of it.

 The next day, Comfort, another milkmaid, saw foxtail growing in the corner of the pasture, and she took care of it before any of the cows wandered over.  Like Spirit, she thought that was the end of it.  But the next day, and the day after that, all the milkmaids had encountered the foxtail, each believing that they were responsible for getting rid of it and not realizing that their fellow milkmaids had done the same thing.

 It was not until Spirit saw the foxtail again, and this time, there was more of it.  She said to her fellow milkmaids, “Dear sisters, see here- I have removed this foxtail but a little over a week ago and it has returned in a larger bunch.”

 “You have removed it?” said Meek, another milkmaid who was normally quiet.  “Why, I have removed it myself only a week past! It has returned already?”

 “That is quite odd,” said Suffered, yet another one of the milkmaids.  “For it twas only yesterday that I removed a patch of foxtail.”

 It was then discovered that all of the milkmaids had removed a patch of foxtail.  The rate of its growth alarmed them.

 “Dear sisters, what should we do?” asked Patience, wringing her hands.  “If it will only come back, and in larger amounts, removing it will get us nowhere!”

 “Come now,” chided Righteous gently.  “There is no use getting in a tizzy just yet. We will ask the Nine Ladies for their wisdom about what we should do.”

 It was a very good idea, and the milkmaids agreed to trek into town at the end of the week.  The Nine Ladies were fond of dancing, and held a dance every end of the week.  They were married to the Ten Lords, save one.  This Lord fancied his leaping, as the rest of the Lords were, but thought that getting married would only tie him down.  He wanted to spend as many years as he could to leap as high as he could before he settled down and got married.

 It was a jolly sight when they arrived.  Half the townsfolk had arrived to participate in the dance, and the music was merry.  For those who were not as nimble on their feet, or perhaps were recovering from having partners who were not as nimble on their feet, there was a large banquet set up for them to enjoy, courtesy of the Nine Ladies.

 The milkmaids approached the table of the Nine Ladies, who were resting after spending only a few hours on the dance floor, and curtsied low to them, as one does to show respect to a noble.  In truth, the milkmaids were not used to curtsying as they spent much of their time with their cows, and one does not curtsy to a cow.  Because of this one or two of them thought they would tip over before they could straighten.  Fortunately, they did not.

 “Oh great Ladies of the Realm,” said Pure, rising up from her curtsy and clasping her hands together as though she were praying.  “We have come to implore you for your wisdom, as we are faced with a terrible problem and do not know how to get rid of it.”

 “Speak girls,” said the Lady in the middle, whose cheeks were red and jolly, “and tell us what your problem is that we may help you.”

 “Great Ladies of the Realm,” said Pure again, addressing them so that she may not be seen as rude, “we discovered a patch of foxtail growing in our pasture a little over a week ago. It was not too much of an issue for us, but we found out that it was growing every day, and recently we discovered that it has come back nearly twice the size. It is not good for our cows, and we are concerned about the damage it will cause them. What should we do about this foxtail that will not go away?”

 “Oh, fear not!” said the Lady at the end on the right.  “That is an easy enough fix. What you need is a partridge.”

 “A partridge?” repeated Pure.  She remembered her manners and quickly added, “Oh Great Lady?”

 The Lady at the end on the left nodded cheerfully.  “Truly! That is all you need. There is a partridge in the Garden of the Eleven Pipers- if you go to her, you may be able to persuade her to return with you. When she does, she will eat your foxtail, for that is what partridges like.”

 The milkmaids all curtsied low at this advice.

 “Great Ladies of the Realm, we thank you for your help,” said Pure.  “We shall be ever grateful.”

 “Now, now,” the Lady to the left of the Lady in the middle, “rise up and smile. Perhaps you will join us for some time in this dance!”

 The milkmaids did as the Lady requested, and danced for joy at the solution to their problem.  When they returned that night, for they spent many hours dancing, they prepared themselves for the journey to the Garden of the Eleven Pipers and put away their cows with a lot of hay to ensure their happiness.

 The Garden of the Eleven Pipers was on the other side and would take a few days worth of travel to get there.  The milkmaids had never been there themselves, but they had met people who had, and they were told it was a wonderful place.  So they were excited to see its wonder and bring back the partridge.  It was agreed to take a sack of seeds with them to present to the partridge in order to persuade her to return with them.

 In the morning, they set off, singing to each other all sorts of joyous songs.

 As they journeyed on, they came upon the Great Horned Owl.

 The Great Horned Owl was sleeping, and was not happy with being disturbed from his slumber by their joyful singing.  He settled on the side of the path, peering at them blearily with narrowed eyes as he tried to make them out.

 “Too-hoo! What is this to-do?” he hooted, blinking slowly.  The daylight bothered his eyes so.

 “We are going to the Garden of the Eleven Pipers,” said Peace, stepping forward.

 “The Garden of the Eleven Pipers?” hooted the Owl.  “Too-hoo! That is a long journey.”

 “It is only a few days,” said Peace.  “It is not too long for us.”

 “Too-hoo! I see,” said the Owl.  “Now why would eight young milkmaids be going to the Garden of Eleven Pipers for? Is this part of the Realm not satisfactory for you?”  The Great Horned Owl was a nosy fellow, and had to know about people moving about where they usually did not go.

 “We are going to find a partridge,” said Peace.  She showed him the basket they prepared for the partridge.  The milkmaids had agreed that it would be much more comfortable for the partridge to sit in a cushioned basket than to be carried by their arms or walk the whole way back to the Starry Night Farm.

 “A partridge? Too-hoo! What an odd thing to look for,” said the Owl.

 “We need the partridge to help us with the foxtail in our farm,” said Peace.  “It is growing at an alarming rate, and the Nine Ladies told us that a partridge will eat the foxtail.”

 “Too-hoo! Is that true?” said the Owl.  But the Owl was jealous.  He prided himself with helping all who came across his path with his wide range of knowledge, and he did not like the idea of the milkmaids seeking help from another bird.  Why wouldn’t the Nine Ladies send them to him?  He could have figured out a solution to their problem.

 “It is true!” confirmed Peace.

 “Well then, too-hoo!” said the Owl, devising a plan.  “When you come back, why don’t you show me the partridge before going back to the farm? I have some foxtail myself that I would like to get rid of. If this partridge can do it, than I would like to have some of her time.”

 The milkmaids agreed, because they did not know that the Owl was scheming.  He did not have any foxtail that was growing anywhere, so he certainly did not need the partridge for that.  He instead hoped to eat the partridge whole, so he could remain the only bird to whom the humans asked for help.  But the milkmaids could not have known this, for he was very convincing.

 So they continued on their way.  After a few days, they stood at the entrance of the Garden of the Eleven Pipers.  No one really saw the Pipers at work in the Garden, but they knew they were there, somewhere among the plants and trees the Pipers grew.  The Garden was enormous, and the Pipers allowed anyone in to come and rest, and to eat the fruit and vegetables of their garden.  It was a refuge for many creatures and people without any other place to go.

 But because it was so large, the milkmaids realized that it would take them quite a while to find the partridge.  They wandered here and there, stepping around the carrot patches and the tomato plants, twisting their way around the apple trees and blueberry bushes, until they came upon a sparkling creek winding around the orange trees.  In this creek were seven beautiful swans, swimming about and coming together to share some exciting information before drifting apart again to think of something else that had happened to them that week.

 The milkmaids quietly approached, not wanting to startle the swans.

 One of them took noticed and let out a welcoming honk.  “Welcome, welcome! Now, what brings the eight of you lovely milkmaids here?” cried one of the swans.

 “We are looking for a partridge,” said Meek, stepping in front of the other milkmaids.  “We were told by the Nine Ladies that we could find her here, but we do not know where to look for her.”

 “Oh, the partridge!” exclaimed the swan.  “Oh yes, we know the partridge. She joins us for our weddings and birthdays, you know.”

 “And when we have feasts!” piped another swan.  “She is quite a lovely thing, and we certainly enjoy her company.”

 “Perhaps you could point us in the right direction?” asked Meek.  “We are beginning to feel quite lost.”

 “Oh, but of course!” said the second swan.  “Now, if you go down that way, you should come out to some very lovely banana trees. There are usually some geese there who know just about everyone here in the Garden. They will tell you where the partridge likes to go.”

 “Thank you very much!” said Meek, and she meant it.  For it is not every day that one gets lost in a giant garden.  The experience was quite overwhelming.

 The milkmaids followed the swan’s advice, and sure enough, they came across some banana trees with six geese who had made themselves quite cozy at the root of the trees.  Their nests were big enough to hold fully grown humans, and they were made with the softest, finest things that the geese could find.  The geese were very particular about their nests, for once every week, they would lay one egg.  And then on the seventh day, they would all rest and care for the egg they laid.

 They were resting on this day, sitting happily on the eggs they laid and dreaming of the gooseling they would get to meet shortly.

 When the milkmaids arrived, they lifted their heads contentedly.

 “Excuse us, madams,” said Mercy, stepping forward this time.  “Perhaps you could tell where we might find the partridge? We were told that you would know.”

 “Why, of course dear!” said the first goose.  Her voice was that that only a mother could have when talking tenderly to a child.  “We know exactly where she is. She likes to roost among the pear trees.”

 “Thank you, kind madams,” said Mercy, giving a little curtsy.  She did not know if it was proper to do so, but it felt wrong to not do so.  Her fellow milkmaids followed suit, giving the geese a respectful curtsy.  “Perhaps you could tell us where the pear trees are? We are new to the Garden, and do not know our way around.”

 “Oh, you poor dears,” fussed the second goose.  “Wandering around the Garden, and no idea of how to get anywhere? It is a wonder you got this far then, I shouldn’t wonder. We would take you ourselves if it weren’t for the fact that we mustn’t leave these eggs alone. The Garden is safe, but it never hurts to be careful.”

 “Well, I shan’t tell them to go alone,” said the third goose.  “I would not want them to wander off and get lost again. Even with the best directions you can always take a wrong step, and next thing you know, you’re in the pumpkin patch!”

 “No need to worry,” said the fourth goose calmly.  “We shall send the calling birds with them. They will know where to go, and can stay with the girls so that they do not get lost. Now, you must wait for them,” she told the milkmaids sternly.

 The milkmaids agreed and settled themselves by the geese while the fifth goose let out a loud honk to tell the calling birds to come to them.  While they waited, the milkmaids told the geese of their mission, and the foxtail that was growing in their pasture.  The geese sympathized with their plight and fussed over the long journey that the milkmaids had to take to get the Garden.  The milkmaids let the geese fuss over them, for it was better to let the geese care for them and not to tell them that they did not need the care.  As it was, it felt nice to be cared for.  The geese made sure they still had enough food and water to continue on, and to make it back home.

 The two calling birds arrived shortly after the geese confirmed that the milkmaids would be able to travel quite comfortably.

 “Greetings!” said the first calling bird.  “We heard that someone is in need of our service?”

 “Yes, yes, these poor dears are looking for the partridge,” said the second goose.  “They are quite lost, as it is their first time in the Garden. Would you be so kind as to escort them to the pear trees so that they do not get lost?”

 “Most certainly!” said the second calling bird.  He swept into a bow as only a bird could.  “We can bring you straight to the partridge! However, we must tell you, that you will have to wait until nightfall to speak with her. For she is a very busy bird and does not come to rest until night.”

 “We can most certainly wait,” assured Mercy, giving the calling birds a curtsy in turn.  All this curtsying was making her legs tired.  She was not used to having to do this.

 “Right this way, then!” said the first calling bird.  He took off from the branch where he had landed and swiftly wove between the trees.  The second calling bird only took off when the milkmaids had started to follow, occasionally flying behind them or perching on their shoulder.  The first calling bird stopped when he had gone far enough, making sure the milkmaids knew where to go.  The second calling bird stayed with them to make sure they did not take a wrong turn and get lost.  He also had a very good singing voice and knew a great deal of songs, many of which he taught the milkmaids as they made their way to the pear trees.

