Turncard Story - The new Track
A figure stands in an ancient ruin, bare feet on crumbling stone. Her gown far too fine, her sword much too dark.
At a princess’ coming of age ceremony, an uninvited guest gifted her a sword, then vanished, laughing, into smoke. She cannot put it down until she finds the place it came from. So she has come.
The birthday celebration of princess Arianwen Ffion Gwynne was as splendid an affair as any young maid coming of age might hope for. Fantastic boughs of flowers adorned the marble halls of the palace and finely bedecked vassals and serfs stood on every side. And of all who assembled within those walls, she was the hope and the pride.
She had riches all too great to count and a high ancestral name. And in the gay festivities, handsome suitors sought her hand. Knights upon bended knee with vows no maidens heart could withstand pledged their faith to her. And the finest and fairest one of that noble host came forth her hand to claim.
A knight of fairest golden hair and finest featured countenance. With shoulders broad and narrow waist. And bright green eyes in his fair face. Whose mink trimmed cloak shone so purest white beside his skin so pale and fair. Even the fairest ladies of the court looked on with hearts atremble and wishes for the knight’s attention.
Fair and fine were the grand knight’s words and sublime his gentle voice. The princess’ sensibilities swam intoxicated in the sun-warm sea of his address, hearing nothing of the pleasing declarations, adrift in the caress of sentiment. Her heart and will lay soft and helpless in this gallant’s princely hands.
When next herself she beheld, regaining her wits and self-possession, the knight’s fine-wrought bejeweled scabbard he held upraised before her. The shining hilt of his blade chased in platinum and purest silver and inlaid with gleaming riches in precious diamonds. That she might pull forth his naked steel and laying that keen blade aside his neck, dub him her chosen suitor and heart’s champion before all.
Her slender hand went forth and claimed that splendid blade that she might call this hero hers and declare the affection of her heart for all to know. And in that self-same moment a peal of Zeus’ calamitous thunder so resounded that the souls of all assembled shook with dread and wonder. The golden sun passed hidden behind a heavy cloud as if not to witness what transpired and in that gloomy shadow the lordly knight did vanish into evil smoke that smelled of woe and ruin. Her last glimpse of him, that of a small, white furred cat in fine, high boots cackling with wicked mirth as it disappeared.
Her vision swam as all about her settings changed. She beheld about her now an ancient and crumbling ruin. It’s stones dark with the grime of hoary ages. She stood in singular contrast to the dreary scene, her festive gown sewn with pearls and trimmed with cloth-of-gold. Her hair so fair a tumble of luscious curls so fetchingly adorned with golden combs and fine-wrought ornaments of clever filigree.
Gone, her servants in their fine livery. Gone, the fine palace of her forefathers. She stood alone, bereft of friend or fine lady-in-waiting. Abandoned by courtier and castellan and by her lonesome amid the dark and forbidding place. Her feet bare upon the dark gray slate or the ruin. Abandoned even by her fine-heeled dancing slippers, it seemed. Making her way here would be arduous among the sharp, cracked stones.
In her hand she beheld, noticing it for the first time in her awe and wonder, a black-gilt sword of pitted, evil-looking blade. It’s naked blade a damascene miasma of strange, black-gray swirling patterns. It’s hilt and hand-guard an unsettling work of sigil, seal, and symbols of death and ruin. An impression of crawling shadows crept along its blade in unceasing writhing. Faintly perceptible and seeming to dwell on the very edges of perception. But unsettling in the corner of the eye, where the shapes seemed wicked and unwholesome. And she knew dread of the thing and wanted most deeply for it to be far away from her. So unlike the fine, jewelled sword the knight has presented her.
But alas neither depth of dread, nor ardent will could force her hand to drop it. And clutched in death’s rigorous grip, it made not the slightest to quit her hand. Nor could be prized by any means she found herself to muster, from her hand. This vile thing held firm and fast in her slender-fingered grip as though she were mighty Heracles himself and gifted with Olympian might.
There was nothing for it but to find her way from this place. Perhaps to find her purpose in it. Wherever and whatever this place was.
The princess looked about her for a path amid the fallen stones. In the rain-wet gloom of this cloudy and forlorn place no shelter from the winds blowing chill from over the fens and moors at first presented itself. The damp cold chased up her bare, soft feet chilling her from heel to crown. And the sword hung like a burdensome anchor in her grasp.
