Book - Dimitrije Ignjatovic - The Second Compilation Of Fantasy

DIMITRIJE IGNJATOVIC

The Second Compilation of Fantasy Containing

The Fairies of the Fog An Elven Lady in the Lake The Goddess of Snow The Great Elder The Tear in Praker’s Eye Nive-Alba’s Forest On Dragonback But There’ll Still Be Many Miles to Go A Spright-in-t’-Wall The Tarns of Terrasexmontium Centumhecatareas, My Voyages! And

A Faerie Haunting With Bonus

Reflections on the Imagination

PREFACE TO THE SECOND COMPILATION OF FANTASY BY DIMITRIJE IGNJATOVIC Having published my first book, The First Compilation of Fantasy by Dimitrije Ignjatovic containing The Lost Past and Finishing the Unfinished, I think I am known to you as that yammering Christian. Therefore, I have decided to tackle fantasy further on. I have visited the Elfwood fantasy site in Linkoping, Sweden. There I learned that writing fantasy is writing from a pagan perspective; I try to do so remaining a committed Christian. It is hard to express my love for fantasy books without faltering away to paganism, yet I oft find myself thinking about, in paraphrasing C. S. Lewis’ words, Christianity fulfilling paganism and paganism prefiguring Christianity . Now, as my regular shut-up for evangelical Christians who would ban the book at the first sight of it, I will add that I am a Christian writer, and that I do not surrender to my fantasies, I never do. Dimitrije Ignjatovic

The Fairies of the Fog By Dimitrije Ignjatovic How many events of my life I vividly remember; but the most important one is the one about a close encounter with the will-o’-the- wisp. I, Astor Nashe, was only eight when I encountered the dangerous fays known among the people as the will-o’- thewisps, of which there are many here down Lusimachia. I was led there by the circumstances of life. I lived far from Lusimachia’s chief city Miserton, however, this whole province yclept Lusimachia was notorious for its many will-o’-the- wisps and the frequency of instances of fog that have misled many a poor traveller to the fairies’ lair. Legend has it that the so-called Lusimachian willo’-the-wisps have turned them, too, into airy sprights like themselves, airy, disembodied eidolons, phantoms of the night, faeries and will-o’-the- wisps. I can only ask, which scullion cooked up the idea? It was late sunset and Rylan and I were playing at the field we were both forbidden by our parents to play in. Rylan was my good friend, he obeyed his parents as if by instinct; he also liked to play with me, and he often led me into trouble – I remember when Rylan and I were looking through our parents’ books to find fairy-tales, then we found a book on folk legends people scare themselves with, I still don’t see the reason, and there I found all I have told you so far about the will-o’-the- wisp; then my father came in, and found the mess we had made, and our parents punished us both. Rylan was no older than I was – and that was reflected in his looks: he had blond hair, blue eyes, and a cheerful countenance ... no, he was for some reason taller than I was back then. He had a voice somewhat deeper than the rest of us children. He was somewhat stronger than I and he was the tallest of us children. He had such a careless, strong and somewhat dumb figure of a theatrical anti-hero, a complete anti-hero.

That evening, while we were playing in the forbidden field, Rylan looked at the emerging moon – it was not yet complete fog. ‘Look, it’s night. We have to come back for supper. But don’t sneak on us and tell them where we were, OK?’ ‘OK,’ I affirmed. Suddenly, a glowing speck, no bigger than my fist, appeared out of the forest. It danced in the air around me, methought, if it had a hand it would beckon me to follow it. I followed it with my eyes, yet I waved around with my arms as if to drive it away. ‘Astor! No!’ Rylan cried. ‘Don’t you read? It’s the will-o’the- wisp! Follow it and you’ll become a will-o’-the- wisp, too!’ ‘Strong or weak, you are still stupid. I see no reason to your mindless reaction to those books our parents scare themselves with.’ He ran away for help. I succeeded in driving the will-o’the- wisp a way from me. But then, I could not resist following it. It went right into the forest and towards the mountain that had a terribly thick wisp of fog on it, but I still followed it. The more I relentlessly followed the will-o’-the- wisp, the more deviously it led me, and the more we were approaching the foggy peak of the mountain, the harder I could see through the fog. Then it lost its light and I was alone, lost in the fog. I heard a voice of ‘Chit-chit-chit-chit-chit ... ’ and suddenly I was surrounded by the will-o’-the- wisp fairies. They gathered in a circle and chanted a chorus with words I have never heard before. They were rhyming me to death! I then got an odd feeling – the adventurous and sleepy feel one gets when he is getting killed by a fairy curse. The whole of my eight-year life started to flit before my eyes. I handled this until I lost track of time, and then the feeling disappeared and I was delivered back into the hands of life. I looked around myself. I was on the ground and the will-o’-the- wisps were nowhere to be found! The eldritch chant had since stopped.