 It was early evening when they arrived.  The calling birds brought them directly to the pear tree where the partridge would rest.  The milkmaids rested their weary legs underneath the tree.  Even though they tried to maintain a conversation with the calling birds, they eventually became too tired and fell asleep.

 They were awoken by a bright light from above them.  Looking up as they rubbed the sleep from their eyes, they saw light from a very bright star as a partridge came to rest in the branches of the pear tree above them.  She peered down at them curiously.

 “It is not every night that I come to find visitors beneath my tree,” said the partridge.  “What brings you here?”

 “O Great Partridge,” said Comfort.  She used such great titles because that is how one addresses the Ladies.  And if this partridge was to save them from their foxtail problem, it was only logical to refer to her like this.  “We have come to plead for your help. Our farm has a problem with foxtail- my sisters and I have all pulled it up, but it keeps returning. We were told by the Nine Ladies that you would be able to help us.”

 Peace held up the offering of nuts.  “We have brought you these as part of our request to come back with us,” said Peace.  “If you do, we will be forever indebted to you, for the foxtail is harmful to our cows, and our cows are our livelihood.”

 The partridge looked quite pleased with the request.  But not a pleased where she looked proud, but rather a pleased that she was happy they had asked her.  “Of course, daughters, I will come with you and take care of your foxtail. Now settle yourselves back to sleep so you are rested for the journey. In the morning, we shall head out.”

 The milkmaids thanked her profusely and settled back into sleep.

 In the morning, when they were still rising from their slumber and getting themselves ready to go, they were approached by three hens who prided themselves with knowing a language known as “French,” which was spoken in a realm very far from the Realm of the Ten Lords.  Though there were some who suspected that the hens had just made up a language of gibberish and claimed that it was real to make themselves seem well educated, especially since they could not speak any known languages besides the common tongue.

 But these hens were not here to boast of their language skills.  Instead, they looked quite concerned.  “Dear mademoiselles, you must not return the way you came,” they told the milkmaids.

 “Why is that?” asked Suffered.

 “We have it on good authority that the Great Horned Owl is expecting you,” they informed them.  “But he is not looking to get rid of foxtail, as he had told you. He was sharing with some of his friends how much he was going to enjoy partridge for dinner someday. If you return the way you came and meet with the Great Horned Owl, he will surely eat the partridge.”

 “Oh dear,” said Meek.  “That is something that we cannot let happen! But then, how are we to return?”

 “There is a hamlet of twelve drummers,” they told the milkmaids.  “Up in the hills, south of the Garden. If you go to them, they will provide you a way home.”

 The milkmaids thanked the hens for their advice.  They tucked the partridge all nice and cozy in the basket they brought for her, supplying her with their offering of nuts.  They then followed the hens’ advice and headed south out of the Garden.

 It was a hard journey to the hamlet.  It consisted only of twelve houses and one meeting house.  Each building sat on a hill of its own, and each hill was steep.  The drummers, who were not drummers by trade, would sit outside of their houses and drum with each other.  They only left their hills when they had to go to the meeting house to discuss important things that oculd not be said yelling across the dips between hills.

 When the milkmaids arrived, such an event demanded the use of the meeting house.  The drummers saw them from a long way off and were waiting for them there already.  The milkmaids collapsed on the ground, too tired from the journey to show proper decorum to the drummers.  Tearfully, the milkmaids told the drummers of their plight.  The drummers comforted them, telling them that they were safe.  The drummers provided for them blankets and makeshift beds so they could sleep in the meeting house.  Before bed, both the drummers and the milkmaids ate a lovely dinner of fruits, nuts, vegetables, and meat that each drummer harvested from his own hill.  The partridge remained in her basket, happily observing the dining.

 In the morning, the drummers came to the milkmaids.  They presented them with five golden rings.

 “These are magic rings,” said one of the drummers, who used congas.  “We use them when we want to leave the hills. They will take you back to your home without the Great Horned Owl’s knowledge.”

 The milkmaids thanked them as profusely as they thanked the hens.  They all partnered with another of the milkmaids, with Pure carrying the basket with the partridge.  One of the drummers, the one who played a timpani, accompanied them to show them how to use the rings and to take the rings back home after ensuring they got back safely.

 When they arrived at the Starry Night Farm, the milkmaids further showed their gratitude by gifting the timpani drummer with twelve bottles of their finest milk.

 They set the partridge amongst the foxtail, which had overtaken the whole pasture in their absence.  The partridge immediately set to work, eating away at all the foxtail.  When enough of it had been eaten, the milkmaids let the cows out, who had been safely shut away.

 Unbeknownst to the milkmaids, the Great Horned Owl realized that they were not going to return the way they came.  Enraged by their trickery, he himself flew to the Garden in hopes of finding the partridge.  Not knowing what a partridge looked like, he made sure to eat all the quail and grouse who considered themselves safe in the Garden.  When he realized that he still had not caught the partridge, he headed back to the Starry Night Farm to exact his revenge.

 The milkmaids were out in the pasture tending to their cows when the Owl arrived.  Talons spread, he swooped towards Spirit, who cried out in fear.  Her fellow milkmaids rushed to save her, but it was the partridge who jumped out in front of Spirit.

 The partridge fought fiercely, caring not that the Owl was bigger than her, nor that his talons were sharp and made to snatch her up.  To the Owl’s great surprise, she was stronger than she appeared and above all, determined.

 Just as the sun started to sink beneath the trees, the battle ended.  The Owl dragged himself away from the site of the battle into the uneaten foxtail and died from his wounds.

 The partridge remained where she was, beaten, bruised, and bloodied.  The milkmaids rushed to her side to find that she was already dead.

 The milkmaids wept bitterly, placing her in the basket that had been serving as her bed.  They brought the basket into the barn where they mourned the whole night.  Their tears exhausted them and they fell asleep around the basket.

 Morning came and peered through the slats of the barns.  The milkmaids blinked awake in its gaze.  There, in the middle of the largest sunbeam, sat the partridge, alive and well!  The milkmaids cried out in amazement and happiness.

 “O Great Partridge!” gasped Righteous.  “We thought you were surely gone! How joyous is it that you are not!”

 “Death could not keep me, daughter, after such a sacrifice,” said the partridge.  “I said I would take care of your foxtail, and I am not one to go back on my promises.”

 With great rejoicing, the milkmaids returned the pasture with partridge.  The carcass of the Owl was thrown out by the road, where worms, scavengers, and flies discovered it.  The partridge remained with the milkmaids and ate their foxtail.  The cows continued to be healthy and happy, and produced even finer milk than before.

For now, at least, they lived happily ever after.

[allisonreader]

This story has been a challenge and has been fighting me every step of the way. Because of that, it was giving me this feeling of not being terribly happy with it, though it’s not all that terrible. It’s just not coming off that writer high of "this is brilliant and flowing so well."

Here’s my story for the Christmas @inklings-challenge this year.

Technically it is related to my story The Hidden Royals. Particularly last year’s inklings story The Hidden Royals; The Spark, but it should be completely stand alone as well.

A Hidden Christmas

As Silvertide ended and Icecrowning began he found himself wondering how much longer King Roland's reign would last.

The rebellion had only been growing stronger in recent months. Though it had been started from the infancy of Roland’s reign.

They had lost many people in those early days before they went underground.

That said; Icecrowning was typically a more dangerous time of the year, due to the fact that it withheld the season of Christmas. Which couldn’t be openly celebrated due to Roland's stance on practicing Christianity was a crime punishable by death.

It made life hard. Although he and his family managed to keep it quiet, like their participation in the rebellion. A rebellion that was soon to come out of the shadows; but not until after Christmas.

For now, the poor boy who started the strengthening of the rebellion would be stuck in the cell across from Daniel. While his family was surely worrying about him.

He had gotten to know the young man; the stable boy, from the Shadefenian Royal Stables, fairly well since he was incarcerated at the end of Amberswell.

He had been on duty; sitting outside of Daniel’s cell, on the wooden chair that had been provided; due to his age, when the boy had been brought in.

News about the boy had spread before he had even stepped into the country. That he was being brought before Roland because he looked like a Ravenswood; though there was no definitive proof one way or another. Without that proof, Roland couldn’t completely condemn the young man. Not that that had stopped Roland before.

Which is why the young man; James Wood, had a cell across from Daniel and was on occasion interrogated about where his family was.

James stuck to his story, even when Roland had him whipped or otherwise turned violent. His resolve was strong.

Especially since he had admitted to him, that he was exactly who Roland thought he was and that his parents and older siblings were still alive.

Rumours that he might have confirmed to the rebellion. Of which helped add to its strength.

They had even managed to get a hold of Theodore. He would be sneaking into the country after the holidays to help lead and take back his country and son. Until that point, he went into work and watched young James shiver in cold while he and Daniel talked about the days under King Edgar’s rule with the boy.

Before he knew it, Christmas was upon them; and he worked.

His wife loaded his pockets with as many little Christmas goodies as she could. The previous day, he had stopped by to see Daniel's wife and pick up a letter from her. Which he had done before his family’s small meal together. They’d sneak a couple more of those type of meals in throughout the next few days. But, for now it was time to get to work.

"Merry Christmas Daniel, James." He greeted them.

"It’s Christmas?" James asked blinking a couple of times.

"Yes it is. Unfortunately though, it’s a banned celebration here. Anything more than a quiet mention could end up with me joining you in one of these cells."

"Really?" Was the next hesitant question from the young man. He came over to 'check' the lock on the cell and slipped James a handful of the homemade sweets that were in his pockets.

"Unfortunately yes, if the wrong person were to hear or come across such a celebration, those participating could be arrested if not executed. Many a Christian has ended up in the noose or lost their head. Depending upon how Roland feels. Terribly horrible thing. So the day and season are greatly ignored these days. In the sake and name of safety and what not. I only dare speak of it, because I know the men on duty won’t spread word of what’s being spoken of, if they were to check and overhear."

He moved away from James' cell and went over to Daniel’s. Giving him a couple sweets as well.

"I managed to bring a letter from your wife in." He handed the letter through the bars.

"Thank you. How are they?"

"She and the kids are doing well. They’re all healthy and remaining safe."

"Thank the Lord on this Sacred day."

"Indeed."

He went and sat down on his chair and helped himself to one of his own sweets. James came close to the bars of his cell, with his eyebrows furrowed slightly and jaw tense.

"Would it be dangerous to speak about what it used to be like?" The boy asked.

"Possibly, but I think for the day we can risk it," he answered.

"What was it like then? Before the day was banned?"

"Busy," Daniel laughed.

"Eventful," he agreed.

"There were feasts and the royal family would spend a few days throughout the season going around doing charity work. They would give each and everyone one of us who worked in and around the castle a present. A treat from the kitchens, often made by your family themselves, something practical that was needed and toys for families who had kids. Your father and grandfather gave my kids their presents in person the last year before his high and mighty took over," Daniel said.

"Time off was arranged for everyone for at least a day or two extra. More if they could get away with it," he said.

"What else was there?"

"Oh, too many things to tell you in a place like this. What did your parents tell you about their traditions?" he asked.

"That they never really got the chance to make any of them their own, before being forced to create ones from scratch."

"Well, one of those traditions that used to happen today, was that any of us who were working on the day, were invited to bring in our family and that’s when they would give us all gifts. Beyond that, they would sit down and share a meal with us. Sharing the work of the preparation and the clean up. Then the doors would be opened to anyone who might need a meal and a chance to warm up," Daniel said.

He straightened in his chair and hushed the pair of them, their meals were being brought, making it no longer safe to talk. For the rest of his shift Christmas wasn’t mentioned.

The next day on his shift, poor James was removed from his cell to be beaten again while being interrogated. The poor boy came back bruised and shivering harder than ever. None of them dared to bring up the topic of Christmas again.

🎄🎄🎄

I’m calling it complete, whether it is or not. I had wanted to do this whole thing with Wilson’s wife (the guard's wife) sneaking in to visit her husband, but actually being there to visit Daniel and James an bring them each a small blanket, hiding them as shawls to get them in. But, that was happening. So here’s this in the state that it is.

