Too much Sun

There was a noise coming from down the road - angry voices were name-calling and shouting loud. He looked and could see a man, a tall man, sitting astride a very small donkey.

Darius loved donkeys and his immediate inclination was to go and pat his furry head. As fortune would have it the beautiful beast had stopped right in the front of the sweetbread shop.

With a round bun in his little hand he went over to feed the shaggy animal. Missiles of waste and pebbles were being thrown in his direction and long palm fronds stretching out from irritants within the crowd were pelting the man from the sides of the road.

A piece of rotten fruit caught little Darius on the ear. Master Donkey had stopped still to contentedly chew over the bun he had been fed - Darius steadied himself, putting one little hand upon the thigh of the stranger, who caught him by the wrist just before he was to slip being struck by yet another rancid missile.

The noise from the clamouring spectators was raucous and rude - but he was not frightened, keeping his hand inside that of the man's. He stared at his face wonderingly. The eyes of the stranger looked back as though they were trying to tell him something - and he felt happy - really happy - and everything around him seemed to sparkle.

***

"You've had too much sun out there my boy", his father had said when he tried to describe the sparks and stars he was seeing almost everywhere about him.

And, the face of the man - that man...

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

The Famous Nails

They stood and waited dutifully. After five minutes Darius's legs were getting sore and he wanted very badly to go home. His father saw his boy fidgeting and handed him a roasted nut from his pocket fold.

Another usher with silent footfall came in and drew back a black curtain from the wall. Behind it sat a throne and upon its seat was a character enmeshed in woven gold, wearing a metal mask that had a weave of craggy horns high above his head.

This figure produced a small pouch and handed it to his father. It weighed so heavy that it bulged the material. Inside was a fine metal dust, so fine it looked like black flour and sparkled in the lamplight as he opened it.

The usher who had been waiting behind them moved forward and motioned to silently leave through another door to their left. He then took them through the maze, with no words having been spoken until they were back into the light.

"Portius instructed me to tell you that you will prosper in your business. You are to add a dram to each bale of molten iron and the metal will be all the stronger for it. Success will come shortly ... and fame of your wares will span the centuries."

This was a great honor and the prophecy did prove true. The foundry flourished and the metal polished strong - and they secured the city's tender ... a consignment of nails to be supplied, in all sizes.


-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

Expedition into the Caverns

Darius hid within the folds of his father's robe. He did not like these expeditions into the caverns.

The people down there scared him greatly, for they wore bizarrely decorated costumes, which when seen only in the half-light looked very threatening to such a small child.

He could hear the sound of trickling water and the whole enclosure smelt exceedingly damp. The rock was warm to the touch, and incense wrote over the notes of the vaporous mould.

Women, or perhaps young men, were veiled all in black, moving all about. They blended with the shadows well, for their faces were covered also.

They transported the offerings and replenished the firelights - some had trays to sup from, some drove out the rats and swept the halls.

Smaller caves were hollowed out from the larger one.

When an usher in black led them into an anteroom Darius saw his face through the veil, and how his skin was black too - shining like polished wood.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

Puck's Advice

Some of his advice was as follows:
Always tell the truth and never depart, even a little into deceiving others.

Speaking falsehoods - he said - interrupts the clairvoyant faculties. To gain entrance into the spiritual worlds one has to be aligned with the truth; for if the consciousness defers to inaccuracies and self-made fiction, it becomes inhibited into seeing only that of its own making.

Pray hard; exercise hope; look forward; project ideas; try to imagine; cast a net; write a list; summon ideals; visualize good outcomes; specify and itemise clearly ... but do not live in a phantasy of goals that you have not yet obtained. Be clear with what you are, and what you are not, and what it is that really you want.

If you fall into melancholy it is because too much unclaimed desire has overtaken your commonsense.

And, he added - throw some balls, fly a kite, and aim high.

