This is a project that doesn’t begin and end with my writing fiction.  I plan to involve my daughter and perhaps my son in writing these stories.  Perhaps I’ll be able to learn to appeal to a different audience through this process.  I haven’t intended to write children’s stories even if some of my writing has come off childish.  Now, perhaps, it can be intentional.

***

Aivi was in her place, her secret place, her private place.  There was no quiet in her house, her little brother, Ro saw to that.  Here in the little cave by the little stream, Aivi could get a little peace. 

“Aivi!” came the call on the wind.  It was mother and she sounded angry.  Aivi, for her part, wanted nothing to do with angry mothers.  She hunkered down a little more and planned on returning later than she might have otherwise.  She took up her flute and played low and soft so that sounds from without were masked, but her secrets weren’t revealed.  Sometimes girls just needed a break.  Mother should understand that.

So it was a great surprise, as she played in her little cave, when there were shadows at her cave door, her mother stepped in with Ro held by his elbow.  Realization that she was discovered was replaced with anger that mother had betrayed her privacy and brought her little brother, replaced at last by cold fear.  Aivi expected to see anger on her mother’s face, but instead there was only fear.

“Aivi, stay here with Ro.  Hide.  There are soldiers coming.  Father is gathering things that we will need to survive in the forest.  Don’t come back to the house no matter what happens.” And then she was gone and her brother, Ro, remained staring at her with big frightened eyes.

***

So, the scene is set.  A girl who is a little rebellious.  A younger brother who is not her best friend, to put it kindly.  Trouble on the horizon like nothing she has faced before.  In this story I imagine that Aivi is at least 13, and probably a little more.  Because girls mature faster than boys in general, I imagine that Ro is perhaps only 2 years separated from his sister but probably seems younger. 

They live next to the forest, but it has never been their home.  They are the children of farmers so that the woods are a place to visit, but they are not highly schooled in forest craft, it will be a strange new world and very threatening.

I believe this story will be told with reference to the children’s past interactions with their parents, but at least at the beginning here they will be alone.  I hope this situation will not provide yet another “kids do better without their folks” fodder, that isn’t my intention, quite the reverse.  So I will try, in my writing, to avoid that.  –  LSO

I love these nightly trips into the living blood of the city, Arashimura.  All these people with their various hopes and dreams, sins and schemes, how they plan ill on each other, and are shocked and angered when the same is done to them.  I find this sweaty soup delicious.  I move through its underbelly without causing a stir in this shape I have made for my Ka.

I meet a fellow who has directed me to a fair number of adventures.  Corbain is the name by which I know him.  Tonight we sit at table in a dank tavern I frequent.  Corbain knows the place well, but tonight he is nervous.

“Look, I told you I’d get you in touch with someone bigger and I have.” The creature sweats, he intends to betray me, he has contempt for me, and yet my reputation, the scary bits, proceed me.  He sweats more than the closeness of the dark tavern requires.  I smell his fear, ripe and acrid.  “So, when do I meet this person, Corbain?”

There is a commotion at the entrance to the Thirsty Troll.  I follow Corbain’s eyes from where we sit to where the commotion seems to originate, the entrance.  The rabble parts, scurrying from the murk into deeper shadows of this most disreputable of establishments.  When I glance back, my contact, my betrayer, has fled.

The crowded bar has cleared considerably when I look back.  I see it is for good reason.  Approaching is none other than the Lord High Captain of Arashimura, the City guard.  How very odd.  I think I shall reward my betrayer.  I feign effort to escape which elicits the desired effect. 

I see Allston Soulaucy is an angry man, passed over twice for command of the King’s Guard.  His mailed fist and armor wrapped arm slam me back into the corner and he sits in his gloriously shiny armor upon the filthy bench.  I think he looks ridiculously out of place, glittering here amongst the squalor of the Troll.  The armor however is exquisite, I realise my danger too late, I must have it.  Everyone has their own particular vice, chief among mine is an inordinate affection for shiny things.

I can actually see my reflection in the brave captain’s breastplate, remy blue-gray eyes in a crestfallen face, thin lips from which blood now trickles.  I lick up the bloody spittle with a tongue nearly as red.  My hair, my beard, such as it is, is dirty grey.  I look a proper mess.  Especially next to noble Allston.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He fairly shouts.  It is a voice for the parade grounds of the royal palace not for the Thirsty Troll. 

“I’m sure my lord knows.  I am here to meet someone.  It is what I do.”

He scowls. He is unable to make much of what I’ve said I’ll warrant, not over bright this one, a man of action and not of thought.  I flatter myself that I am both, though I don’t look it.  I see the symbol of the king of Arashimura,  Ah look at that  golden dragon, proud rampant on the breastplate, why I do believe it might be solid gold.  I seem to grovel, not meeting his eyes, but how can I with the glittering splendor of his armor?