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

"have fun?" "exceedingly" is just normal character speak in all the worlds i write, idk about you

[bookshelf-in-progress]

A Song of Starlight: A Starfall Story

For the 2023 Inklings Christmas Challenge at @inklings-challenge, he's a story set and posted on December 28th--the Feast of the Holy Innocents.

A Song of Starlight

Johannes had once considered Oskar Abel a friend. The bright young manager who ran the theater, concert hall, and opera house funded by the Diriks starfall had secured Johannes the audition with the symphony orchestra, where he'd risen to first chair and featured violinist in this Christmas season's concerts. Now, as the slim, balding young man sat stiff and stone-faced behind the paper-strewn desk in his wood-paneled office, he looked like nothing but a toadying, soulless businessman.

Through the cracked-open window, Johannes could hear the daily rumble of the city street--the rattle of carriages, the distant chime of church bells, the shouts of girls selling stardust and boys selling newspapers. An entire world unaware that this supposed friend had just sent Johannes' world crashing down.

In a low voice, Johannes asked, "What do you mean, dismissed?"

Abel straightened a stack of papers against the top of his desk. "Lady Diriks has ordered that your employment with the Diriks Symphony Orchestra come to an end."

"Now? Three days after Christmas? In the middle of concert season?"

"Our patroness saw no other alternative." Abel pushed up his wire-rimmed spectacles. "I'm certain you're aware of the theft of one of the stars from the chandelier."

"Aware? The entire orchestra's been talking about nothing else since Christmas Eve!"

"I'm afraid suspicion has fallen on you."

Johannes' blood ran cold.

The star chandelier had been planned as the crowning glory of the Diriks family's new concert hall. Their mountain starfall was the prime landing place for solara stars--the largest and brightest stars that gave off the purest white light--and the intricate silver chandelier would hold a thousand of them. Lady Diriks' own son had supervised the construction, cutting every facet of every star himself. The day before its grand unveiling, one whole star had gone missing. Lady Diriks was out for blood.

Johannes had never dreamed it would be his blood.

After the shock passed, Johannes' temper rose. "What does that have to do with me? I've never seen the star! I barely walk past the workroom!"

The manager polished his glasses. "I'm afraid the circumstantial evidence against you is strong."

"What circumstantial evidence?"

"Several witnesses maintain that you were the last one in the building before the star was stolen."

"I stay late every night. I'm the featured violinist! This could make my career! I can't practice at home when I've got two sleeping daughters."

"You have recently purchased notably more expensive clothing."

"One suit! That I've been saving up for since July! I can't play for an audience of starfall elites in my old Sunday clothes."

"Stardust has been found in your dressing room."

"Cufflinks!" As the manager's face twisted in confusion, Johannes explained, "I can't afford real star fragments. I bought glass beads filled with stardust. They look almost like the real thing, but they shattered the first time I fastened them."

None of his explanations had any effect on the manager's placid face. "Nevertheless," Abel said, putting his glasses back on his face, "until a more thorough investigation can determine the star's whereabouts, Lady Diriks has deemed it best that you not be allowed on the premises."

"And how do they plan to give the Christmas concerts? Who else is supposed to play my solos?"

"Lars Henning is quite familiar with the music."

"Henning!" Johannes spat. "He's the one who accused me, isn't he?"

The manager blinked and did not speak.

The delay, the hesitation--he might as well have said it aloud.

Henning had hated Johannes since the day he had been given first chair. Johannes had seen the contempt and envy in his eyes every moment of every day. Henning couldn't accept that a starcatcher's son could rise above a scion of one of the city's wealthiest houses.

Johannes snarled, "And he's believed because his father owns a starfall while mine only gathered the stars that fell on it!"

Abel straightened his spectacles. "I assure you that no individual witness had any effect on our patroness' decision."

It would have made all the difference in the world. Starfall stock held fast to their own.

Johannes felt like the floor was falling out from under him. His anger turned into desperation. He leaned over the desk looked into the manager's eyes. "Oskar," he said, man to man, friend to friend, "you have to help me. I've worked for years to get here. I have a wife at home. Children. They need me to bring in--"

The manager's face softened. "A man of your talent will find employment in another company."

Johannes barked a humorless laugh. "A suspected star thief? Accused by Lady Diriks herself? They won't let me near the footlights!"

The manager sighed, and for a moment, he looked almost human. "I'm very sorry, Vinter, but the decision is out of my hands."

If he were sorry, he would have done something. Instead he'd caved to their patroness' demands without question. The odious, spineless, toadying pencil-pusher. A man of business in a house of art. If Johannes shook him, his brains would probably clink like coins.

Johannes picked up his violin and stormed toward the office door. "That'll be a comfort to me when my children are in the poorhouse, I'm sure."

#

Johannes refused to slink out of the theater like a disgraced criminal, so he put on his hat, overcoat, scarf, and gloves with professional precision, took up his violin case, and strode through the main lobby of the Diriks Concert Hall. The silver chandelier sprawled overhead, its million arms curling like ocean waves. In the light of day, its thousand stars were shuttered in closed lanterns that could be opened with the turning of a single lever. The masterpiece of Lord Bastiaan Diriks himself. Johannes hoped he'd go blind from it.

A single star missing out of a thousand, and Johannes' life was destroyed--his dreams, his hopes, an entire lifetime of work. Johannes' father had nurtured his talent for music, working double shifts to pay for his music lessons and later, to cover the costs that came even to students who went to the music schools on a full scholarship.

You're made for more than the starfields, his father had said. Find a job where they don't search your pockets for stars at sunrise like you're a common thief.

Now here Johannes was, a rising violinist in a prestigious symphony orchestra, cast out for the theft of a star. He could have laughed at the irony if he'd had any heart for it.

Outside, the sky was bright but overcast, sending down a light shower of snowflakes. Carriages rattled past, horses' hooves clattering on the cobblestones. The sidewalks were crowded with the skirts of window-shopping ladies, their children gazing in awe upon the the beautiful theaters. Johannes had hoped to bring his children here someday to see him play. Clara was almost old enough to come. She and Dorit would stay home this year, but his wife Agathe had tickets for the front row on New Year's Eve.

He couldn't face them yet. Couldn't come home in the afternoon when they wouldn't expect him until after midnight. He couldn't go into a tavern or cafe. He didn't dare to waste money on dining or drinking, and had no wish for company who'd know his face and want his story.

So he walked. Up and down the streets of the cruel stone city that had once been the fulfillment of all his hopes. Past markets filled with the luxuries he'd never be able to buy his children. Past houses owned by people who didn't know what it was to struggle and scrimp and have all your dreams destroyed. Past towering churches that seemed to laugh at all his prayers.

Night came early this time of year, and soon the city was darkening to match his mood. The lampkeepers emerged to uncover the streetlamps and unveil the common yellow star fragments within. High above in the clear, cold sky, a million stars, white and distant, seemed to mock him. Johannes knew the old tales of stars falling down to make the fortune of the penniless, virtuous hero who stumbled upon the treasure. If those stories had ever had any truth to them, they were only fantasy now. Should the largest, brightest star in all the heavens fall at his feet, Lady Diriks and her like would see him thrown in prison for touching it.

Ragged urchins came out of the shadows to gather stardust that had fallen from the lamps, or to offer it as heat or light to passersby. Johannes took a pinch of warming dust offered by a dirty-faced girl, placed it in his gloves, and immediately regretted the eighth-krenin he tossed her. He was like her now--always had been, he supposed--living off whatever scraps the rich saw fit to spare him, and he could spare few coins now.

Children shouted as a carriage sped through the streets--large and glossy, with gilded scrollwork and four of its very own star lamps. Through an open curtain, Johannes glimpsed a woman in a red silk gown who wore a dozen colored star fragments as jewels in her hair. Late to the theater, no doubt.

Were Johannes still with the orchestra, he'd be tuning up now. About to play one of the finest symphonies ever written for a crowd of the city's elite--people who'd paid hundreds of krenins to hear him play.

Johannes' temper rose. Lady Diriks had money enough to keep the world's finest musicians as trained pets, and keep the music they played as a luxury for the rich. All these people in the streets around him--good-hearted housewives, grocers, seamstresses, lampkeepers, even dustgirls--could not dream of such wonders.

Johannes could give them the symphony--his part of it, at least. His violin was tuned, his fingers were trained. He could give these people music that the wealthy of the city spent hundreds to hear. If Lady Diriks didn't want him, he would give her music away.

Johannes strode into the pool of yellow light cast by the nearest star lamp. With brisk motions, he set down his case, removed his gloves, picked up his violin, and began to play.

#

Birgit rushed toward the shining pile of stardust near the lamp post. She knelt on the frozen walkway and tried to gather the glowing treasure into Mama's little clay jar. Mama said falling stardust was the cleanest--Birgit should have been here when the lampkeeper uncovered and cleaned the lamp--but maybe Birgit could wash it in the fountain near the church. She'd watched Mama do it a hundred times. Stardust floated, and she could skim it up with her cloak. Then she could take it to the glassmaker on 42nd Street. He was kindest and gave the most coins.

Birgit had to sell all the stardust she could. Stardust meant coins, which meant clothes and bread and maybe a bed. There was no Mama to get these things. Mama was cold and white and stiff, and Birgit was too afraid to go in the room with those open, frozen eyes.

The memory of this morning put tears in Birgit's eyes. She wasn't crying. She was too big to cry--nearly six years old. But with no Mama--there was no Mama--Birgit felt very small, and the world felt very big and dark and cold. The icy wind sent cold knives through Birgit's threadbare cloak. She huddled against the lamp post and felt too sad and afraid to move.

In the light of the next lamp, a man stopped. He wore a thick brown coat and had shiny black boots. The lamplight made him glow, like the angels holding stars in the big church. Birgit sat up and watched.

The man set a case on the ground and pulled out a fiddle. Then he began to play.

Birgit had heard fiddles before, in taverns and on street corners, but this fiddle sang as those fiddles never had. Its voice was sweet and soft, rich and pure, like angels or lullabies. It sang to the stars, its voice reaching, stretching, quavering, making Birgit think of being warm in Mama's arms.

The song became louder, faster, richer, warmer. It made Birgit think of dancing, of candles, of the big church on Copper Hill. The cold, dark world fell away. Birgit forgot who and where she was. She knew only the music, beautiful and bright, so real that everything else seemed like shadows. Her spirit swam, soared, and danced, following the song high and low, happy and sad, joy and sorrow and so many feelings that Birgit thought she might burst. Stars surrounded her, all sizes and colors, coming down from heaven to hear the music with her.

After eternity had come and gone, the song slowed and faded away, and Birgit was herself again--cold and alone, but no longer afraid.

The music was a warm and glowing treasure in her heart, a bright, beautiful secret that no one could take away from her. And on the ground, in the lamplight, was money. Big silver coins and little copper ones, sitting in and around the man's black case. The stars had brought it, Birgit knew. She knew the stories, had seen it herself. They had come to the call of the music and turned into money. Money that meant clothes and fire and bread for sad and lonely girls.

Birgit forgot to be tired and rushed toward the money. It had fallen from heaven, so it was free to take, just like stardust. She gathered handfuls of coins, holding them close against her dress.

And then a shadow blocked the starlamp, and Birgit remembered to be afraid again.

#

Johannes saw the stars surround him as he played. At Christmastime, everyone who owned anything with the faintest claim toward being a piece of star jewelry--whether it was a fragment in a necklace, a shard in a ring, or even just some stardust on a hair comb--would wear it on the street. The people that surrounded him wore stars in all colors and sizes, but he could barely do more than glance at them, because the music had him in its thrall.

When Johannes emerged from the song, he was surprised to see the coins at his feet. At first, he was ashamed--he, classically trained, being thrown coins like a common beggar. But that was what he was now, or would be. Once the story spread, respectable people might refuse to give him even coins.