A stony path presented itself, leading down from this roofless, ruined chamber, into darker, labyrinthine passages and tumbledown halls filled with shadows and gloom. The sudden onset of a weak, icy drizzle of dirty rain, seemingly carrying black soot or ash in it’s fine droplets, prompted her to quit this high, lonely place in search of shelter.
The dreary nature of the sunless ruin dragged at the princess’ spirits. The heavy, malevolent blade with it’s creeping shadows weighed heavy in her hand. As she carefully made her way down the slippery rocks from the broken tower, she slipped once, and then again, each time cutting her fine gown a bit as the razor-keen cursed sword flailed about as she fell. The grime of the ancient stones coated her feet, cold and clammy. Patches of mould-black filth stained her fine white gown where she had fallen.
As she climbed down the broken path she found herself in a shattered transept with gaping holes in the roof and jagged piles of broken rubble where the roof had fallen in. Dim and forlorn gloom filled the place. Broken only by patches of weak, gray light from the clouded sky filtering in through the ceiling holes, lighting the piles of broken stone. She walked through the shadows, unable to even enter into the light, such as it was, for the treacherous wreckage of the vaulted ceiling rubble was unstable and full of jagged edges.
Passing through broken hall, and into the nave, vast arched beams like broken ribs loomed overhead and showed again that cloud-gray sky where the ceiling had fallen away in some long forgotten siege.
But lo! A break in the clouds. And golden rays shone forth from the heavens beyond. Illuminating as a spotlight might, the apse and it’s tumbledown ambulatory, half fallen into rubble and collapsed in ruin long, long ago. There, bright lit by the happy sun, a moss clad and doleful statue rose. Some ancient and forgotten icon. A bygone divinity lost to ancient tomes and passed from living memory.
And as the princess picked her way gingerly from the shadows into the light, natural slate tiles gave way to polished marble with an unfortunate covering of rain-left silt and ash leaving only glimpses of the fine polished stone that lay beneath. Emerging, she came round to the front face of the statue. And beheld again the face of the fair haired knight, cast in once-fine marble, now cracked and weather worn. Sad and lifeless in the golden rays, the disrepair lending a forlorn aspect to what was surely once a stately and heroic shrine. Now fallen into decay.
Putting the sad old statue to her back the princess tuned toward the facade, passing among the uneven marble pews like darkened mausoleum stones, stained with lichen and the moss of overmuch time. She slipped softly, sword held low and head held high, one-two and through the fallen doors to behold a brambly rose briar patch most steeply overgrown with thorn-vined flowers of every conceivable variety bloomed in unseen riot here. A rainbow of petals, freshly watered and newly sunlit turned their hundred thousand heads to the sky and drank in the shine of day’s proud star. That fiery chariot of mighty Apollo. The princess proceeded down the old steps into that overgrown garden.
Like timid fawns the creeping vines so spiney spiked did curl away at her approach. Demurely coiling down and away from that regal scion and her cursed and deadly naked blade. As if in them was a knowing of it’s peril. A feeling of its shadowy curse.
On the turning away of the twisted brown boughs, the princess held the terrible blade up in the sunlight and all of a moment beheld it. Seeing for the first time its manxome mien. For as grand an splendid as the fair knight’s diamond set sword had been. So fine wrought with bright platinum and gleaming blue silver chasery, this black metal shadow collector was dim and dull-surfaced and seemed to absorb light and life and happiness by its very nature. A mourning blade that surely was forged for sorrow and the deliverance of keen edged woe. So miserable and forlorn was its every aspect. A black and sad thing that nothing good, it seemed, could ever come of.
“Oh now there’s a black hearted curse if ever I’ve seen one!” Came a reedy, counter-tenor voice from the bushes. And as the princess spun round, surprised at the breaking of the dismal silence of the place, she spied in a glance the nubby horns and nut-brown skin of Faun. An Arcadian spirit quite rare in these times. Like the frolicking Satyrs of Dionysus or the Maenads of ancient bacchanals. Seldom seen.
“Oh!” exclaimed the princess, and “How do you do?” knowing that the fair folk are easily offended and simply awful tricksters when they are. And the forest folk of Arcadia have memories that are long and the some length again and have danced since the days when men sacrificed one another in bloody rituals for the favor of horned Cernunnos and hoary Nodens of the Silver Hand. And they think nothing of proffering horrid curses upon those to whom they take offense. It wouldn’t do to test this spirit’s good graces.