It was this last bit that completely annoyed her.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

A Bout of Viral Materialism

Marley sat in the coffee-house crying into her handbag, which there within contained hundreds of little slips of paper that had kept appearing – all telling her not to worry and that somehow this would get fixed.

She had been, it seemed, infected with a bout of viral materialism and the main thing now was to be careful not to overeat or overly panic. Hopefully it would pass in a day or so.

Materialism is not dissimilar to dementia - an apoplexy of the spiritual recall. The faculties of imagination and precognition are restricted, whilst the sense of the eternal is reduced down to just momentary concerns. A very bad case of it can result in atheistic behaviours - and, at its absolute worst, it can manifest a deathly condition of unrest, chronic disbelief with relentless argumentativeness.

Like any other atrophy or paralysis, the sufferer needs to exercise what little perception they have left. Puck had given Marley a list of exercises, although her heart just was not in doing them - in fact, if anything, she seemed a little ungrateful every time he reminded her.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

The Night had vanished from Richard's Mind

Immortals had no wherewithal to comprehend the thinking of men - let alone the minds of the history makers.

Yet they could, now and then, inspire from the left fields of a broadcast imagination.

Robin, the Fey, carried the sleeping King throughout the realms of Faerie and then transported him back into his world of Men, come the morning.

Arriving at their castle hall, a bleary eyed Richard smiled a bearded smile, as he alighted down from the coach's rise.

"I am much revived - thank you Sir for a seamless ride and delivering me so securely."

He plainly remembered nothing of the visions of the night just passed.

Disappointed, yet not surprised, Robin bowed slightly and stepped back to let his eminence pass by him.

The night had vanished from Richard's mind - he had not the ability to retain its meaning - and, like fine gold dust falling, the weight of its wisdom had slipped past his consciousness and onto his feet before him.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

The Mystery Tour

The carriage had now accelerated its speed, and its dappled horses had transformed into black steeds double their size.

The motion of the ride was proving to be intoxicating - fast and smooth with the pounding of rhythmic hoof-fall ... Richard struggled hard with the need to rest his eyes, drifting up and into sleep's spaces. Further and further his capsule proceeded, until finally the good King gave his consent into dream.

Robin did not always talk directly with men. If he intuited that plain speak could not be properly be heard or convey what he should like to explain, he preferred, (as most agents of the divine do) to reveal the messages in visions or dreams, which could show example - and not just words.

King Richard had sought the mysteries, yet was an ever practical and earthly man. He could not, as yet, willingly perceive the Fey, anymore than they could truly understand his world. His life consisted of physical battles with blade and force, of hurt and cold, ambition and its failures; of bruises big and small; of fighting for an unseen God with no immediate or tangible reward.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

Crossing the Borders

As the carriage trundled its way through forests and open roads the King looked about himself but could see very little. He had stepped into a space that was very nearly completely dark inside... which was not unusual - for any lanterns of the escort would usually hang outside - and there was nothing indiscreetly illumined on this night, lest it would attract attention.

No sooner had he been seated upon the velvet couch had the vehicle begun its migration swiftly forward and into the woods.

There was ample room for Richard to sit without crouching or crowding his companion (who had gone strangely quiet).

His fellow traveller, Asgarth, was balancing atop outside beside the driver. He could hear them laugh intermittently.

A horn sounded. "We've just crossed the borders,” the driver's voice bellowed.

"Borders?" he asked unwittingly, "what shire?"

"Why, ours and the Faerie-Land Sire," the voice called back ... "we've arrived into the Fair Land of the Immortals."

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

They Haven't Gone Anywhere at all

The very last thing Marley could remember was seeing Brogan dressed in shining finery, stuck right in the middle of a huge crowd of crippled ghouls and glorious souls. They had been kneeling on the damp, cold ground together and she had noticed that his face looked quite serene - it was the same, but also very different to the man she knew - it was quite haunting.

He had not acknowledged her, for the distractions were a many, and besides, Marley had been at too far a distance to be heard or clearly seen in the dark where she had stood.