‘Hello, young master,’ said a raspy voice, and a yellow light shone upon me. ‘Get off me, elfin knight! ’ I screamed. The man who startled me neared me with his lantern, and it was only then that I could see he was human. He had straight grey hair, a scholarly countenance, a narrow, wrinkled face and a very short beard. He had the narrow, bright brown eyes that seemed to reflect a good and learned nature. ‘Elfin knight?’ he laughed ironically. ‘You seem to still be in the trance from the fairy’s curse that now is defeated, as the fairies are driven away by my light they saw in the fog.’ ‘I’m saved?’ I said incredulously. ‘Who are you?’ ‘My name is Bertram,’ he said, ‘and I come from yonder,’ he pointed into the fog, ‘a village named Fesspoint, and I went past Drachmsforest towards Gullston, they say, it’s a good place for hunting, and I was riding past the middle of this forest when I found a boy running for help. I searched for you a whole hour, you almost died when I found you. Can you walk?’ I was feeling numb when he saved me, but the feeling has passed. I got up. Bertram and I walked out of the forest, and out of the fog. He led me to his horse and put me on it. He urged the horse and rode it to Drachmsforest. When I recognised the houses, I said, ‘That’s my home village!’ When I got to my father, and told him the whole story, he was angry at me. But he didn’t punish me, but rather he thanked Bertram. Thus I was taught always to heed my parents. And, methinks, so was thus Rylan. Therefore, no-one should even go near the fairies of the fog, the will-o’-the- wisps.

An Elven Lady in the Lake By Dimitrije Ignjatovic Gordaya lived in the lake near Don after she threw herself into it – an undead eidolon of a young woman, by love tormented, a wail for pleasure, Gordaya lived in the lake. She swam in the lake when her long, glowing green hair should be moistened, and should her hair be dried up, she would die. To an untrained eye, she might look beautiful. Not that she didn’t have any friends, there were many young women of her kin in that lake – this was the local lake of sorrows for melancholy lovers, lost young women with no rhyme nor reason, who have lost both themselves and every smidgen of their reason and love’s rhyme. They danced sometimes in the lake, and sometimes beside it, and their evil green eyes without pupils, and their wet, glowing bright-green hair constantly glowed a bright green with all their might, enough to illumine the whole lake with an eerie green light. Those eldritch circles that in fact encircled places for their vi ctims, green spells for the young green women to cast on them, and their pride that lingered as a heraldic ring over them glowing an eerie green, as pride of the earth and playfulness of the wind, were spinning soon to find a victim, and, enraged by their unreturned love that was quelled as they drowned in the lake of sorrows, take the victim into their circle, then seduce him until he hears their laughter, and dies like a longunreturned love. One night, a peasant’s youngest son, Fyodor, about the age of fifteen, went out to hunt wild ducks in the lake of sorrows. It was not far from his home, and there are many ducks in the lake – ducks the young elven- women play with until they make the ducks’ plumage turns green, don’t make a good eating; ducks that do not glow are hunted by many of the peasants of Fyodor’s village as tasty food. It was easy to find unenchanted ducks in the lake illumined by the eldritch green light – they looked dark and