“Well and Good, just as I should. I’m a fellow true-born of these hills and this wood. And so given to deeds benevolent, and piping and dancing and merriment. You might call me by my name, the daring, dancing, Ogriflaime! And how now, having spoke my truth, might I address you, pretty youth? And as he rhymed he stepped in time to a little waltz-like pantomime with grandiose gestures of courtly graces exaggeratedly imitated.
“Arianwen Ffion of the Clan of Gwynne, pleased to make your acquaintance, kindly Mr. Ogriflaime.” she replied with a curtsy. Her cursed sword held out to the side and pointed away from the creature so as not to seem to challenge it. For his part, the faun regarded her from across the rampant garden with a pose of elegant bearing. One delicate, stag-hoof finely place at angle to the other, right elbow held in left hand. Right hand with index finger curled into a neat question-mark, held just before his chin. Shoulders square, leaning slightly back so as not to look hunched-over like a ruffian. Tricorn hat discreetly held in the crook of his left arm. Brown velvet knee-breetches held up with a broad, black leather belt with a solid and weighty silver buckle.
“You must be here to it, return,” with that the faun gestured languidly at the black-shadowed blade, “meaning to it’s curse bespurn.” Then half-stepping back, placing fore-hoof behind heel, and leaning slightly forward in a posture of conspiratorial intimation he went on. “But know you how, or by which means, you might unhand it? Tis no simple task, few sages understand it.”
“Just so, fine faun! My purpose you divine, In this can you help me? Or give me some sign?” said the princess, getting caught up in the spirit of the fairie’s rhymes.
“Fine Speech! Fair Words! To thee I shall attend. Tell me which spirit it was, that thee did first offend?” and holding aloft his index finder in pedantic pose he spoke in sing-song voice as if reciting prose, “For none shall potent curse forbear but first they render all things fair. Tit for tat and eye for eye, til injured party’s satisfied.” With that he seemed to wince slightly at the poor rhyme and a small poxy blemish appeared, quite suddenly, on his cheek as if in reply.
“Who did I offend!?!” the princess cried in disbelief. “Why, twas only a knavish trick that was played upon my person, innocent and unawares.” She stamped her bare heel crossly upon the marble floor. “Today is the anniversary of my birthing day, and by grand tradition, the day of my debut into court and society. Finishing school completed, Grammar, etiquette, voice and music, poetry and painting mastered. Dance and deportment, composure and grace, terms of address memorized to an excruciating degree of minutia. All practiced and re-practiced until perfection was achieved. I was fasted. twice to fainting. Calesthenized, Flexibilized, even Rolfed! My back, knees and elbows still faintly ache of it!”
The princess stood to her full height, chin high, feet planted defiantly.
“And when I proceeded, narrow waisted, flat-stomached, full-bosomed, slender-thighed, graceful necked, balanced, poised, and meticulously composed, to the company of the peers and gentry, some blight-born scoundrel, some-some-some…KNAVE! In fair seeming came forth to court me and when in turn I took his token in the ancient practice of my people, I found myself in an instant stolen away to this dismal, dreary, dreadful, dilapidated, doleful place without so much as a by-your-leave!”
The princess breathed in deeply. Closing her eyes. Slowly exhaling. Calming herself. And rallying herself, returned to a gentler stance. Her sword still held out and down and aside. Unswervingly married to her hand. Composure regained, she addressed in gentler tones, the woodland spirit.
“Upon my honor I proclaim that I did naught to anger or to shame the soul who did this unto me. I dealt no hurt, nor in courtly negligence allowed insult or injury, whether accidental or intentional, to occur to his person. In this I am the innocent and offended party. Wronged. Mistreated. Ill-handled. Aggrieved.”
Thoughtfully, Ogriflaime regarded the young royal. Resuming his crook-fingered, quizzical pose, eyes glancing first skyward, then floorward, then sinister, then dexter. All at once he paced widdershins twice then abruptly thrice. Then stopping and assuming a stance most posed and contrived, addressed the princess thusly: “Your highness, your pardon I beg. No guile nor pulling of leg. Mean I, your servant ever humble. Forgive me please, for I did stumble. O’er suppositions spurious and ill-conceived, in my zeal to reveal what I believed, to the source of your woe. Twas ever my hope to weal.” And he deeply bowed, taking his peculiar three cornered hat in hand and sweeping it low such that it nearly touched the muddy ground. His arm thrown wide in grandiose obeisance.