Goober had been debating something loudly, during which there came a light - a really bright atomic strength type light - with an almighty cracking sound, that was most likely a storm's lightning, except to say it seemed to come from the centre of the crowd and not from out of the sky.

She recalled all that much vividly, and then nothing else at all. Marley had woken to find herself lying flat out on the grass only a hundred yards or so from the house.

Where had everyone gone to? And, why would they have left her here like this alone?

The thought did occur that amongst that huge ensemble she had been the only living mortal there.

Somehow the reality of her own kind dawned on her, alongside the sun's rise that was spilling over the fields - and her phantasy world that she had grown so very used to had simply dropped away.

As she propped herself upon one elbow in the grass, she saw a movement rustle a plant right beside her. She peered at it to watch and see if it would move again - it did not. But what she did find, whilst staring at it for more movement still, was a very small piece of paper rolled up into a ball.

The very minute she unwound the tangle of paper, she could make out that the note written inside was in Puck's own handwriting. Less than a minute later another one was to follow - it shot out of nowhere and into her lap.

"Oh God!" she just realised - "they haven't gone anywhere at all - they're right here around me now - I just can't see them!"

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

A Procession

There was word of a procession to come into the town that morning and little Darius wanted nothing more than to be able to go and see it for himself.
All of four years old, he had been given enough chores to fill in the day. His father the metalsmith had been called away with work out of town, now leaving his son with two others in his employ.

Darius could hear the voices outside their little shop and guessed it to be very exciting.

Already in his short life he had seen dressage and contestants and some quite important people sitting high and being carried in their chair-beds on top of the shoulders of others. Once there had been a line of golden chariots go past with handsome men
waving to the crowd.

The fires were making his eyes itch, his nose snuffled with their relentless vapours, and his ears hurt with the hammering all about. He decided to go.

He snuck out and around to the back exit past the hammersmiths who were much too busy to see him leave.

Once outside in the daylight he found it was a smaller group than usual, and thought disappointedly that he must have already missed the parade. He passed through a huddle who were blocking the road to get to the fruit-bread stall. The lady there would give him bits of cake, just by him putting his hand up.

He had seen his father kiss her once and knew then and there that she could be kind.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

Residuals of the Darkness

The Priest pointed at the remaining ghosts and said -

"All of these fellows are but animated memories. When their souls come back to claim them, when they are strong enough to do so, their memory is released from the sphere for which they have been attached and trapped e'er first they fell. The lives of men leave impressions everywhere and over time it is their lot to reveal and heal themselves, and the world, of the sadnesses they have left behind.

"We have been praying to help them find the strength to collect their residuals of the darkest of periods in their own history - for the soul is accountable - even for that of its own misery."

"Do the Fey have ghosts that they also leave around this world?"

"No, not as the mortals do ... the Fey are consolidated into one. Their souls invest themselves in the natural world, storing happinesses away, buried beneath a tree or hidden in a bird's egg - I knew one who had kept his happiness in a box of chocolates until a Troll came and ate them all. No matter - they do this all of the time and really, you cannot trust the Trolls to keep to their own.

“Anyway, and more to the point - the Fey keep their misery upon their person all the time; they use it to write endless ballads of moribund and tedious exploits ... always singing their sorrows, I've noticed."

Goober was scowling at this blanket comment so said.
"Eh Father, when was the last time you heard me singing my sorrow to you?"

He needed to speak up because he really thought that the comment smacked of typical racism - very common between Mortals and Fey.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

Picking up the Pieces

Marley looked up behind them as they walked into the night.

She could just make out some very heavyset figures squatting on the roof of the Manor - they were black and had broad wings.

There were just a few ghouls left still clinging to the walls - one was climbing the drainpipe and another had his head stuck in a grate.

Some stout children were playing by the fountain; Marley noticed one take a pee in there.

The Priest Tooke strolled beside Puck as though it was any Sunday, and Nervina walked alongside the men, leaving Goober to follow behind with Marley.

