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