Then suddenly righting himself he continued. “Maiden fair and princess peer, what has befallen you I fear, is jest! In taste most poor, and manner most decidedly drear.” Thoughtfully he carried on with his discourse, declaring, “The hallmarks it bears, is of rascals where, no consequences receive their care. For tat for tit, as should befit, a curse as foul as this to whit, have not in the manner required, to affix the enchantments that they desired, to your person by citation of the deep magic…transpired.”
Then beaming he proclaimed, “Where no offences was firstly rendered, no punishment is duly engendered. This suffering that has been tendered unto you is undeserved, and ancient laws must be observed…Their aims in the end will not be served!” And with this the faun threw his hands to the air and launched his cap skyward in his joy as the convolutions of his reasoning. So seemingly convinced of his conclusions was he. And yet. The sword remained quite unremittently, firmly in her grip.
“I cannot fault your reasoning, friend faun.” The princess returned. “But I am as-yet unable to lay aside this wretched thing by will or by hope or by clever contrivance. No matter how sincerely I wish it.” And, her countenance forlorn, and posture downtrodden, she proceeded, “What is it then that so adamantly adheres this to my hand?” And saying so she held the sword point upright, regarding the black steel blade before her sadly.
The horned man stood in uffish thought a while before he spoke. Caught his hat as it fell back to Earth. Placed it, pitched rakishly back, on his head. It’s fore-corner pointing toward the heavens and high Olympus. And said, “I believe we might have reached the stage, where it’s time to go and ask The Page.” And expecting to be led to a library where the wisdom of old masters might be consulted, the princess nodded and finding this suggestion to seem eminently reasonable, started after the deer-footed wood spirit as he spun about and headed off into the thicket of spike thorned brambles with the pretty flowers all a-riot.
After not long a walk, the princess and the faun came through the vine-choked path to a tiny servant’s door set in the garden wall. A threshhold within the briary hedgerow. And on that portal a knocker of bright brass so wrought as to resemble a leering gargoyle face with a heavy brass ring in its mouth. A face which somehow brought back memories.
Above the knocker, carved in wood, by clever hands, most masterfully. A crest, in relief, presented itself, displaying ancient heraldry. The princess knew not of what provenance. Nor of which noble House or Line the armorial bearings told tale. But anyone could see that a fine panoply was therein revealed. And for a moment she paused in mute regard. It’s symbology to ponder.
The wood-brown hand of Ogriflaime reached out, the instant next, and taking in hand the knocker ring, rapped thrice in quick succession. In not overmany beats of a Doe’s quick heart, a fine-figured page dressed in regal finery appeared. A youth as might serve in any courtly hall. He was clad in soft boots of doeskin leather. Velvet tights. A fine brocaded tunic belted tight about the waist. And a fine, bright-colored shirt of broadest sleeves cuffed tight with laced vambraces.
He looked a bit like a Squire without his knight. And he held as if in presentation, a tremendous golden chalice of great thickness and heavy weight. Quite out-of-place within the dilapidation of the garden grounds. And it shone as it newly polished. Free of patina or tarnish.
The youth was handsome, with sharp cheekbones and cleft-chin set within a squared jaw. His brow was fine and forehead high and clear. Taken all into account, he looked to be a good lad. One who might vouchsafe a treasure such as the golden cup he bore.
The cup-bearer beckoned them inside with a gesture and a nod, turning quickly and passing into the candle-lit passage behind him. Ogriflaime and the princess had but to follow. Which they did. And presently they found themselves in a servant’s under-chamber, sparely appointed.
The page set down, upon a table of stone, the golden chalice with careful hand. And turned with raised brow to regard his two guests. “Fair lady. Your once fine, grime stained gown belies a highborn birth. Your fresh-faced fair countenance, darkened by the ashen rain, suggests you’re newly come of age. And that sword you seem unable to unhand suggests an old and powerful curse.”
“You’re all too right about that.” Interrupted the faun with a sad smile. “ She’s been accursed by a cat. Too young for enemies to have made. And so we know it isn’t that, by which the curse can be unmade.” “And so we sought you, cup-bearing page. In hopes your advice, might be sage,”
The Princess
At a princess’ coming of age ceremony, an uninvited guest gifted her a sword, then vanished, laughing, into smoke. She cannot put it down until she finds the place it came from. So she has come.