She had grown incredibly fond of Goober and had spent months in his company on and off, at the seed farm and abroad. He was 'easy' to be with - one always had the feeling that this Elvish fellow was straight up sincere with absolutely everything he did and said. She could understand why Puck relied on him so much.

Bart had been concerned for Brogan and was calling out to him as they approached what was left of the hive. It was plain to see that it had been bigger than perceived and the process of souls collecting up their astral shells was still ongoing, with hundreds still yet to get through.

Nervina watched a beautiful lady dressed in a silvery silk gown approach a young boy whose arm was hanging off his side, held on by just a thin flap. His clothing was soaked in blood and his teeth had been knocked from his head. She was collecting his teeth one by one and placing them gently back into his blackened mouth. She fastened a linen sling to his arm and brushed his hair. A moment later and he was gone.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

The Rickety Wooden Caravan

With a salty slap the wind whisked at their faces; the night was sharpish, yet full of life!

The pebbles of the beach crunched beneath their sea soaked boots, as they strode up the dunes to the waiting carriage.

Although grateful to have an emissary, Richard would have much preferred to simply ride - he had never used this form of transport before - for caravans were for women, their infants, and invalids and gypsy homes - and not for men of war.

In perceiving his apprehension the stranger said in a low voice "in here we may talk as we travel, without stating our purpose so loudly to the world."

Cautiously the King was still yet not satisfied - for this of itself might be a fickle offering, with someone to bear down upon him once inside.

To this the stranger answered, "A king's ransom might have its appeal, however we are sincere in our willingness to aid his Majesty fully, who we believe to be most wholesome for Britain's wellbeing - and not as dire or diseased as some."

He continued,

"If you do not require our services tonight there shall be no offence taken from this considered rejection."

Richard had not met with such a generous and eloquent speaker before and was considerably falling in love with him.

The men he knew were all brutish in manner - and in most of his searching he had been continuously disappointed with the scholars of thought in the modern world - for he had found them all lacking a true finery and virtue. People cared more for the pomp of their garments than the salvation of their own souls and the saving of the world ... and now, in the dark of the night he had found a champion to convey him with both thought and steed.

"I thank thee with sincerity" he said then stepping up and into the rickety wooden caravan that was tied to two old dappled horses who stood asleep with the cold.

***

Of course it so happened that the carriage had a much larger interior than one could have judged just by looking at its outside - for it was made of that wood, same wood from the enchanted forest - and was now jerking through the night with some very surprised passengers within.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

The Returning Tide

His red ringlets cascaded into his hands - he was a man made dumb by his own indecision.

"How can I now return home?" he asked Asgarth, who had been beside him for eight campaigns and never once issued unwanted advice.

King Richard continued:

"I do not believe that I have God's strength in this. My brother has changed I tell you. I myself did not recognise him last time we met. He used to be a practical man, a coffer counter, with no temperament for the exotic or surreal.

“It was I, Richard, who has always been the risk-taker - I travelled whilst John did stay at home - leaving him to a handful of farms and a quarterance of hungry soldiers.

“And still, Britain would fare better without him, I know this also. And yet he threatens me thusly - for my part to remain away and not sully his concern? I swear that those black creatures have entered his head - he was most unwell, last time we met."

"Then you must go ensconced with some elaboration. Tonight we can take the place of Lord Milfoil and his party, who I know will oblige us for a crown."

"So it be said, be it done. Pity the King who is dislocate from his sovereign home."

Two days later Richard and Asquith were once again on British soil. A solitary figure stood on the beach to greet them. He had waist long hair and a tall broad form. With hand on heart he said very quietly,

"Welcome my King, I have come to escort you."

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

Fleeing the Darkness of the Isle

Richard rent the outer fur costume from his chest, tearing the sheath obliquely to the waist. He stepped naked from its shell as it dropped heavily to the floor.