A small, ragged form darted out of the shadows started swiping coins from his case. Johannes' blood rose. The dirty little urchin! Were the creatures everywhere? A plague, an infestation on this city, stealing food from his children's mouths.

Johannes lunged for the coins, prepared to fight off the thief.

The thief looked up, and they met, face-to-face. She was young. A child. As young as his little Clara--no, younger. With sunken cheeks, unbrushed brown hair, bony hands, fingers and nails blue from the cold. Her little gray cloak was thinner than his shirt. Her shoes, scuffed and tattered, barely fit on her feet.

She had nothing, this tiny girl, fighting for her life in the cold, hard city. And he, with a thick overcoat, new shoes, a warm house, and a violin worth a small fortune, had been prepared to fight her for a handful of krenin. Johannes was ashamed of himself.

As the child stared at him, frozen with terror, Johannes gathered a handful of coins and dumped them into the girl's lap. He placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder.

"Little girl," he asked. "Do you have somewhere to get out of the cold?"

#

Agathe, bless her, understood everything. She gave the child--Birgit--a warm bath and a clean set of clothes--Clara's smallest were still too large on her--while Johannes told her what he had gathered of the girl's history. Her mother dead just this morning--frozen to death, by the sound of it. She had no lice, thank goodness, nor signs of any catching disease, so they gave her a cot near the kitchen stove, after feeding her what they thought she could safely stomach of thin porridge and plain bread.

As Birgit curled up beneath a pink-and-white patchwork quilt, she looked something like a kitten snuggling before a fire, not so different from Clara at that age. She clutched the cloth bag full of coins--she insisted on calling it "star money"--to her chest like a rag doll

"We could take her to the sisters in the morning," Agathe said. "They'll know what to do with her."

"She may have family still living. I could make inquiries."

He'd have time to, now that he was not needed at the concert hall.

"I should have been playing onstage just then," Johannes said. "If I hadn't been there, what would have become of her?" He had a sudden vision of that little face, white and frozen in an alleyway, unseen by dozens of comfortably prosperous people passing by.

Agathe took his hand. "You had far more important places to play tonight."

Johannes looked down upon his wife, the lamplight giving her brown hair an angelic glow. He'd been so concerned for himself--his loss of status, the death of dreams--and so afraid of disappointing his wife and children. Yet his saintly little wife saw only the good this disaster had brought.

"What about tomorrow?" Johannes asked softly. "And all the days after? The story will spread. I may not get work with another orchestra."

"People know you," Agathe said firmly. "They ought to know that the man who'd take in a starving child would never steal a star. If they don't know it, you don't want to play for them."

"Who else can I play for?" Johannes asked. "We can't raise two girls off of coins from the street. I have no other trade."

"Talent like yours will find release. On another city's stage. As a teacher. Even if you only play at home, it will do some good in the world. Whatever happens, God will provide." She squeezed his hand. "It is nice to have you home at Christmastime for a change."

In the distance, church bells chimed the hour. Snowflakes fell softly outside the window. The white walls of the kitchen were bright and clean, the room warm and cozy. This was more pleasant than a practice room.

Boards creaked heavily in the hall, and two small, bleary-eyed girls in white nightdresses peered into the kitchen.

"Girls," Agathe cried, moving toward them. "What are you doing up?"

Clara and Dorit raced past her, their faces alight with joy. "Papa!" Clara shrieked, throwing her arms around his waist. Dorit pressed her face against his legs. Johannes crouched to gather them in his arms.

"You're home early!" Clara said as Johannes pressed a kiss into her hair.

"I couldn't spend another night away from my girls," Johannes said.

Birgit started awake, sitting upright and wide-eyed as she goggled at the riotous little intruders.

Dorit tugged at Johannes' sleeve. "Who's that?"

How to explain a dustgirl--unimaginable poverty and desperation--to such innocents? "She's a little friend who needed a place to sleep. I met her when I was playing my violin on the street."

Clara seized one of her Johannes' wrists and tried to drag him toward where his violin case sat on the kitchen table. "Can you play for us, Papa? We haven't had any Christmas music yet! You give it all to everyone else."

Johannes was startled. When was the last time he'd played for the girls? He'd spent so much time practicing at the concert hall lately, living deep within the symphony, that he hadn't considered how little music they had in their lives.

On the cot, little Birgit sat with tangled hair and dark circles under her eyes. Johannes told his daughters, "Maybe tomorrow. Our guest needs to sleep."

The girls broke into an outcry of, "No!" and "Please, Papa!"

To his surprise, one of the voices was a small, raspy one from the cot.

Johannes crouched beside the little dustgirl. "Would you like to hear some music?"

The little girl's eyes glowed with wonder, as if he'd just offered to do magic. "Please," she whispered.

Johannes clapped his hands against his knees. "Very well." He sprang to his feet and removed his violin from its case with a flourish. It glowed golden-brown in the lamplight, and seemed to be quivering--almost alive--beneath his fingers. He placed the rest between his chin and held the bow over the strings.

He basked in the glow of in his warm little kitchen, with snowflakes falling outside, surrounded by the shining eyes of his wife and daughters and one adoring little dustgirl. He was home with his family instead of hidden away in a practice room. A child who might not have survived the night was now warm and safe. What were concerts, accusations, and even Lars Henning's jealousy, compared to that? All troubles could wait until morning. For now, Johannes would be grateful.

With a smile, Johannes touched his bow to the strings and played a song about a Christmas star.

[physicsgoblin]

I'm with Lewis on this one. I love Christmas too much to make fantasy worlds without it

[queenlucythevaliant]

Heartstrings

Written for the @inklings-challenge Christmas Challenge 2023.

It is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. And if that boisterous Channel, and two hundred miles or so of land come broad between us, I am afraid that cord of communion will be snapt; and then I’ve a nervous notion I should take to bleeding inwardly.

Jane Eyre, Charlotte Brontë

The string was still there, knotted beneath Rose’s left ribs. She was driving 75 miles an hour down the freeway in her ten-year-old Carolla, the radio on at a buzz. Outside the window, miles and miles of monotonous New York forest passed by. 

Her sister Joan was asleep in the passenger's seat, medical gauze still visible beneath her pale pink blouse. She dozed uneasily, turning her head occasionally from side to side, or else sniffling faintly. Rose hummed along to the radio and tried not to focus on the pulling sensation in her chest. 

Everyone has a heartstring that leads them home, which for Rose meant Eastledge Church in the Massachusetts town of the same name. Heartstrings are thick and fibrous, made of many smaller cords all twisted together. Rose's string had been wrapped round her heart in many tight loops over the course of her childhood, constricting her cardiac muscle while simultaneously holding it safe and secure. She didn’t know if her heart could beat without it. 

So: she drove. Exit in 143 miles, rest stop in ten. 

Eastledge Church was rotten. It had black mold in the walls and liars in the pulpit. Rose knew she should cut the string that tied her there. She wanted to. Joan had managed to yank out her own heartstring, but it had bled and bled and she’d needed two trips to the ER before it was safe for her to travel. Even now, she was pale and weak from the bloodloss. 

Still, Rose knew she should cut the string. She kept a pair of scissors in the glove box, in case she ever got up the courage to do it. 

“Where are we?” murmured Joan. She stirred a little, carefully shifting her weight away from the left side of her body. 

“You missed the Erie Canal– or, well, the picnic area anyway. There’s a rest stop with an Arby’s in like ten miles if you want dinner.” 

They arrived at their hotel in Buffalo just after two in the morning. Rose had an ache in her hamstring from working the gas pedal, but it was nothing compared to a chest wound. Both she and Joan had forgotten to call ahead from the road, so they had to wait while the front desk concierge went to find the manager and ask if he could still check people in once they’d started the night audit. The manager appeared at the front desk a few minutes later and told Rose curtly that it would be a while yet. 

“It’s standard practice at hotels.”

“I know,” said Rose. “I’m sorry. There’s a problem with my heartstring, see? And my sister’s got ripped out. We had other worries. I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” the manager answered dubiously. “Well, make yourself comfortable in the lobby and we’ll let you know when we can check you in.”

It was three by the time Rose finally stumbled into the room and collapsed onto the hard mattress. Joan came in behind her, barely coherent through the fog of her exhaustion. The light in the bathroom was flickering, but Rose didn’t care. Her heartstring hummed with promises of rest. Turn around, it seemed to say. You know you won’t be able to sleep the night until you’re back home.

“Screw you,” Rose said aloud. 

“Hmm?” 

“Not you. The church, Pastor Mark, and this stupid string in my chest.”

“Hmm,” agreed Joan. 

Rose indulged herself for a long moment in imagining the violent demise of an elder who had taught her to play Go in the welcome room once, and who had made excuses for the rot in the walls many years later. Her heart thrummed like a violin string. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. 

The next day, they drove as far as Gary, Indiana. Rose could feel her string getting tangled whenever she got on another exit; she worried about it even changing lanes. 

“Mind if I put on something a little more upbeat?” said Joan when Rose winced on a long merge. “I think we could both use it.”

“I don't think it'll help, really.”

“Alright, but maybe it'll get us singing along?”

Rose waved her hand in a way that meant “fine.” She bobbed her head to the peppy pop song her sister selected and tried to enjoy the drive. It was pretty country, a sunny day, and they kept passing signs for different scenic lakes along the way. 

“Finger Lake, Elbow Lake… do ya think we're building an arm?” she quipped, feeling lighter. 

But when Rose tried to start the car outside the diner where they’d stopped for lunch, her key wouldn’t turn in the ignition. Joan was paying for parking, but when she slid into the passenger's seat, careful not to jar her stitches, Rose threw her head down on the steering wheel and sobbed. She turned to her sister, questions about oil cans and engines on the tip of her tongue, but right then her heartstring yanked so hard on her heart that all she could manage to say was, “It hurts.”

“I know Rosie. I know it does,” Joan said back. “Mine does too.”

Fortunately, there was an Ace Hardware half a mile away. Rose left Joan with the car and walked there, then paid for the lubricant Google said she needed and headed back. There were still so many miles to drive that day, so much string left to unspool.  

On the way to St. Cloud, they changed time zones. Rose felt it deep in her chest when they passed from Eastern to Central time: a jolt on her string, like lightning down a kitestring. 

“Did you feel that?”

“I didn’t feel anything,” said Joan. 

“No, I guess you wouldn’t.” Rose stared at the glovebox a long moment before she remembered to keep her eyes on the road. There was only an hour difference between Eastledge and here, but with all that time pulling steadily against her ribs, Rose could feel every minute of it. 

Joan suggested calling their parents when they reached their hotel that night, before both sisters remembered that they would be asleep by now. Rose wondered if Pastor Mark was sleeping too. She hoped he had nightmares. She hoped he woke up with guilt pressing hard on his chest. 

They drove past Chicago in a heavy drizzle and spent two hours sitting in traffic. Joan tried calling their parents again, since there was nothing else to do. “I don’t know how you and Dad stand it,” she murmured. “Staying in town with your strings half-frayed. Isn’t it killing you?”

“Sometimes,” said their mother. “But your father and I have spent our whole lives reorienting our hearts. We've had to do it many times, and it never gets easier, but we get better at it.”

“Do you blame Rose and me at all– for leaving?”

“Of course not. But we'll miss you at Christmas.”

That night, Rose and Joan snuggled up together on a hotel room queen bed and watched the second half of some Julia Roberts movie that was playing on cable. Joan cracked jokes about the female lead's neuroses and by the time the credits rolled she was lying half on top of Rose. Their hearts were beating in time, and suddenly Rose was grateful, so grateful not to be alone with this grief.

They'd been traveling for days now and Rose's heartstring grew more and more taught by the mile. Now, if she touched it, blinding agony would shoot through her chest. Even just the glancing brush of a fingertip over the fibers squeezed her heart until all she could think of was the place under the stairs where she’d hidden for hours once when she was eight, sleeping bags spread out across the sanctuary floor, or sneaking into the kitchen during summer VBS. 