~ 1 ~
The birthday celebration of princess Arianwen Ffion Gwynne was as splendid an affair as any young maid coming of age might hope for. Fantastic boughs of flowers adorned the marble halls of the palace and finely bedecked vassals and serfs stood on every side. And of all who assembled within those walls, she was the hope and the pride.
She had riches all too great to count and a high ancestral name. And in the gay festivities, handsome suitors sought her hand. Knights upon bended knee with vows no maidens heart could withstand pledged their faith to her. And the finest and fairest one of that noble host came forth her hand to claim.
A knight of fairest golden hair and finest featured countenance. With shoulders broad and narrow waist. And bright green eyes in his fair face. Whose mink trimmed cloak shone so purest white beside his skin so pale and fair. Even the fairest ladies of the court looked on with hearts atremble and wishes for the knight’s attention.
Fair and fine were the grand knight’s words and sublime his gentle voice. The princess’ sensibilities swam intoxicated in the sun-warm sea of his address, hearing nothing of the pleasing declarations, adrift in the caress of sentiment. Her heart and will lay soft and helpless in this gallant’s princely hands.
When next herself she beheld, regaining her wits and self-possession, the knight’s fine-wrought bejeweled scabbard he held upraised before her. The shining hilt of his blade chased in platinum and purest silver and inlaid with gleaming riches in precious diamonds. That she might pull forth his naked steel and laying that keen blade aside his neck, dub him her chosen suitor and heart’s champion before all.
Her slender hand went forth and claimed that splendid blade that she might call this hero hers and declare the affection of her heart for all to know. And in that self-same moment a peal of Zeus’ calamitous thunder so resounded that the souls of all assembled shook with dread and wonder. The golden sun passed hidden behind a heavy cloud as if not to witness what transpired and in that gloomy shadow the lordly knight did vanish into evil smoke that smelled of woe and ruin. Her last glimpse of him, that of a small, white furred cat in fine, high boots cackling with wicked mirth as it disappeared.
~ 2 ~
Her vision swam as all about her settings changed. She beheld about her now an ancient and crumbling ruin. It’s stones dark with the grime of hoary ages. She stood in singular contrast to the dreary scene, her festive gown sewn with pearls and trimmed with cloth-of-gold. Her hair so fair a tumble of luscious curls so fetchingly adorned with golden combs and fine-wrought ornaments of clever filigree.
Gone, her servants in their fine livery. Gone, the fine palace of her forefathers. She stood alone, bereft of friend or fine lady-in-waiting. Abandoned by courtier and castellan and by her lonesome amid the dark and forbidding place. Her feet bare upon the dark gray slate or the ruin. Abandoned even by her fine-heeled dancing slippers, it seemed. Making her way here would be arduous among the sharp, cracked stones.
In her hand she beheld, noticing it for the first time in her awe and wonder, a black-gilt sword of pitted, evil-looking blade. It’s naked blade a damascene miasma of strange, black-gray swirling patterns. It’s hilt and hand-guard an unsettling work of sigil, seal, and symbols of death and ruin. An impression of crawling shadows crept along its blade in unceasing writhing. Faintly perceptible and seeming to dwell on the very edges of perception. But unsettling in the corner of the eye, where the shapes seemed wicked and unwholesome. And she knew dread of the thing and wanted most deeply for it to be far away from her. So unlike the fine, jewelled sword the knight has presented her.
But alas neither depth of dread, nor ardent will could force her hand to drop it. And clutched in death’s rigorous grip, it made not the slightest to quit her hand. Nor could be prized by any means she found herself to muster, from her hand. This vile thing held firm and fast in her slender-fingered grip as though she were mighty Heracles himself and gifted with Olympian might.
There was nothing for it but to find her way from this place. Perhaps to find her purpose in it. Wherever and whatever this place was.
~ 3 ~
EXPLORING THE RUINS:
THE SUN!
(A MAJOR ARCANA)
The princess looked about her for a path amid the fallen stones. In the rain-wet gloom of this cloudy and forlorn place no shelter from the winds blowing chill from over the fens and moors at first presented itself. The damp cold chased up her bare, soft feet chilling her from heel to crown. And the sword hung like a burdensome anchor in her grasp.
A stony path presented itself, leading down from this roofless, ruined chamber, into darker, labyrinthine passages and tumbledown halls filled with shadows and gloom. The sudden onset of a weak, icy drizzle of dirty rain, seemingly carrying black soot or ash in it’s fine droplets, prompted her to quit this high, lonely place in search of shelter.