distinguished on the lake, that had specks of green light on its surface. Why the lake was in such an eldritch green way illumined at night was a mystery to Fyodor not satisfactorily explained. It was not the moon or the sta rs, thus Fyodor, who had no faith in anything he’s been told about the lake, and dismissed it as pure fantasy, only had his own will to conjecture, and admire. He fired an arrow toward the lake, and as a green-tailed duck passed behind the normal duck, the green-tailed duck’s tail, which was glowing an eerie bright green, seemed to have averted the arrow from both ducks, and into the water. Fyodor stared in awe. Just then, his bow and all his arrows faded into green nothingness! ‘Do not worry about the ducks,’ said a voice behind Fyodor, but he did not turn, as he was too seduced. When he gathered up his emotions, he turned and he could see what illumined the lake thus. It was Gordaya – and probably there were more of her kin around. When Fyodor saw her beauty, his heart hammered with love. He could say nothing. ‘Come,’ she said, ‘dance with us.’ He stood still when he realised she was more red than green. Why not obey, when she is so beautiful? He followed her – the faster he ran, the faster she fled. She led him until he was too seduced to think. The council of Gordaya’s friends where Fyodor was led opened up, and Gordaya threw him in the centre. The circular council spun around Fyodor and they chanted a sinister song, while the ring above them illumined the grass with an eldritch green light. The fays of the circle never seemed to breathe at all. They then all laughed and the instant that Fyodor heard the laughter, he died. The council of the fays opened up and each went her separate way. But Gordaya was terrified. She realised ... she was in love with Fyodor. That was why she could seduce him like no fairy could seduce a man. She cast off her absurd pride and

hypocritical playfulness. She had realised that no matter how much one is loveless but seductive, it is good for him to love. So she clutched her long, glowing green hair and dried it up. She died that instant. One can die for love, be it a loveless fay of Don, if love comes back to him, after he has been completely purged of it. But one has to be noble for his sense of love to return. Only mad people drown themselves as melancholy lovers that fall into ill humours for unreturned love, or even their own incapability of loving; only mad people choose a lake for their lake of sorrows, and this has happened not only to Fyodor and Gordaya, but to other lovers of which one has simply lost his love, then suddenly regained it. No one can survive such a shock as the one that regained Love brings.

The Goddess of Snow By Dimitrije Ignjatovic The first winter and the coldest ever, the first day in the first year of the five -minute-old, but completely developed Wisdom-dale. Houses were already erected in the Dale, in which lived the first, instant-aged branches of the Elven community. Thus the World was created, all in five minutes. Back then, Elves wore two -part clothes and socks sewn from the skins of the first-slaughtered brown cows they slaughtered even in the third minute, when they were attacked by Pudore-Fastidit, the Shame-god. But it hardly mattered to them, as the cold of the first winter in the first, hamlet-like settlement, has desensitised them to cold. In those days, also, the Elves were closer to the gods than they are now. They could, unlike now, see the gods whistling through the forests, and now even an Elf is rare that can even hear them. Some saw them as winds – merely as gusts of wind whose presence sometimes, but only sometimes, calmed into a silhouette of a head or a body; but some, who saw them as distinct, glowing, transparent figures in form of different witful races – like Men, Elves, Fairies, or Dwarves, but not Orcs, the witless Beast- kin, Low-elves, or Mermen – were elected as Seers. Nowadays, when no one sees those gods, many use fraud and pretend to see the gods, but back then that was impossible as Seers would deride them as those gods passed the World daily. From the skies, overlooking, remained only one goddess – Nive -alba, the Snow-goddess. She was finally unbound from Pudore-Fastidit’s grip, and decided to manifest as something more than the snow, cold and winter she should maintain until the eighty-first day, when HerbarumNuntius, the Spring-god, would arise from the top of the Sun’s sphere, and descend in fire to the Earth, giving heat, green and spring. As the conifers shivered with cold, a meteor, cold as snow, and fireless, has fallen on the ground in the middle of

Wisdom-dale’s hamlet, and Elves gathered to speculate what was happening. The answer was unnecessary – a whitish-silver woman with lustrous hair and a mantle of snow appeared out from the snow-dust, before them. It was the splendid, snowy Nive -alba, the Snow-goddess. One unfaithful Un-seer, yclept False- wish, who could not see her at first, said, ‘If it be Nive -alba, I tell it her, as she is wo nders invisible, and I take her only for the meteor she hath come out of.’ He could then hear the voice of Nive -alba say, ‘If I be invisible, I am to some, as he who seeth me not is wrong.’ This Nive-alba said, and the others around could hear her, too. But some could see her. False- wish was caught by a strong gust of cold wind below his feet and thus Nive -alba, of the Anni-Tempora quadrinity, threw him into the air. He stayed there until he expressed his penitence, the first Penitence in the world, ‘I now see I am not being deceived! O splendid Nive -alba, put me down! Thy Rage hath overcome me!’ With a thud, False- wish fell to the ground, and the powerful voice of Nive -alba continued, ‘Thou art wrong: thou canst not be deceived. I am Nive -alba, and I am: our presence cannot be counte rfeited.’ Nive -alba raised her hands, and sang the winter’s song. No one could understand the words, but as she sang, the Snow, Cold and Storm raised to a climax. I, or you, if we were there, would freeze to death – but they felt nothing. The huge, long-haired, airy silver woman was singing to Snow in the first, and most melodious song ever. And everyone from the first settlement ever followed her, and although they knew no words to the song, they sang it as absolute music. Soon all the gods from the pantheon appeared in their diverse forms, maintenances and manifestation unto the Seers, and even the Un-seers heard the gods, and everyone sang the winter’s song deep into the night in celebration of a new-born world soon to flourish.