“Do you remember those lantern light picnics they used to do for a while? Right as summer was ending, you know, and the whole congregation came out for it, and it was just kind of magic?”

“Yeah. I also remember ditching it that one time and running out to the creek with Olivia and Liam.”

“What about that tea and testimony women’s event when they asked me to be on the panel?”

“Don’t remember that one. I didn’t think you ended up doing it?”

“I didn’t. Prior commitment. But it felt nice to be asked.”

“Mmm. I felt the same way when they asked me to do the layout for the new photo directory.”

“Teaching Sunday School. Nursery. Organizing the craft closet and going crazy with the label maker.”

“Mmm. Food drives, clothing drives, and silly little theatricals.”

“Remember when I got to sing ‘Do You Hear What I Hear?’ at the Christmas pageant? And the year you were Mary? And that one play after I aged out where you spray dyed your hair gray?”

“Some of it. I was pretty young for the first one. And I’m trying to forget as much about church plays as I can. Mr. Pierce directed them all, and I don’t want to think about him at all if I can help it. Not after what he said to Mom.”

Rose sighed. 

“Yeah, that's true. It's a bad lot, top to bottom. Anyway. How’s your heart?”

“It’s doing better, I think. The wound’s not seeping anymore. Sometimes, it barely hurts at all.”

It was Christmas Eve when they arrived in Helena. A Wednesday. Rose pulled into their aunt’s driveway and parked, then they both went inside to greet the extended family. Joan called their parents to tell them she and Rose had arrived safe. 

They had dinner with the family, but then the sisters went and sat together on the guest bed for an hour trying to figure out what came next. Rose pulled at the string beneath her left ribs until she could barely stand it, trying to decide if she could bear the Christmas Eve service her aunt and uncle attended. Joan just sat scrolling mindlessly on her phone, trying to forget for a while. 

They both wanted to go to church on Christmas Eve. That was maybe the cruelest part. Rose’s heart longed for carols and Scripture readings with a tender ache altogether different from the ever-present, stripped-raw yanking of the string. Joan was healing, and didn’t want to dwell on losing Eastledge any more than she’d already done. 

“I’m going, I think,” Joan said finally. It was nine p.m. and the service began at eleven. 

“I’m not,” whispered Rose. “I just can’t. It hurts too much.”

She made an apology to her relatives while Joan went to get dressed, gesturing vaguely at the place beneath her left ribs. Once the house was empty, she resigned herself to the tinny sound of carols played over her phone speaker and a few whispered prayers. When she prayed, Rose heard Pastor Mark’s voice as often as her own. Sometimes he told the truth, but most of the time he lied.

Oh God. This time back home, they’d be singing “The First Noel.” They’d be lighting candles soon, and the upstairs sanctuary under whose stairs she used to hide would glitter when they turned off the lights. 

When the churchgoing party got home, half an hour after midnight, Joan found her sister in the guest bath. She was sobbing and covered in blood. 

“I cut it,” Rose whispered. “I cut my heartstring. I couldn’t bear not being at the service–not the one here and not the one at home– so I cut it out of me. I took the scissors and I just– I– I think I’m bleeding.” She looked up. “I am bleeding, right? This is all my blood.”

There was blood oozing out of the wound in her chest, but it was on her hands too. It was on her lips, her nose, and how had even that happened? “I’m bleeding,” Rose said again. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop.”

Joan called an ambulance, but first she reached back and unzipped her dress. She pulled it over her head and stood there, in her bra and black tights and nylon slip in front of her bleeding sister. “Mine stopped,” she said, slowly peeling back the gauze that covered her heart. The wound was shut, though the scar was still red and angry. “It hurt a lot tonight, Rosie, but it’s not bleeding. Yours will stop too. I promise.”

They spent Christmas night in the ER. “It’s a busy night in this ward,” one of the nurses remarked. “Lots of people pick tonight to tear away their heartstrings. It’s the worst night of the year for people who can never go home.” 

The Sunday after Christmas, Rose felt light-headed as she stepped into her aunt and uncle's church. She’d missed the carols, but some of the decorations were still up. The altar cloth was still white and gold, and so it would remain for a few days yet. 

Everything was either an echo or a contrast to Eastledge. “I wish they wouldn’t sing this song,” said Rose in her sister’s ear, pressing a hand to the place beneath her ribs where her heartstring had been. 

After the service, Rose went up to the front of the church and stood in front of the altar. She reached out and ran her fingers over the scalloped edge of the cloth, wanting to salvage some Christmas joy but instead only able to imagine the corresponding cloth a thousand miles away in Eastledge, Massachusetts. 

No, no, none of that. Rose screwed her eyes shut and she forced her thoughts back into something like order. She thought about Christ Incarnate leaving his home in heaven. Which way had his heartstring pulled him, she wondered. Had it tied him back to the Father, or had his heartstring led him straight to the cross?

“Eastledge Church broke my heart,” she didn't quite whisper. “You broke my heart, God, and I don't know what comes next.”

There was no immediate answer, but the gold threads against her fingertips were rough and scratchy. They ran along the white cloth in embroidered images of starbursts, crowns, and crosses. Her fingernail caught on a loose end, which unraveled a little when she drew her hand away. 

Before Rose quite understood what was happening, that loose end of golden thread had disentangled itself from the altar cloth and was hanging in the air before her eyes. As she watched, one glittering end wove its way towards her chest, underneath the bandage and through her skin. With a strange gentleness, the thread wound its way past her left ribs and tied itself, she was certain, in a knot around her heart. The string gave a little tug, but it didn't hurt her; Rose felt only a delicious warmth that began in her heart and seemed to radiate all through her body, from the hairs on her head to the tips of her toes. 

For an instant, Rose assumed that the other end of the thread was still embedded in the altar cloth; that this was God's way of telling her that she belonged here, at this church. Yet as her eyes traced the length of golden thread, they found themselves gazing up, where a faint shimmering was just visible high up in the rafters. 

“It doesn't end there,” she realized. With that, Rose turned and sprinted down the aisle and out of the church. 

The gray December sky was dotted with snowflakes. When Rose raised her head, they fell in her lashes and she had to blink them away. Yet there, high above her, she could see her golden heartstring vanishing into the clouds. 

“It leads to the Throne Room,” said a voice beside her. Rose turned and saw Joan standing beside her, with Rose's own coat draped over her arm. “I think it must.”

“Yours too? I mean, did your heartstring–”

“Yes. Christmas night, in the hospital with you. I looked up and it seemed to be unfurling down from the ceiling like Jacob's Ladder.”

“You never said.” Rose sniffed hard, not sure if it was the cold or the overwhelming emotion that caused it. 

“I don't think it's the sort of experience you can talk about, much. Put on your coat, Rosie. I won't say let's go home, not now– but the car is warming up, and I bet I can get Auntie to make us some cocoa.”

[shakespearean-fish]

Strange Light

(something for the @inklings-challenge Christmas challenge)

The dark seemed to fall earlier every day. It couldn’t be much past the eleventh hour, and yet the clouded sky was already deepening into blue dusk. He needed somewhere to shelter for the night, a place in the trees and underbrush where the snow had fallen less heavily. The second night had been the best; he’d found an abandoned burrow and curled up to sleep with a drift of dry leaves to cover him. But, of course, he couldn’t stay there.

Although it was never said, he’d known full well when they pronounced the banishment that they meant to let him die in the wild. The allotment of food they’d sent with him was only just enough for two days; he’d made it last for five, and this was the sixth. Nothing was growing except for the brambles of withered yellow berries that meant poison, blindness if he was lucky and a stricken heart if he wasn’t. He told himself that there might be another town soon and a house willing to take him in, but it grew harder and harder to believe. Even if any such place lay in his path, he was of no worth to anyone.

As he toiled on, with snow drifting around his ankles and stray twigs reaching to tear at his cloak, he heard a strange sound carried by the wind. Deep voices, singing a melody that he tried to follow, in words of a language he could not understand. The hope that he was not alone drove him forward, but when the trees thinned and a clearing opened ahead, what he saw there froze his heart.

Five figures sat around a bright fire. They were taller than any man, with coats of grey fur and a pair of curling black horns on each head. The woodspeople, those in the town called them, although there were other, worse names. He had never seen one before, but he’d heard the stories. Hush, mothers would say to unruly children, or the woodspeople will come and take you away. It was said that they were savage, no better than beasts; that they would kill travelers and hang their bodies from the trees. The five ended their song. He was about to draw quickly back into the forest when the smallest one caught sight of him and shouted. “Look! What is that?” it said curiously, in the manner of a child. “It’s all hairless like a new cub.”

The other four turned to see him. “That is a man,” one replied. “And not quite full-grown.”

The tallest of them rose and stepped toward him; he would have run, but he had no strength left. To his own shame, all at once he began to weep, finally undone by fear and hunger and weariness. The creature gazed at him with dark eyes. “Poor little one,” it said. “Come.”

A pair of strong yet terribly gentle arms lifted him and set him down by the fireside. He sat there too stunned to move or speak, too numb to think of anything but the warmth beginning to loosen the dayslong ache in his bones. Perhaps it was a trap, a lure to keep him from escaping, but he no longer cared. They kept silent around him until his weeping stilled. The one on his right, who had answered the child, brought out a leather flask from a pouch at its side. “This will better you.” He drank and found the taste sweet but poignant on his tongue, and his hunger eased. “Where are you from?” the creature asked.

“From the town to the west.”

“What led you here? Where are you journeying?”

“I—I don’t know.” He was unsure of what to say, no more wanting to give them the truth than to lie.

The tallest looked at him keenly, but its face was grave and sad, as if remembering what it did not wish to. “They cast you out,” it said. “I have seen others in these woods.”

Under the creature’s eye, he couldn’t deny it. The words choked in his throat, and he only nodded in answer. “But that’s cruel,” the child cried.

“There is much cruelty in this world.” The tallest sighed. “Stay at least the night with us. In the morning, we can set you on a path to the next town, if that is your intent.”

“You are very kind. They always said you were dangerous,” he faltered, before he knew what he was saying. He thought they might be angered, but another of the creatures shook its head.

“Men are determined to fear us, and so they do. We did not expect one of them to come so near.”

“I followed your voices. Please, what were you singing? It—it was beautiful.”

“It is an old song for the coming of the Light.”

“What is the Light?”

“Who is the Light,” said the tallest in surprise. “Little one, has no one ever told you?”

The darkness was now drawn close around, the flames glowing golden on their faces, and they began to tell him a story that he did not know. And as he listened it warmed him more than the fire did, and filled him more than food.

[l-e-morgan-author]

@inklings-challenge Today is the first installment of my Christmas novella, The Patience of Hope.

Each day's instalment will be released at the same time each day, and linked on this blog ten minutes later. I may have to edit the posts to make the link display properly, since I'm scheduling the posts a week or two in advance. Posting daily for the next twelve days. (I may be foolish.)

Please advise if I can or should @ the inklings challenge on future posts (because it's being scheduled early they will be individual posts, but I don't expect to make more than one different post on this blog in that time).

(I can add a pinglist for following posts, just @ me if you want to be added.)

[larissa-the-scribe]

Mission: Fallen Star (Pt 1)

For Christmas/New Years, and the @inklings-challenge Christmas 2023.

The night outside Home was dark and warm, and, from what Ashley could see through the second floor's infoscope, clear. The perfect night to catch a falling star. 

She shook Peter awake--he had fallen asleep almost immediately after Daddy had put them to bed--and hovered over him, his glasses in hand, as he groaned himself awake. 

"Home was right," she thought to him. "It's a good night."

"It's only midnight," he thought back, the groaning carrying over to his thoughts. "Shouldn't we go a little later?"

She shook her head. Some kids just didn't have a sense of the important. "We don't know how long this will take, so we gotta take all the time we can. Besides, Mommy and Daddy both went to bed hours ago." Well, one hour ago, but it all amounted to the same fact: Mommy and Daddy were asleep.