The dreary nature of the sunless ruin dragged at the princess’ spirits. The heavy, malevolent blade with it’s creeping shadows weighed heavy in her hand. As she carefully made her way down the slippery rocks from the broken tower, she slipped once, and then again, each time cutting her fine gown a bit as the razor-keen cursed sword flailed about as she fell. The grime of the ancient stones coated her feet, cold and clammy. Patches of mould-black filth stained her fine white gown where she had fallen.
As she climbed down the broken path she found herself in a shattered transept with gaping holes in the roof and jagged piles of broken rubble where the roof had fallen in. Dim and forlorn gloom filled the place. Broken only by patches of weak, gray light from the clouded sky filtering in through the ceiling holes, lighting the piles of broken stone. She walked through the shadows, unable to even enter into the light, such as it was, for the treacherous wreckage of the vaulted ceiling rubble was unstable and full of jagged edges.
Passing through broken hall, and into the nave, vast arched beams like broken ribs loomed overhead and showed again that cloud-gray sky where the ceiling had fallen away in some long forgotten siege.
But lo! A break in the clouds. And golden rays shone forth from the heavens beyond. Illuminating as a spotlight might, the apse and it’s tumbledown ambulatory, half fallen into rubble and collapsed in ruin long, long ago. There, bright lit by the happy sun, a moss clad and doleful statue rose. Some ancient and forgotten icon. A bygone divinity lost to ancient tomes and passed from living memory.
And as the princess picked her way gingerly from the shadows into the light, natural slate tiles gave way to polished marble with an unfortunate covering of rain-left silt and ash leaving only glimpses of the fine polished stone that lay beneath. Emerging, she came round to the front face of the statue. And beheld again the face of the fair haired knight, cast in once-fine marble, now cracked and weather worn. Sad and lifeless in the golden rays, the disrepair lending a forlorn aspect to what was surely once a stately and heroic shrine. Now fallen into decay.
~ 4 ~
EXPLORING THE RUINS:
THE QUEEN OF CUPS!
(A SUIT FACECARD)
Putting the sad old statue to her back the princess tuned toward the facade, passing among the uneven marble pews like darkened mausoleum stones, stained with lichen and the moss of overmuch time. She slipped softly, sword held low and head held high, one-two and through the fallen doors to behold a brambly rose briar patch most steeply overgrown with thorn-vined flowers of every conceivable variety bloomed in unseen riot here. A rainbow of petals, freshly watered and newly sunlit turned their hundred thousand heads to the sky and drank in the shine of day’s proud star. That fiery chariot of mighty Apollo. The princess proceeded down the old steps into that overgrown garden.
Like timid fawns the creeping vines so spiney spiked did curl away at her approach. Demurely coiling down and away from that regal scion and her cursed and deadly naked blade. As if in them was a knowing of it’s peril. A feeling of its shadowy curse.
On the turning away of the twisted brown boughs, the princess held the terrible blade up in the sunlight and all of a moment beheld it. Seeing for the first time its manxome mien. For as grand an splendid as the fair knight’s diamond set sword had been. So fine wrought with bright platinum and gleaming blue silver chasery, this black metal shadow collector was dim and dull-surfaced and seemed to absorb light and life and happiness by its very nature. A mourning blade that surely was forged for sorrow and the deliverance of keen edged woe. So miserable and forlorn was its every aspect. A black and sad thing that nothing good, it seemed, could ever come of.
“Oh now there’s a black hearted curse if ever I’ve seen one!” Came a reedy, counter-tenor voice from the bushes. And as the princess spun round, surprised at the breaking of the dismal silence of the place, she spied in a glance the nubby horns and nut-brown skin of Faun. An Arcadian spirit quite rare in these times. Like the frolicking Satyrs of Dionysus or the Maenads of ancient bacchanals. Seldom seen.
“Oh!” exclaimed the princess, and “How do you do?” knowing that the fair folk are easily offended and simply awful tricksters when they are. And the forest folk of Arcadia have memories that are long and the some length again and have danced since the days when men sacrificed one another in bloody rituals for the favor of horned Cernunnos and hoary Nodens of the Silver Hand. And they think nothing of proffering horrid curses upon those to whom they take offense. It wouldn’t do to test this spirit’s good graces.
