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