The Great Elder By Dimitrije Ignjatovic After what seemed an eternity, the boy, no older than eight years, woke up on the bed. He was fully dressed this cold Helmikuuta day. Helmikuuta was, he remembered, a month at the end of winter. Although he’s pretty certain he’s never heard of any such word as Helmikuuta! His vivid green eyes scanned his clothes – a rather short black doublet and tight black hose. He sat up and as he did so, he got nearly tugged back by his long black cape. He turned to his right and got off the bed without a problem. He looked in the object he recognised as a mirror. He looked really good for his age. A shock of straight blond hair, a freckled feminine face with a penetrating look in his wide, grass-green eyes, a calm demeanour for an indeed illlooking boy. He gazed out the window and saw that the landscape is completely unfamiliar. He was, apparently, in a hamlet where it was cold and windy – all the snow-showered conifers in the small yard were mercilessly swayed by the cold Helmi kuuta wind. The house this unfamiliar bedroom was in seemed to be in a street in a whole grid of streets. Perchance this hamlet was a city? The boy tried to remember his own name. He must be suffering from severe memory loss. Could it be Mage? He’s heard himself called young Mage, respected Mage – but his profession as a Mage does not mean his name is Mage. Suddenly his name projected itself into his mind: Manu Risanen. ‘Manu?’ he heard a raspy voice call him behind his back. ‘Yes!’ Manu replied impudently. He looked around, but noticed no one. He looked down as if by instinct, and noticed a very short old man with a long grey beard in a brown serrated doublet adequate to the dwarfish man’s size, and green hose whose tightness only emphasized the

d warf’s obesity. The dwarf’s boots were too big for his legs. The dwarf wore a red pointed hat and seemed not to be of human race – for his pointy ears were unlike any human’s. However strange the dwarfish man looked, Manu recognised the dwarfish man as the Great Elder, so he addressed him as such. ‘What’s happened to you, Manu?’ inquired the Great Elder. Manu could understand him, although he knew neither which language the Great Elder spoke in or which language he himself replied in; but somehow he understood both of them. ‘What’s bothering you?’ ‘Where am I?’ asked Manu, still confused. This was the first time he’s been addressed as anything more than a Mage. ‘I want to go home.’ ‘Oh, but you are, young mollycoddle. You’re in my house. In Maythenston, the chief city of Pumilionum-Indigenia. Mollycoddle ? Did Manu look to the Great Elder like a mollycoddle ? ‘I just called you by your name. I’m not entitled the Great Elder for no reason, equal-classed Mage – I am a Mage elder. Trust me, young mollycoddle. I know what the word means and I do not mean to affront you.’ ‘Who am I n—’ Manu was frightened of his own childish voice. He tried then to speak in a lower voice, and blushed in shame as he heard the sound of that. ‘Who am I now?’ ‘No need to disguise your voice. You look and sound pretty normal for your age. You are yourself, Manu Risanen. You have had a pretty big memory loss. It usually comes after falling unconscious from travelling through a rift. When one travels to another universe, he becomes another person. A different mind, but the same personality. He will never again have any memory of his previous life. Spirits travel through universes, without any one being aware. This is the explanation for changing of moods. Have you been angry? It was brother rage. You are sister melancholy. That is why your favour has turned female all of a sudden.’ Manu understood. ‘Come, honour’d Manu,’ said the Great Elder, ‘I’ll show you the school if you are interested.’