Permute and discontent, the meeting with his brother had left him ineffably disturbed - and with high expectations now lain to waste, he fell to his chair, naked and fazed.

The very magic he had been accused of by the Sheriff had been there with his own blood all along. And the power of this evil was beyond any army or argument that he could gather to winningly oppose.

In no uncertain terms he was to take his exile abroad and flee the darkness of the Isle. This madness feared him to the core. The enchantments were too thick and many.

He vowed ever stronger to seek his true Lord with achievable campaigns - and although he had lost the lands of his reign, he might still champion the empires of Christendom, until his mortal close.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

Richard's Blood was Pumping Hard

As he drew ever nearer he could see just one solitary figure sitting with his back to him staring at the flames.

His hopefulness reawakened that this was the Pookah of the Forest - Robin - he had come to find.

Squinting through the windows of his mask he could just make out the shine of thorny black antlers springing from his head.

Richard's blood was pumping hard with trepidation. The figure sitting before the fire still had his back to him and was clearly as tall as himself, if not bigger still. Black imps were playing at his feet and darting in and out around the orange light. They had legs like sticks and twiggy arms - Richard watched on, mesmerised by their spritely dance.

"So this is what the Fey look like" he bethought as he gradually made his way closer. The figure was smoking a pipe - its fragrance smelt of plums and mead.

"Robin!" he called tenuously ... now just six feet away - yet no answer came. Boldly he approached and sat himself down on the other side of the camp, face to face with the creature that awaited him.

He lifted his mask away from his face in courtesy, revealing his red gold hair and beard he was known by. The figure before him in kind, removed his horned helmet and laid it down on the bare earth beside them. The black imps clamoured to entwine themselves around the curves, swinging on the bones and rutting themselves on the spikes of the horns.

King Richard felt ill with himself the very moment he locked eyes with he to whom he had come to meet. For very nearly this man was a reflection of his own self, and not Robin at all.

"My God, John!" he said ... and then the fire went out.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

Meeting in the Forest

Two men helped to heave the enormous fur mantle over Richard's head. It was made entirely of black rabbit and the gown of fur hung from shoulder to floor. It was worn as part of an old Northern ritual, with a leathered mask that too was dark.

He was an exceedingly tall man and looked all the part of a mythical creature. Tonight he was to meet with the Fey of the Forest and was told that this was the most impressive of costumes to go in. Two tailors and over one hundred pelts were sewn to make up a cloak that had no opening.

In the twilight he stood alone by the river that ran past his castle and through to the meadows. He had waited for a little time before walking further into the thick.

Richard could hear someone chanting and saw through to the scrub the flicker of a fire burning fast. He was now beginning to have some doubts. What if this was an elaborate game of assassination? He faltered. The mask was giving him claustrophobia and its fresh skin filled his nostrils with the strong smell of the tanning oils saturate within.

Although lighter than common armor, his cloak hung hotly, and he moved only slowly into the dark with but a clumsy frailty.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

Seeking the Azlan

King Richard sought the Azlan everywhere, through expeditions and campaigns abroad; he roamed the coasts, he made inroads, evangelised with escapades, yet nought could quell his longing.

His advisors cautioned him against this ceaseless travel, for his eyes were never at home, and in truth his home had become almost foreign, and to him it was unknown.

With every conquest afar he won celebrity, however his own government saw not the parity.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series

To Nottingham with a Small & Very Unusual Army

"Should have, could have, would have - now these are magic words, I think not. He was intent on slaying us all, robes or no robes - you and I are only intact because we departed the district when we did."

This was of course most true and the Monk thought so of the evil behind them saying:

"I guess we must now go back."

"I guess that we will,” said Robin with equal resignation. "But first, let me gather together a band of Elvish to take with us - we can then set up camp in the forest and parley with the town - but only when needs must call."

And so it was decided that to Nottingham they would return - but this time with a small and very unusual army behind them.

-Gabriel Brunsdon, Puck in Hell, Azlander Series