“Well and Good, just as I should. I’m a fellow true-born of these hills and this wood. And so given to deeds benevolent, and piping and dancing and merriment. You might call me by my name, the daring, dancing, Ogriflaime! And how now, having spoke my truth, might I address you, pretty youth? And as he rhymed he stepped in time to a little waltz-like pantomime with grandiose gestures of courtly graces exaggeratedly imitated.
“Arianwen Ffion of the Clan of Gwynne, pleased to make your acquaintance, kindly Mr. Ogriflaime.” she replied with a curtsy. Her cursed sword held out to the side and pointed away from the creature so as not to seem to challenge it. For his part, the faun regarded her from across the rampant garden with a pose of elegant bearing. One delicate, stag-hoof finely place at angle to the other, right elbow held in left hand. Right hand with index finger curled into a neat question-mark, held just before his chin. Shoulders square, leaning slightly back so as not to look hunched-over like a ruffian. Tricorn hat discreetly held in the crook of his left arm. Brown velvet knee-breetches held up with a broad, black leather belt with a solid and weighty silver buckle.
“You must be here to it, return,” with that the faun gestured languidly at the black-shadowed blade, “meaning to it’s curse bespurn.” Then half-stepping back, placing fore-hoof behind heel, and leaning slightly forward in a posture of conspiratorial intimation he went on. “But know you how, or by which means, you might unhand it? Tis no simple task, few sages understand it.”
“Just so, fine faun! My purpose you divine, In this can you help me? Or give me some sign?” said the princess, getting caught up in the spirit of the fairie’s rhymes.
“Fine Speech! Fair Words! To thee I shall attend. Tell me which spirit it was, that thee did first offend?” and holding aloft his index finder in pedantic pose he spoke in sing-song voice as if reciting prose, “For none shall potent curse forbear but first they render all things fair. Tit for tat and eye for eye, til injured party’s satisfied.” With that he seemed to wince slightly at the poor rhyme and a small poxy blemish appeared, quite suddenly, on his cheek as if in reply.
“Who did I offend!?!” the princess cried in disbelief. “Why, twas only a knavish trick that was played upon my person, innocent and unawares.” She stamped her bare heel crossly upon the marble floor. “Today is the anniversary of my birthing day, and by grand tradition, the day of my debut into court and society. Finishing school completed, Grammar, etiquette, voice and music, poetry and painting mastered. Dance and deportment, composure and grace, terms of address memorized to an excruciating degree of minutia. All practiced and re-practiced until perfection was achieved. I was fasted. twice to fainting. Calesthenized, Flexibilized, even Rolfed! My back, knees and elbows still faintly ache of it!”
The princess stood to her full height, chin high, feet planted defiantly.
“And when I proceeded, narrow waisted, flat-stomached, full-bosomed, slender-thighed, graceful necked, balanced, poised, and meticulously composed, to the company of the peers and gentry, some blight-born scoundrel, some-some-some…KNAVE! In fair seeming came forth to court me and when in turn I took his token in the ancient practice of my people, I found myself in an instant stolen away to this dismal, dreary, dreadful, dilapidated, doleful place without so much as a by-your-leave!”
The princess breathed in deeply. Closing her eyes. Slowly exhaling. Calming herself. And rallying herself, returned to a gentler stance. Her sword still held out and down and aside. Unswervingly married to her hand. Composure regained, she addressed in gentler tones, the woodland spirit.
“Upon my honor I proclaim that I did naught to anger or to shame the soul who did this unto me. I dealt no hurt, nor in courtly negligence allowed insult or injury, whether accidental or intentional, to occur to his person. In this I am the innocent and offended party. Wronged. Mistreated. Ill-handled. Aggrieved.”
Thoughtfully, Ogriflaime regarded the young royal. Resuming his crook-fingered, quizzical pose, eyes glancing first skyward, then floorward, then sinister, then dexter. All at once he paced widdershins twice then abruptly thrice. Then stopping and assuming a stance most posed and contrived, addressed the princess thusly: “Your highness, your pardon I beg. No guile nor pulling of leg. Mean I, your servant ever humble. Forgive me please, for I did stumble. O’er suppositions spurious and ill-conceived, in my zeal to reveal what I believed, to the source of your woe. Twas ever my hope to weal.” And he deeply bowed, taking his peculiar three cornered hat in hand and sweeping it low such that it nearly touched the muddy ground. His arm thrown wide in grandiose obeisance.