Peter was still mumbling incoherent and disgruntled sounds to himself as he sat up and accepted the glasses, sniffling a bit from sleepiness as he put them on. 

"Your hair is a mess."

He stuck his tongue out at her.

Luckily, Ashley was too mature to respond to such behavior. Instead, she shoved his (new) backpack towards him. Hers was already on, and her hair was in good order. She had a sense of the important. She had used her new hair ties, too, and the beads on them made such satisfying clicking sounds when she shook her head at him.

"Remember, this is for Mommy and Daddy," she thought. 

He looked at her a tad resentfully as he pushed his way to his feet and slung the backpack on. "I know."

"We can sleep when we get back."

"I know."

Satisfied that he was properly on track again, she set her mind to the next phase: sneaking out of the house.

As far as Ashley could guess, it wouldn't be difficult. The front door wouldn't be locked--no one who wasn't supposed to be there could be there--and Home was slow and sleepy at this time of night. She could tell. Home sounded sleepy. The lights were all off. There were only the sounds of Home's little settlings to punctuate the darkness. And while Home worked as well as ever, Home didn't respond very quickly to Ashley when she said good morning to it. 

Home's stairs creaked ever so slightly as the two children stole their way down the stairs, a vague stirring of curiosity. But not enough to arouse it much. 

Ashley and Peter had already had an extensive argument about whether or not he could just run downstairs and wait for her outside. True, he'd be out in an instant, but Ashley insisted that it would be more suspicious if Mommy was still awake, and Mommy had really good senses. She would hear all the sounds even if they were over right away. And it might wake Home up.

Peter had finally relented, but, as they crept carefully down each bronze-and-wood step, she could hear him thinking about how long this sneaking was taking.

Despite his mental complaints, they were soon at the bottom of the stairs. From there, they just had the living room, then the Doorway, then the hall, and then the Door itself. 

Ashley stopped Peter at the foot of the stairs, poking her head around the stairwell wall to look into the living room and kitchen. 

For a brief second, she saw what looked like a shadow in the kitchen, and in her mind she could feel the distinct, almost painfully bright, warmth of Mommy.

Ashley tensed and clutched Peter's arm--he made a slight strangled noise--and pulled back behind the wall.

The moment passed. 

Poking her head back out, she found the place empty. Even though she couldn't hear much over her own blood rushing in her head, she couldn't detect anyone's presence in either room.

Ashley swallowed. Of course she could feel Mommy. Her and Daddy's room wasn't far from the kitchen. Maybe... maybe Mommy had just had a dream or something. More importantly, it was gone now. 

"Everything okay?" Peter asked, rubbing his arm where she'd pinched him.

Ashley nodded. "All clear."

Peter squinted at her, which was odd, since he saw better than her in the dark. Unless he was being sassy, but that was less important right now than their mission.

Carefully, carefully, she edged out, toe-tip by toe-tip, into the open, empty, open space of the living room--it felt like the shadows were staring at her from over the backs of the couches and chairs.

It didn't feel comfortable.

Peter rolled his eyes at her, but he followed suit when she dropped to her hands and knees and started shuffling across the tile. 

They got to the Doorway without further incident.

Ashley scooped up her new, beautifully orange shoes from their spot on the shelf and continued scooting along awkwardly, trying to carry the shoes in one hand and manage transportation on three limbs. She was half-tempted to put the strings in her mouth and carry them that way, but that was gross, so she wasn't going to.

Home rumbled slightly as they made it to the Door, and the hinges had an inquiring squeak about them as Peter, standing again, pulled the door open--narrowly avoiding bonking her on the head with the doorknob now that she was standing behind him. But, other than the small noises, Home didn't do anything else. That was good. Ashley had been worried about that, that they'd wake it up too much and that it would either ask too many questions or else not let them out.

Peter disappeared, reappearing a short distance away outside.

They had made it.

Ashley carefully closed the Door, making sure it clicked shut properly. She took a moment, pushing her hand against the Door, at the moment a façade of wood and bark. 

With the whistlings of crickets and frogs seranding her from the surround forest, it occurred to her. She had never been outside Home without Mommy or Daddy. She looked at the door again, a sudden worry springing up in her. What if they couldn't get the door open again, and were wrong about how it worked? They had forgot to test it beforehand. They'd be trapped outside. What if Mommy and Daddy went to a different world without them, by accident? Would they even realize that her and Peter were gone until it was too late to turn back? They hadn't told, so--

"I know the knock," Peter said, speaking normally now that they were outside and didn't need silence. "I thought you did, too."

"I do," Ashley replied imperiously, turning away and marching after him. "I was just. Saying goodbye." She was leading this mission. She couldn't admit to Peter that she was nervous. He'd make fun of her.

He looked at her but didn't say anything.

They started off through the trees. Peter let Ashley take the lead, trudging behind and readjusting his pack. He looked more awake now.

"Also," he added after a minute. "You could just phase through the door."

"I... knew that," Ashley said, her cheeks frosting. It didn't sound convincing, even to herself.

She dug her hands into her trouser pockets and kept walking. 

A slight breath of a chuckle-like sound echoed from beside the Door, but, if either of them noticed, they thought nothing of it.

[inklings-sprint]

Inklings Challenge Ask Game

Some pre-Inklings Challenge questions that I’ve thought about before and would be interested in seeing how others would answer these.

🖋️Which team are you hoping for?

💻Which team do you least want to end up on?

🖨️Which genre/s excites you the most?

📃Which genre/s do you feel least confident about?

📜Which genre/s do you feel most confident about?

📓Which of this year’s theme/s are you most drawn to?

🖍️Which of this year's theme/s do you find most challenging/least likely to try and incorporate?

📝 If you’ve previously participated, which team (or teams) have you ended up on?

🖊️ If you’ve previously participated, has your preferred team changed? Or would you rather always end up on the same team?

📖 If you’ve previously participated, have you ever been disappointed by which team you’ve ended up on?

📚 If you’ve previously participated, have you ever been excited by which team you’ve ended up on?

📕 Have you participated in any of the other Inklings Challenges? (Like the Christmas and/or Four Loves)

📗 If you’ve previously participated, do you have story ideas that have gone unused or waiting for the chance to use them again.

📘 If you’ve written multiple stories (finished or not) for the challenges, which is your favourite?

📙 If you’ve written multiple stories (finished or not) for the challenges, which is your least favourite?

💾 Have you read any of the challenge stories that have really stuck with you? (Any stories you still think about/go back and read)

⏳ Are there any stories that you wish the author would finish writing?

💛 Have you made any friends through reading someone’s story? (In/related through the challenge)

💐💐💐💐💐

🌻🌻🌻🌻

🌼🌼🌼🌼

🌸🌸🌸🌸

I also feel like there could be more questions that fit along these lines. So if you think of them, feel free to add them in your reblogs.

🌹🌹🌹🌹

🌷🌷🌷🌷

🌺🌺🌺🌺

🪻🪻🪻🪻

@inklings-challenge

[inklings-challenge]

2023 Inklings Christmas Challenge: Official Announcement

The Event

The Inklings Christmas Challenge invites writers to create a science fiction or fantasy story within the Christian worldview set at Christmastime. The story can involve the Christmas we know or a Christmas-like celebration within another world, but must evoke the season in some way.

The Guidelines

Since the holiday season is a busy time of year, this challenge is meant to be low-stress and very casual. The only guidelines are as follows:

Writers can create a story in any science fiction or fantasy genre of their choice. You may use the Inklings Challenge genres as inspiration, or choose a completely different subgenre. Stories can be set in completely new worlds or set within the world of an author’s other works.

There is no maximum or minimum word count, but to avoid putting pressure on writers in an already busy holiday season, writers are encouraged to try for very short stories.

No sign-up is required. Writers who finish a story for the Christmas Challenge should simply tag @inklings-challenge within the body of the post and tag it as #inklingschallenge, and it will be reblogged to the main Inklings Challenge blog.

Completed stories can be posted on a tumblr blog any time before the deadline of January 6th, 2024. If you don’t finish by the deadline, you are welcome to share whatever you’ve completed by January 6th. You can also post the completed story after the deadline has passed. However, because of the seasonal nature of the challenge, any stories posted after February 2nd, 2024 will not be shared on the main challenge blog.

The Theme

This year's Inklings Christmas Challenge encourages writers to consider basing their stories around the optional theme of The Twelve Days of Christmas. Most Christmas stories in secular culture take place in the days before Christmas, on Christmas Eve, or on Christmas Day. But as Christians, we know that December 25th is not the end, but the beginning of the Christmas season, and it would be nice to have stories that acknowledge those later days of the festival.

Since the Inklings Challenge is all about encouraging people to write the stories that we can't find anywhere else, this year's Challenge invites writers to write Christmas stories that take place on the other days of the 12-day Christmas season. Write a story about a Christmas party on December 28th, or Boxing Day, or Twelfth Night celebration, or even a New Year's party--any kind of Christmastime story taking place between December 26th and January 6th would count.

Note that this theme is completely optional. Writers are still welcome to write stories that take place in the lead-up to Christmas, or on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day. This is just an extra option to encourage people to think outside the box and include the other days of the Christmas season.

Any questions, comments, or concerns can be directed to the @inklings-challenge​ blog, and I will do my best to address them.

That’s the Inklings Christmas Challenge! Now go forth and create!

[muse-write]

Towering Past

Here's my entry for the 2024 Inklings Challenge (@inklings-challenge)!

Jan. 12, 2023

H.,

Sorry for not responding to your Christmas letter…or your New Years’ letter. Really, I am! I know you probably think I’m tired of this method of communication—and I can’t rightly say I’m not—but there was more to my lack of response than sheer avoidance. I know you well enough to know you haven’t watched the local news anytime recently, so you might not have heard about the October explosion on the upper east side of the city. They’re saying it was a bomb planted in the subway system. It took out half the Northern line and a couple of blocks in every direction.

I have my own story to tell about that explosion, but I would sound insane, so I’ll leave this letter at that. And anyway, my hand is hurting from scribbling this letter out in record time now that I feel up to writing at all. You at least know I’m alive and hopefully you believe I wasn’t avoiding responding on purpose.

How are Jen and the kid doing? If you weren’t so set on letters like this you could text me pictures, you know! Why can’t you just call me like a normal person, H.?!

Love,

Frankie

Jan. 17, 2023

Dear Frankie,

Thanks for responding—finally. I was about to hop on a plane or send a strongly worded letter to your commanding officer just to make sure you hadn’t dropped off the face of the earth. I suppose a cellphone would make this kind of thing easier, but we’ve had that conversation too many times to rehash it now. Jen’s doing fine. Eric is running around and getting into trouble, and we both know who he takes after on that score. I always was a good son, Mother always said. If you please, you might want to drop by and visit next time you’re in the area; you might have some tips born of experience for how to deal with a little boy who insists on coloring on the walls.

What a vague way of ending your story; you aren’t saying you were anywhere near the explosion, are you? I know it’s your job and all, but don’t blame a man for getting worried when his sister defuses bomb threats on the daily. Anyway, you know I wouldn’t find any of your stories insane, and you must tell me your version of events. Just don’t wait another two months to do so, or I really will send your CO a letter asking after you.

Glad to know you’re alive,

Henry

P.S. In the envelope is a bracelet Jen borrowed from you a few years back. She was very worried that you thought she was planning on keeping it forever.

Feb. 10, 2023

H.,

I’ll tell you what happened if you insist. But you have to promise me not to laugh. I haven’t told anyone else what happened; I’m not entirely certain it was not a vivid dream. And you know I’m not much of a storyteller, so it won’t rank among your beloved novels. But it will be what happened to me, as accurately as I can put it. Forgive the late letter. This took days to write down.

First off, the explosion wasn’t an explosion at all—so you can put your fears about me being among the defusement team to rest, at least this time. I had woken that morning to a leisurely day, not having so much as a drill to look forward to on my day off, and that meant I had a clear view out the window at the precise moment a tower erupted from the concrete sidewalk only a block or two away from my apartment. When I ran from my complex down the street, I had no thought of entering the tower—I didn’t even know if it was that kind of tower, one that could be entered—but I knew someone had to check it out, and that someone had best be me, with my gun and military training. I brought my Sauer and phone with me (not being a technophobe like you) and approached the tower.