“I was told “the Worm” would be here.”

I chuckle.  The Captain tenses, his mailed fists rise from the table.  “Calm calm, there is no need of violence.” I’ll play the weakling that he believes me.  He believes.  I speak soothingly, ”I too am called the worm by many.  If I be but a worm, still a worm I am, and THE worm, THE Wyrm at the heart of Arashimura, well, big worm, small worm, we worms keep together.”

“You will take me to your master at once.” Ah the arrogance.  I bow obsequiously and obsessively.  Again this is behavior out of the proud Captain’s experience, he looks uncomfortable.

“My lord may wish to slay me now then.” I cringe, I grovel, inside I laugh, “This worm would be a poor servant if I came for no good reason to the master.  He would kill me for less and not so quick.” I bear my thin chest as if I expect him to draw his longsword, as if he even could.  Look there in the reflection, why I can count my ribs and look at me, so pale, my fishbelly whiteness.  The breastplate must be silver plate.  I glance up to gauge him, he looks disgusted.  Now I notice that he is wearing the most exquistite helm, polished golden and surmounted by a dragon much like the breastplate.  I know bliss.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he chides me.  The oaf is thick of neck holding up so rich a helmet I shouldn’t wonder, but his head is mostly bone. I do believe the dragon on the shining helm is solid gold as well.  We have negotiated, I have won, that I never doubted.

“If there was some urgent matter of import to my lord, The Wyrm, he might not strike me down out of hand.  What matter might I bring to the Wyrm at the heart of  Arashimura that would preserve my poor life?”

Such a highplaced official will be hard to explain, especially one who is so indescrete as to invade the dark alleys of the capital city.  My mind is awhirl with the delicious danger and. . .

“There have been dreams.  A force that threatens the king, that threatens all Aerenor. . .” My lord Captain has learned some descretion, this passes to me at a whisper and I confess, I lean closer for more of this delicious tidbit.

“A dream?  A nightmare?  Why I dream fearful things almost on a night. . .” I lie with conviction.  I do not dream, neither do I sleep.

My lord of the Guard is not pleased, his eyes narrow as if he has detected mockery, but he will never realize that this all, this of my shape, this of creeping among the dregs is all mockery.  It amuses me.  “No ordinary dreams, nay, these have fallen on the high priests of the one true church.”

“Truly?  Even those mighty in things divine?”  I seem to ponder as if I am as dull witted as he.  Oh, what can this mean I seem to think? 

But I know now what this means to Allston Soulaucy, the past-over, this would undoubtedly be the concern of his superiour, the Commander of the Kings guard, and if indeed it threatened all Aerenor at least the Marshall of all the armies not to mention Lyemis himself.  My glittering friend would upstage everyone and so earn the advancement that he has failed to achieve so far. 

I feign resolution, as if a dull mind has finally come to some understanding.  Uh, but now it slips away into some concern.  I watch my prey’s face fall as he sees a question rise to my lips, “but isn’t this the purvue of the Lord of Whispers.  .  .”  I say and then I pause as if a completely new idea has just sprung to mind, “. . . or surely Tolver Maldrace, the Lord Commander of the King’s guard?”

Allston glowers predictably.  Just as predictably he says, “The Lord of Whispers does not have the confidence of our Righteous King, and as to Maldrace, well, I do not doubt his loyalty, but I fear this might be beyond him.  My concern is for Lyemis, for Aerenor.”

“Still, it might be that the Lord of Whispers should be consulted, not bother you with such as th. . .”

“NO no,” The Captain glances around seeking ears that may betray him when the ears that have betrayed him hang on either side of his pea brain. “I seek confirmation outside of the palace, clarity that will preserve our King.”

“Oh yes, long may he live.”  Again the wheels seem to churn slowly behind my eyes.  I will take him by way of my favorite brothel and by secret ways to my lair.  Allston will never get his promotion, but then what he will learn will be of little use to Lyemis anyhow.  And now I come to a firm decision and the words form and I say, “This must come to my master as soon as can be.” 

There is delight that shines on Allston’s face almost as brightly as his glittering armor.  This will be enjoyable.  I do so love surprises.

Sir Gawain and the Ghost Knight

The King is in his Hall.  There is the scent of applewood and venison roasting.  Arthur’s knights are at table, the Round Table of Camelot.  Bards tell tales accompanied by minstrels.  Well received are the jokesters telling tales that make merry, bring laughter and jeers, gafaws and then cheers.

Martin the bard strides forth with his tale, wearing motley and bells.  Knights lean closer, to listen to the story he tells, “Here then is the tale of Sir Gawain and the Ghost Knight,” chants Martin there by the fire where he stands.

“This will be good I’ll wager,” says Sir Gaheris with twinkling eye. 
Arthur silences him with a glare and Gawain, red as a beet, sinks deeper in his chair.