Then suddenly righting himself he continued. “Maiden fair and princess peer, what has befallen you I fear, is jest! In taste most poor, and manner most decidedly drear.” Thoughtfully he carried on with his discourse, declaring, “The hallmarks it bears, is of rascals where, no consequences receive their care. For tat for tit, as should befit, a curse as foul as this to whit, have not in the manner required, to affix the enchantments that they desired, to your person by citation of the deep magic…transpired.”
Then beaming he proclaimed, “Where no offences was firstly rendered, no punishment is duly engendered. This suffering that has been tendered unto you is undeserved, and ancient laws must be observed…Their aims in the end will not be served!” And with this the faun threw his hands to the air and launched his cap skyward in his joy as the convolutions of his reasoning. So seemingly convinced of his conclusions was he. And yet. The sword remained quite unremittently, firmly in her grip.
“I cannot fault your reasoning, friend faun.” The princess returned. “But I am as-yet unable to lay aside this wretched thing by will or by hope or by clever contrivance. No matter how sincerely I wish it.” And, her countenance forlorn, and posture downtrodden, she proceeded, “What is it then that so adamantly adheres this to my hand?” And saying so she held the sword point upright, regarding the black steel blade before her sadly.
~ 5 ~
EXPLORING THE RUINS:
THE PAGE OF CUPS!
(A SUIT FACECARD)
The horned man stood in uffish thought a while before he spoke. Caught his hat as it fell back to Earth. Placed it, pitched rakishly back, on his head. It’s fore-corner pointing toward the heavens and high Olympus. And said, “I believe we might have reached the stage, where it’s time to go and ask The Page.” And expecting to be led to a library where the wisdom of old masters might be consulted, the princess nodded and finding this suggestion to seem eminently reasonable, started after the deer-footed wood spirit as he spun about and headed off into the thicket of spike thorned brambles with the pretty flowers all a-riot.
After not long a walk, the princess and the faun came through the vine-choked path to a tiny servant’s door set in the garden wall. A threshhold within the briary hedgerow. And on that portal a knocker of bright brass so wrought as to resemble a leering gargoyle face with a heavy brass ring in its mouth. A face which somehow brought back memories.
Above the knocker, carved in wood, by clever hands, most masterfully. A crest, in relief, presented itself, displaying ancient heraldry. The princess knew not of what provenance. Nor of which noble House or Line the armorial bearings told tale. But anyone could see that a fine panoply was therein revealed. And for a moment she paused in mute regard. It’s symbology to ponder.
The wood-brown hand of Ogriflaime reached out, the instant next, and taking in hand the knocker ring, rapped thrice in quick succession. In not overmany beats of a Doe’s quick heart, a fine-figured page dressed in regal finery appeared. A youth as might serve in any courtly hall. He was clad in soft boots of doeskin leather. Velvet tights. A fine brocaded tunic belted tight about the waist. And a fine, bright-colored shirt of broadest sleeves cuffed tight with laced vambraces.
He looked a bit like a Squire without his knight. And he held as if in presentation, a tremendous golden chalice of great thickness and heavy weight. Quite out-of-place within the dilapidation of the garden grounds. And it shone as it newly polished. Free of patina or tarnish.
The youth was handsome, with sharp cheekbones and cleft-chin set within a squared jaw. His brow was fine and forehead high and clear. Taken all into account, he looked to be a good lad. One who might vouchsafe a treasure such as the golden cup he bore.
FACING A CHALLENGE
TWO TAILS
( In which The Princess falters and barely escapes with her life )
The cup-bearer beckoned them inside with a gesture and a nod, turning quickly and passing into the candle-lit passage behind him. Ogriflaime and the princess had but to follow. Which they did. And presently they found themselves in a servant’s under-chamber, sparely appointed.
The page set down, upon a table of stone, the golden chalice with careful hand. And turned with raised brow to regard his two guests. “Fair lady. Your once fine, grime stained gown belies a highborn birth. Your fresh-faced fair countenance, darkened by the ashen rain, suggests you’re newly come of age. And that sword you seem unable to unhand suggests an old and powerful curse.”
“You’re all too right about that.” Interrupted the faun with a sad smile. “ She’s been accursed by a cat. Too young for enemies to have made. And so we know it isn’t that, by which the curse can be unmade.” “And so we sought you, cup-bearing page. In hopes your advice, might be sage,”
The Princess
posted by Rev. Dr. Eric Z. Willman at 1:02 AM
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