It was not pretty or elegant or admirable in any way. In fact, it was rather ugly, with sharp jagged peaks—I forget what they are called—at the top, and the walls made of black brick—except it wasn’t brick, it was more like marble or stone, lopsided and uneven, like the tower had been thrown and glued together. And it was completely silent. Nothing moved, except at the very tip-top there was a flashing blue light. Like a signal. It didn’t seem to be Morse code or any other signal method I could make out.

And then something moved in the very highest window, and through a pair of binoculars I took from a man next to me (there was a crowd forming by now) I peered up at it and saw that it was a human.

Henry, do you remember Lieutenant Gorsk? A few years back. It was him. Somehow he had found his way into the tower and all the way to the top, and any doubt of my venturing in there was put to rest.

I would find him.

I am ashamed to say that I didn’t prepare. I was so afraid that if I went back home and returned with gear it would prove to be a dream that I marched straight up to the entrance—I know you’ll beg for a real description, but all I can say now is that it was a door, black and wood of some kind, with an ornate gilded knob for a handle—opened it, and walked through, my hand on my Sauer the whole time. I still had the binoculars from the man outside.

This is where it gets insane, H. The interior of the tower was like one of those ancient cathedrals, you know the ones, like in England. The ones tourists go to and exclaim about and take pictures of sunlight streaming through the windows. Though there wasn’t any stained glass here. And the windows—don’t laugh—they didn’t look out onto Seattle, H. They looked onto a completely different world.

I can’t describe it. I can’t remember it all that clearly, either, it’s a huge blur in my head, after the hospital and…anyway, I remember that outside the sky was red—like blood-red, and below there was a dark river, sluggish and black and I didn’t like to look at it for very long, so I turned away and looked at the tower instead. It was Gothic, I guess. You’re the architecture freak. I’ve attached some pictures below, so make of them what you will.

Anyway, I’d entered a large foyer-like hall, with a great staircase sweeping up the far side and climbing the walls in spiraling loops. There were statues in this room, tons of them, but they were—they had such terrible expressions of sadness and terror that I couldn’t look at them for long, either. Even more than the sights, it was the feeling that stays with me, even months later; there was something utterly depressing about the place despite its eerie beauty. It sank deep into my bones and chilled me to the core. But I had to get to Lieutenant Gorsk. I tightened my fingers on the Sauer and began up the stairs, ready for…well, anything. I had no idea what to expect from a place like this.

And what I encountered, I had no way of expecting at all.

What descended down the stairs towards me when I had only climbed a few steps was a horde of—I don’t know what to call them. Demons, I suppose. They were not like the demons you see on church windows under the feet of angels. Some of them almost looked human, but were spindly and covered in scales like lizards or dragons or fish, scales that were matte and dark and reflected no light. Others weren’t human at all, but animal-like, though they resembled no animal I’ve ever seen except that they traveled on four legs, or maybe more. The horde of things surged toward me and I raised my gun to shoot.

I have killed people in my career, H., you know that. I’ve spent entire nights awake in my bed unable to get rid of their faces. I killed these things almost too easily, though the scaled ones gave my bullets some trouble. I had to resort to picking up a sword, fallen on the ground a few feet away from a bleached skeleton, to pierce through the gaps in the armor. It was helpful in preserving my ammo, since I’d only brought the few rounds that were in my gun, and I would need one round for when I reached the top--though I wondered what kind of other world I’d stumbled into. Who had this person been who had ventured in and died with a sword in their hand?

I proceeded up the stairs past the corpses, which were dusting away as though they had never existed in the first place. The tower reared up above me. Along its walls were grotesque tapestries of things I do not wish to remember, and I kept my eyes on the stairs and the gaping doorways I passed, waiting for another horde of demon-like things. I have been a soldier for decades, and never have I been more grateful for it than when I was ascending those stairs. My training kept me safe.

I reached the first landing and had to fight through another horde. I will not describe them all—some of them I don’t remember clearly enough, and others were simply too odd to put into words. All I know is that, with gun and sword, I managed to clear a path up the stairs.

But then one of them got the first hit in. I remember these clearly: three large, hulking things, with mouths like lions and bodies like eagles, large golden wings sending strong wind swirling around the landing. I could not move forward. My bullets barely pierced their hides. My sword could not break through their guard, and one of them sent an arm forward and its claws slashed my shoulder to ribbons. It burned like a gunshot wound, and I knew there was no hope of me defeating all three of them. I could only run and hide and hope they didn’t pursue me, so I turned and left the staircase to venture into the rest of the tower.

This floor was full of branching halls and large empty rooms that smelled of decay. The red sky outside left a garish red tint to everything that unnerved me, but I ran down hallways at random and tried to remember my way back to the stairs in case I lived long enough to return. The lion-eagle creatures chased me, but gave up soon afterward, and vanished into other areas of the tower. I ducked into an empty room and used the relative peace and quiet to inspect my arm. It was bleeding heavily, and I made a note to myself to check it for infection later in the day, assuming I survived that long.

I could have turned around. Abandoned my quest. Left Lieutenant Gorsk up at the top of the tower and returned to the peace of my house, a peace I had fought so hard for and tried to attain for so long. But you know what he did to me, Henry.

At the time, it seemed obvious to me that this was my second chance at justice. My chance to make peace, finally, with what had been done to me, and leave it in the past.

It never occurred to me to wonder how Gorsk had found his way here, or what had been done to him in the process, until much later on that day.

I wrapped my wound in strips from my shirt and hoped it would hold and wished I had some antiseptic, but a dirty shirt would have to do as gauze. Then I tried to creep out of the room, but realized that the door was locked. I had not closed it.

Demons appeared in the room around me, the scaled spindly ones I had fought off before, and I had become used to their movements and attacks and knew with relative certainty how to defeat them. A few strong strikes with a sword would weaken them, a gunshot through the head would finish them off. I would rely mostly on the sword now; I was running low on ammo, and I did not know how many more floors I would have to fight through. I refused to think about the fight back down once I reached the top. There had to be ten demons in the room, and my shoulder was burning and slowed me down, and there were quite a few close calls I prefer not to think about. I don’t know what it would have been like to be killed by one of these things and I don’t want to imagine it. They had sharp teeth meant for ripping and biting, and at some point after I killed a few of these I began tearing those teeth from the corpses’ mouths for extra weapons.

Ten of these demons were more than enough to test me, but with a lot of luck I managed not to die, and had a pocketful of demon teeth-blades to show for it at the end.

The door unlocked by itself as the last demon corpse dusted away.

I ventured back to the stairs, losing my way a few times in the process, and it was amazing what a relief it was to see the familiar grand staircase spiraling up over my head once again rather than the red wash of the old windows. The castle grew darker as I headed further up, and there were less and less windows, and less and less red, until I began to long for the light, eerie as it was. It was never dark enough to blind me, but it was surely dark enough for the shadows to shift and move and look like demons. I have had decades of experience calming terror in combat; this tower tried my nerves in a way I have never experienced before and hope to never experience again. In all of those books you’ve read, have you heard the phrase, “bear wrongs patiently”? In the military, I turned that into a talent. I bore the hazing, the combat, the setbacks and the horror and the fear. I tried to do that here, too, but the tower seemed to steal that control away from me, until even I was left trembling like a little girl surrounded by monsters. I gripped my gun in one hand and my sword in the other and ventured on, wishing more and more that I did not feel such an urge to find the Lieutenant. Wishing that I could be normal and move on from that time.

You can maybe understand why it took me so long to finish writing this letter.

I will leave it at that for now, so that you can get your letter in two months and not feel the need to call up my superiors. Though I think a glare from you, looking like some Oxford don, might just frighten Commander Paik more than all the roughest thugs in the city.

Love,

Frankie

Feb. 18, 2023

Frankie,

I don’t quite know how to start this.

First, let me say thank you for trusting me with your story. I don’t think you’re insane, and I didn’t let out a single chuckle.

Second, I am familiar with that tower. It appeared in my own city—around the time yours did. It looked exactly as you describe, and the pictures confirmed it. It was the same, or one of the same type. I entered the tower, though not at all for the same reasons.

You see, when I looked up at the top of it, in the window I saw Jen. Of course, I couldn’t leave her there.

I did not tell you of this before because I did not wish to worry you or cause you alarm; after all, what transpired became something much greater and more beautiful than I could have imagined when I first stepped through the door.

I sympathize with your quest to get to Lieutenant Gorsk. I remember him very well, and I wish I could have been there too, to punch him in the face (a second time, if you remember!). I don’t know if I can condone your mission, nor the intentions you implied, but after what the man did to you, I can’t say I wouldn’t have considered the same. And considering you are not writing me from a jail cell, I need to know the end of the story as soon as you can bring yourself to give it to me.

I did not bring a gun with me—you know my stance on them well enough—but, as with  you, there were plenty of demons. I have never been a fighter, but I picked up a stray sword and a dagger or two and managed to hide and slip past many, and fought those I couldn’t. It was with a great deal of trepidation that I climbed those stairs—I can only imagine you, flying up them like a goddess of vengeance with wings at her feet! It was an eerie experience for me; the light made everything look as though blood covered it. The sun outside was not—right. It was deep and vibrant and would have maybe been pretty if not for the sickly pallor to the sky around it, like when a tornado is about to touch down.

I deciphered that I had entered a new world a little earlier than you. I had found a storage room to hide in—and what a storage room, with jars and masks and boxes—and could not help reading a few of the files I found stuffed in drawers (I know you’re rolling your eyes at me about now, so stop it!). The files were plain documents, just text written in a crusted brown substance I refused to consider any further than necessary, but I couldn’t read a word of it. It was not Latin, nor Greek, nor any derivation of any language I have ever come across. The letters themselves were indecipherable, and anyway I felt like it was best not to know what was written in them, so I shoved the papers back into their drawers and did my best not to wonder. I am not very good at that, but it was time to move on, and my survival (and Jen’s) relied on not being overly distracted by the theoretical.

I reached the top of the tower perhaps slower than you, but with far fewer injuries (please tell me you went to the hospital, Frankie!), and emerged from the stairs into a long corridor that extended to a single door. This part of the tower was not a maze, as I had discovered in the lower levels; it was very straightforward and clear about where I was meant to go. That door was my destination, and behind it must be Jen, and the window through which I had glimpsed her.

There were no enemies laying wait for me along that corridor, but I fully expected there to be some monstrous creature waiting for me behind the door. I grasped the knob. It swung open easily, terrifyingly easy.

I assume this room looked much the same for me as it did for you—circular walls, broad windows letting in that wash of red light anew, a view of a mountain range of some other world, dark and strange, stretching out beyond. Jen was there, and I called her name, but saw that she could not move, because, though she stood, she was enclosed within a barrier of some sort—her hands, I saw, were burned where she had attempted to push through it. There would be no breaking it.

And then the monster—appeared. I mean that very literally; one moment it was not there, and then I blinked, and it was. I could not make sense of it at first; it did not fit your descriptions at all of any of the demons you encountered. It was hulking and winged, but appeared to be made of chitin all over its body, like an insect has, and blue flame flared from the gaps in this natural armor. It bared teeth—I suppose would be the expression, on something that had such an unnatural face—at me, and there were two rows of sharp needle-like prongs.

This terrified me.

But it held Jen, my wife, the mother of my son, and what would I ever say to Eric if I let this beast harm her, or whatever it planned to do with her? Whisk her away? Kill her? Keep her imprisoned here, like some damsel out of a fairy tale, to lure adventurers with?

I tightened my grip on my sword, feeling a sense of hopeless doom fall upon me (yes, that was the only way to describe it, let me have my sense of poetry once in a while without mocking me, Frankie!). There did not seem to be a way I could triumph over such a foe. But neither could I hide or flee or distract it. So fight I must, even if it led to my own death.