“Sir Gawain, he of Camelot, being a knight of the Round Table,” The knights cheer and applaud so the Bard pauses before continuing, “He did seek he, hither and thither, for good that might be done in a knightly manner, and in regards to his honor, in keeping with what best befits one of his station and high calling.

“Sadly, no call for succor from fair maiden, or plee from put upon peasantry, abused by an unscrupulous master sworn to other than our good king, nor even a chance attempt at brigandry against his person had arisen to leaven the dreary days.  Worse yet, the clouds had opened into a bone chilling, drenching rain.

“It was in low spirits and considerable discouragement that Gawain followed a road toward home.  His way wound up a long rise crowded close with mist shrouded pine.  This was a perfect place for ambuscade so that Gawain was not surprised, though relieved to tell the truth, to see a dark figure lurking beneath an enormous fir, topping a rise above him.

“Gawain placed his helm upon his head, took his lance firm in hand, and picked up his pace along that lonely road.  Soon enough he saw more clearly a figure, resolved from the mist as it were, into a knight, it seemed, caparisoned in green and athwart his path.  That is, there appeared a green knight, or rather a knightly figure arrayed in green who’s device he could not discern so as to know what man might inhabit the armor that sat upon the horse in his path.

“Ho there sir knight, who’s vassal may you be, and by what right do you bar the king’s thoroughfare? This said gallant Gawain, but to his goodly query the knight in green said not a single thing.  He sat his steed and stared, it seemed, a looming darkened specter.

“Be you friend of King Arthur of Camelot, or be you in contra-point and opposition, for I am sworn to same and will defend with vigor the right, both of myself as a knight, and to all who name him lord, of passage along this way, indeed with lance if you will not remove yourself peaceably.  Though he was not in a companionable mood Gawain added generously, Or if you are with the king we might ride on to Camelot and feast at table or some such.

“Civil enough greeting and even kind it was, but that Green Knight said not a thing, nor did he bestir himself to properly vacate the precinct of the kings roadway.  It seemed, though it were long odded unlikely to fair Gawain that this looming figure could control his equine mount to this degree, having heard the goodly knight’s command, the Green Knight’s mount lifted tail and gave vent right there upon the road, it would seem, in direct defiance of the king’s sworn man.

“But there, steaming in the roadway was clear evidence of same.  Gawain could not let this pass, so to speak. See here you dandy varlet. Said good Sir Gawain. You may be sure that this abuse of the king’s roadway will not be condoned.  Arm yourself, defend, if you can, these actions, and know that Gawain at least, will not stand such. And then with heat.  Defend yourself! Thus saying, Gawain reined ’round and paced him off a goodly run so to best engage the Green Knight at full tilt.  Wheeling, Gawain would have couched his lance and rode the scroyle down, but as he looked to find his target through his visor, much too close he saw the blighted horse, with its rider, seated calmly there astride it, walking slowly up behind our gallant knight and closing distance so as to preclude Gawain’s full tilt charge and satisfaction.

“What is this japery! Hold you there or I will. . .  See here, how am I to ride you down, like the dog you are, if I can’t gain enough way?  Ye Gods are you even a knight?  Wheeling again and riding harder, Gawain galloped to a place well back along the road.  Quickly, so as not to allow the green knight time for any other shenanigans, Gawain whirled and brought his lance to bear.

“Wroth as he was and sore put upon, nothing would have stayed Sir Gawain from violence, surely, nothing conceivable could prevent his lightening charge iresitably followed by a deadly lance thrust and victory.  The inevitability of it was undeniable, unimpeachable, solid in concept and undoubtable as it was indubitable. So it was a very great shock and surprise to Gawain when he would have kicked his mount to the charge, and to the inevitable, undeniable, indubitable, and certain end of such a charge with violent intent. . .

“. . . But as he rounded, lo, all he had to look on was the backside of the horse, and also, there above that insolent backside, the back of the Green Knight, equally insolent and more.  THIS is intolerable.  You are no true knight, are you even a man?  How can a knight turn curpin in such extremity?  Stand and FIGHT!

“This the Green Knight would not do, for with infinite aplomb the bounder wandered along the track at such a slow pace as to make a man, even a lesser man than Gawain, who in his fine pique and temper was quite beside himself at this point, rather mad with blood-lust.

“You poxy blaggard.  Turn and face me if you be a man, you smoldering mundungus.  So saying Gawain savaged his charger’s flanks and prepared to engage, though he warned the Green Knight again ere he would have struck him. Gawain railed, I will have satisfaction.  Stand, you craven gundygut, and fight or or or. . .

“But naught could come to mind that would allow Gawain to ride down an enemy who was neither facing him, nor exactly fleeing in the sort of way that might bring a proper attack from the rear, if ever one might be justified.  Honor bound, Gawain was at a loss and drew rein as roughly as he’d spurred his mount.

“His horse flesh, tempestuous itself, and sensing its masters discomfort, chose that moment to add to it.  Rearing in a most unexpected way, the charger bolted clean out from under Sir Gawain, sending him foot over withers and helm under knickers before dashing him down upon the muddy road in a splat and a rattle. 

“Momentarily stunned, Gawain quickly, at least for a heavily armored man on uncertain ground, regained his feet and drew sword to face the inevitable attack.  Alas, it did not come.  But Gawain thought, above the ringing in his ears, might there be laughter on the wind?

“Not far off his charger was cropping grass as was the sway backed plow-horse of a mount that bore the Green Knight, cheekily sitting his mount now once again athwart the road.  This was intolerable provocation, but Gawain was in no position to answer it immediately.  The situation vexed him sore.

“It was a most unknightly procedure, unsquired and alone, for Gawain to capture, remount, and rearm upon his charger.  All the while he believed he could hear distant laughter.  So it was a red faced knight, Gawain and no other, who once again stood mounted and facing the Green Knight, or rather standing at the ready to fight the Green Knight who, for his part, sat calmly side on, displaying a blank green shield, his sinister display a clear mock of such disrespect as to madden beyond all restraint the long suffering Gawain.

“Defend, I’ll give you no more warning nor quarter.  You have earned this beyond all bounds of knightly behavior and I require satisfaction.  So saying and without delay Gawain couched his lance and charged.

“Soon enough Gawain was at the gallop and bearing down on the Green Knight where he waited, at rest, before the huge spreading fir at the top of the hill.  With madening Nonchalance, the horse and rider wandered off the road, still side on to Gawain.  The small satisfaction of the Green Knight quiting the road was not now of a sufficiency to stay Gawain.

“Adjusting to the new deflection, Gawain bore down.  With satisfaction, he saw the varlet turn head on to him, awaiting his attack.  As he neared the collision, Gawain had eyes only for the heart of his enemy.  Gawain stood high in his stirrups, and leaned in against the shattering impact of taking a man full in the chest with a lance.  Indeed Gawain drew some back just before contact, and then thrust with all his might to run the man through.

“He couldn’t have missed, he was sure, Sir Gawain watched the point take the insolent knight full on his breastplate, but it was as if the Green Knight were a phantasm or wraith and its armored breast resisted his thrust no more than would a vapor.  And so, inevitably, without the counterbalancing resistance of an armored man to set him back in his saddle, Gawain followed his thrust over the back of the Green Knight’s horse and headfirst upon the road, his fall broken by naught but the horse flop that had in large part precipitated the engagement. 

“The dung did not afford any more resistance than had the Green Knight, indeed it rather smoothed and lubricated the way as Gawain skidded over the hill.  Far from slowing, it seemed, he began to gain way as he bounced and rattled down the road into a smallish village, ending his careen in a rather large communal pig wallow.

“Mortification were not nearly a sufficient descriptor of Gawain’s embarassment.  At least, though his shame was witnessed widely by the populace, Sir Gawain was saved from drowning in the murky middlemost depth of the pig wallow, being drawn forth by the efforts of four good men of the village.  Further, these same men were able to identify and secure the young vandals who had made up the wooden effigy, placed it upon a perloined plow horse, and presented it at the top of the hill from which devolved all the tragic event afore mentioned.” Martin bows with laudably dignity despite bells jingling on his hat.

When the snickers and gaffaws subside, the King nods to the bard, “Master bard, well told.” Then to Gawain he says, “Truly an amazing adventure, Sir Gawain, but what became of the young rapscallions?”

It seems Sir Gawain could not get redder, but he, with exagerated dignity, ignoring his fellow knights in hopes of salvaging something good from it all says, “Having been saved from sure death by their fathers,” he says, “I remembered my own imperfect youth and decided that the punishment should fit the crime.”

“Oh? What punishment?” asks the monarch, Arthur, over the rim of his drinking horn of red wine.

Arthur drinks deep, Gawain, clearly pleased with himself, responds,”Why, they are this moment cleaning my armor.”

He is less pleased as his king spews wine across the table, Gawain’s mantle, and his beard which drains onto his fresh doublet. “Oh Gawain, you didn’t!” Arthur moans.

* * * *

The ride has been long and trying, but it is nearing an end with every step closer to Camelot.  Still, the knight emissary from a nearby kingdom is not at all pleased to see a knight baring his way. 

Looking hard at the shield device on the mounted knight he recognises the heraldry of sir Gawain of Camelot. “Sir Gawain, what is the meaning of this?”  The knight is vexed that Gawain makes no answer, but Gawain, in full armor, visored as if for battle, plods out from under the great fir he has been lurking beneath.