I see no reason to regale you with the battle; there was nothing glamorous about it, as you well know. Suffice to say, I charged at it, which was not a good strategy, and my strategy changed to accommodate this. I was injured (and Jen gave me a good lecture about my stupidity later) and the pain nearly made me sick, but miraculously I managed to stay upright. It was a long battle, the monster was fast and strong and wanted me dead as badly as I wanted it dead, and I was afraid every instant, but eventually I managed to get lucky, and the blade sunk deep into one of those infinitesimal cracks in the monster’s chitin, and with a wrench I managed to twist the blade hard into its heart. That is not a feeling I wish to relive, Frankie.

But in the end, the monster lay there, its breath rattling out, and the barrier simply disappeared, just as the monster had suddenly appeared. Jen could move again—she later told me that the barrier had not been there until, presumably, my hand had touched the door; the monster’s doing, I assume—and she rushed to my side. I have never before felt like a brave man, especially when compared to you, brave sister, and I wish it had not taken such awful circumstances to turn me into one.

Jen told me later that she had no idea where she had been; in a moment she had been whisked from the living room of our house to the top of the tower, and for hours she had been staring out at that dark mountain range and the red sky and attempting to find a reasonable way of climbing out. The door had been locked, and the lock had repaired itself even as she had broken it, and escape seemed hopeless, unless she were to throw herself out, and she had not been quite that desperate yet.

Hearing your story, I simply wonder why? Why was it Jen who was picked up and plopped in that window to send me creeping up the stairs? Why was the same done to Lieutenant Gorsk? Was it a punishment? Or coincidence?

Do you have any theories, Frankie?

Henry

Feb. 30, 2024

Henry,

I never would have imagined that you had had such an experience, or that both of us have been carrying it around with us for months without letting on. We’re both stubborn—well, a soldier’s language isn’t something I want to subject you to, so I’ll leave it there.

When I finally did reach the top—though I don’t think it was so much as a goddess of war as a very frightened, very stubborn military-trained soldier—it looked the way you described it. The same long corridor, the same door at the end, the same suspicious lack of enemies. I had one bullet left in my Sauer, and plenty of demon teeth in my pockets.

Except there wasn’t a monster for me. Maybe the tower had decided I’d had my fill. Maybe the final challenge I encountered was the monster. I don’t know. I didn’t think much of it then. I just knew that odious lieutenant was behind that door, and I needed to get in there and shoot him dead, military protocol be damned.

It was a desire for murder, plain and simple, but I wasn’t thinking about the consequences then. I was thinking about those two years of hell, with the king of demons being Lieutenant Gorsk and his stinking breath and wandering hands and my only savior the friendship of Corporal Alice Lewis.

I turned the door, and there he was. Oddly, he was kept in place by the same barrier you described.

H., have I ever told you how easy it is for me to kill someone with a gun? My trusty Sauer, familiar and worn in my palm, my callouses formed around it, my target in its sights. It’s far easier to pull the trigger on my old friend than it is to take my Swiss knife and stab someone in the guts, but I’ve done both. I was prepared to do either, if it meant ridding the world of someone like Gorsk.

By now it’s been…what? Eight years since I was under his command? Not that long, in the grand scheme of things. Two years of hell, and eight years recovering.

I’ve put him out of my mind as best I can. I had almost imagined that I could go my whole life and think only of moving forward, but that vanished the second I laid eyes on him again. All my old rage and hatred and desire for vengeance came back to me in a moment, and propelled me up those stairs. Maybe in that way I was some goddess of vengeance after all.

My gun was lined up with his temple. He stood there, unable to move, his hands and arms burned by the barrier, knowing that I would be the last sight he saw. There was no doubt in his mind in that moment, I’m sure, that I would kill him.

I did. I did kill him, Henry.

I pulled the trigger and he fell back against the wall. It was a clean, cold kill. The door behind me unlocked, and I stepped out onto the stairs again. Going down, there were no enemies to fight, and I relived the moment I had shot him again and again, and did not regret leaving his body there at the top of the tower. I was victorious, the winner, the survivor, and I had killed the man who had made my life a misery for years.

I returned to my apartment, and the tower…crumbled. It fell, brick by brick, stone by stone, back underneath the city, and left no sign it had ever been there. I was quite satisfied with myself, and didn’t feel guilty about what I’d done until that night, when I remembered suddenly that he had had a wife, the last I had heard. Maybe a son, too, but I’m not sure. The next morning, while I ate breakfast, he appeared in the news—but not news of his death. Instead, there was something about some promotion to Major General, and I stabbed myself with my fork and threw my plate across the kitchen.

I realized what had happened soon after that.

I am not writing this from a jail cell, Henry, because to all intents and purposes Lieutenant Gorsk is still living—in this world, anyway. In whatever terrible, twisted mirror world I found myself wandering through, Lieutenant Gorsk is dead, a bullet’s clean entry and exit wound through both sides of his skull. I know I killed him, and I must live with knowing that I was capable of doing so, that I was fully aware of what I was doing. In my mind, he lies in a pool of spreading blood.

Love,

Frankie

[allisonreader]

Those times when you get comments on your stories and makes you want to read your stories and look at it from the perspective given.

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

WE MADE IT

[bookshelf-in-progress]

I wasn't able to write enough of a story to post by Christmas, but here's a little taste of what I was working on.

Jeremiah asked, "What's this?"

Sallie pulled the branches through the front door. "I thought they had Christmas trees in the time you came from."

"We had Christmas last month."

Sallie's eyes lit up. "And now it's Christmas again. Ain't time travel grand?

[isfjmel-phleg]

@inklings-challenge forgive me for being a day behind, but for yesterday's Chesterton Challenge prompt of "Mystery," here is an excerpt from a mystery story from the world of The Blackberry Bushes, a Morrick Hopeley story by L. D. Melbray, with annotations by Elystan Liddick. This is from the book that he annotated in the Christmas Chapter with the intention of presenting it to Levico as a gift.

(If you're unfamiliar with this, this is my fictional world's equivalent of Sherlock Holmes! So I am writing mimicking that style.)

In all my acquaintance with my friend Mr. Morrick Hopeley, I had never known him to seek out the company of a lady for any cause beyond his professional services.[1] Even his dealings with my Maira, despite the role that she played in the case of the Batsford Murders,[2] dripped with the distant courtesy of a gentleman toward a lady shopkeeper. If he ever had a mother or a sister or an aunt, he has never confided in me,[3] but I doubt not that if he did, he would regard them with his own peculiar mixture of aloofness and polite disdain. Exactly what was his reason for regarding the fair sex in this manner I cannot say with certainty;[4] it was among the unfortunate defects of my friend’s otherwise admirable character,[5] and a fault for which I have dared to rebuke him multiple times.[6] Once, when Hopeley and I shared rooms in Fisher Road, I went so far as to suggest that his aversion stemmed from a secret fear, and was rewarded with utter solitude for the rest of the evening.[7] Yet in the strange case of Miss Celeas Arkwright, which I am about to relate, Hopeley made an exception to his inexplicable rule, for indeed Miss Arkwright was an exceptional woman,[8] and it is by that designation that Hopeley has come to regard her—The Exception.

If I recall correctly, it began in the autumn of 1898.[9] Despite the moderate success of my literary career, the call of the stage once again had compelled me,[10] and I had joined the cast of a respectable, if not grand, production of The Misfortune of Mr. Naym.[11] My role was but a supporting one,[12] yet it provided enough comedic interest to keep me as diverted as our audiences for the next month. I had not seen Hopeley in weeks. If he had heeded my telegram pleading with him to attend my first night if he could, I had missed his unmistakable features among the crowd—no surprise, for my friend is a master of disguise.[13] I expected him to turn up anywhere during our run in some outlandish persona or another,[14] but on this particular night he chose, as ever, to defy my expectations and turned up in my dressing room in his own character after the end of the performance.

The expression on his face, as he leaned against my dressing table, arms crossed over his chest and long legs stretched out before him like a frog’s, plainly indicated that he relished the prospect of startling me.[15] I confess that I took some umbrage at his neglect of my first night,[16] and determined that I would not give him the satisfaction of my genuine reaction to his abrupt manifestation in my private quarters. I flatter myself that I am a creditable enough actor to maintain such a ruse.[17] Without a glance at him, I strode into the dressing room, shed the outermost layers of my costume, donned the dressing gown Maira gave me for Christmas (a quiet brown with a subtle self-stripe),[18] and seated myself at the dressing table to begin the rituals of cold cream, quite as if there were not an absurdly tall and silently perturbed man practically at my elbow.[19]

Halfway through divesting myself of greasepaint,[20] I allowed my eyes to drift in his direction and acknowledged him with a nod.

“Ah,” said I, “Hopeley. There you are, old chap. I see you have been dining with the ambassador of Faysmond—that is, when you have not been taking a lengthy stroll through the countryside near Fifield or acquiring the hobby of brass-rubbing. Between your days at the Coregean Library researching for that case with the bishop’s nephew’s dog, of course.”[21]

A proud beam brightened Hopeley’s thin face. “My dear Wystan,” said he, “you have at least learned to apply my methods. Do tell me, my boy, how you have deduced these things.”

“The answer is simplicity itself,” I remarked. “I read the newspapers.”[22]

[1] Because he has better things to do!

[2] I can’t blame Hopeley. That was the most tiresome part of that book.

[3] Based on his remarks in “The Adventure of the Baboon’s Umbrella,” I theorize that Hopeley’s mother is dead and has been dead for a long time. And if he had a sister, he would have mentioned her by now. I cannot imagine his growing up alongside anyone except Seoras. They wouldn’t hate each other so much otherwise.

[4] He—has—better—things—to—do! This isn’t a mystery.

[5] Oh, your friend has unfortunate defects, Wystan? Need I remind you of what you did when Hopeley needed you most in “The Secret of the Cursed Candlestick”?

[6] I want to read this conversation very very very very very badly. How soon can you write it, Mr. Melbray?

[7] This one too! And he’s wrong. Hopeley isn’t afraid of ladies. He isn’t afraid of anything.

[8] I rather like Miss Arkwright too. She isn’t soppy like Maira.

[9] He does not recall correctly, because in The Batsford Murders, he married Maira in December 1898, and he’s obviously already married to her in this story, which cannot take place any earlier than spring 1899. Perhaps Wystan should try keeping a diary so that he could remember dates correctly once in a while.

[10] So much for “I shall never tread the boards again. I vow it to you, Maira, my own!”

[11] I approve. That is the most amusing play I have ever seen.

[12] Why didn’t you tell us whom he played? Was it Alcidon? It has to have been Alcidon. He’s the funniest character in the whole play, and it would be a shame to waste Wystan on anyone else.

[13] No surprise, for Hopeley wouldn’t bother to disguise himself to go and see Wystan, because he knows that Wystan knows all the costuming tricks and would see straight through him.

[14] As he did in “The Mystery of the Fish-Fry Brotherhood.”

[15] I would have startled him first, but Wystan isn’t quick enough for that.

[16] For shame, Wystan, he has a perfectly good reason! He always does. Nobody cares about your first nights when there’s a case to be solved.

[17] More than creditable. I wish Wystan wouldn’t talk about himself like that; he’s brilliant. Remember “The Businessman and His Cat,” when he convinced everyone that he was the Prime Minister’s secretary?

[18] How could she have given it to him for Christmas if this took place in autumn? This is further evidence that the dating is incorrect. Also, she has hideous taste in dressing gowns.

[19] This is one of my favorite scenes. I laugh so hard that it nearly sends me into coughing fits whenever I reread it.

[20] It is even funnier when you realize that Wystan goes through this whole conversation with his face covered in cold cream.

[21] FOUR cases that you haven’t given to us! I am dying of suspense! Write more! Write faster! I can give you ideas if you want.

[22] But we all know that he could have deduced these things if he wanted to. He just wanted to annoy Hopeley.