The Tear in Praker’s Eye By Dimitrije Ignjatovic If one cannot see something, they should be told. If one has no ears to hear, pity for them. I know of a youth about sixteen years old, yclept Praker. At that Age in history Surnaming was not common – on occasions when there would be two different persons identically Named, they used patronymics. But on most occasions it was Name-only. As Praker was a verily rare Name, there was never, in Praker’s life so far, any need for calling him Praker, son of Idylthorp. Praker arose on his bed in the study of a Scholar’s home. He had been appointed for a visit from the old Scholar, his mentor, on a poem he wrote. The Scholar, hight Keere, would be very glad to have such an apprentice as Praker. But while Praker was Praker, Praker was not Praker. Praker was tormented on and off by his alter-ego, that had a bitter tear in his eye. The other, physical Praker, who then was completely re pressed, completely at idle, thought in colours of verse and knew of nothing that his alter-ego, bitter with a mixture of impudence and sorrow, would, from Praker’s altered state of consciousness, have done on the physical plane, with the physical Praker resting in the astral plane. The physical Praker, on arrival from the astral plane in the altered state of consciousness, would only wake up to its immediate after-events. Thus, if we see this story from the perspective of either Praker, it would be incomplete. Therefore, we’d better watch the events from afar, a safe distance. Praker has been trying his best to hide the snaps, as he called them in the ivory-coloured thoughts in his mind, from his Mentor, Keere. Being already sixteen years old, Praker already knew the mythology. And every Scholar writes poems – that is what a scholar does. As Praker was, awake since sunrise, hurriedly flipping through the book of myths, trying to find the Elvish crea-

tion myth, he heard a knock on the study’s door. Praker started shaking nervously as he opened the door to find his mentor, Keere. ‘Why are you shaking thus?’ inquired Keere. ‘Er, nothing.’ Praker has found from his experience that these symptoms are the herald of the snaps. ‘I have come to discuss with you on the poem you’ve written yesterday.’ ‘Through the Forests Have I Gadded?’ asked Praker. ‘The very one.’ He then read — Through the forests have I gadded, To my sadness have I added. Speech-less sat I by a tree, ’Tis my covent for to be. And this vast rich forest-plain Me shall from supposing lain. And my Mentor, dull and plain I will quell with might and main! ‘What!’ Praker protested. ‘I think that last couplet didn’t come out of my quill!’ ‘It did,’ calmly answered Keere, and lowered the scroll somewhat. ‘It seems,’ Keere continued, ‘that you are possessed.’ Keere incantated: ‘Ghost in Praker, Shew thyself. Lead thee to peace And expose thyself out. ’ Praker closed his eyes, shook slightly and got up. He began shedding bitter tears. His face suddenly showed both impudence and melancholy at the same time. His thoughts echoed around his head, and formed a veil as black as death. A periculous cape of impernicious fire burnt from his shoulders down to the ground, harming nothing in its burn. His previously black eyes were now as red as fire. When he

spoke, it was not the scholarly, refined, calm voice he had before. It was a calm voice full of hidden rage, echoing like that of a monster. ‘What do you want of me?’ hissed the Other-Praker. ‘Leave Praker, or I will kill you with your own weapon!’ Praker’s eyes were darkening again, but Keere stayed calm. He said, ‘Through the forests have I gadded!’ Sister Impudence appeared. She had wild red hair, and fiery red eyes like the Other-Praker. In his quintessence, the OtherPraker was, in fact, Good. No Evil spirit can, in fact, possess a Good body; nor can a Good spirit possess an Evil body. Thus, the Other-Praker fell in love with Sister Impudence. It was love at first sight. As the Other-Praker doted on Sister Impudence, she said, ‘I will not tolerate this dotage. I will now take you to my Spirit Preserve for ever.’ And as Sister Impudence faded away, the Other-Praker faded into the normal Praker, the tear vanishing from the now- true Praker’s eyes, which then became as black as midnight, then Praker, not yet awa kened, fell to the ground. Then he awoke. He was now a mere Praker. ‘What happened?’ he said. ‘I just exorcised the force that was troubling you.’ Keere was calm as if it wasn’t his first time doing that. And the question remains unto this day – how did Keere know about the snaps?

Nive-Alba’s Forest By Dimitrije Ignjatovic Over the stream, in Terranivea, lived a young man, in his temporary home in Firton, as he was of an itinerant class. His Name was Barleywine, and he was of the Human race. He’s always wondered why here in Terranivea, even on Midsummer, there is waist-high snow, and even the most ardent conifers shiver with cold. He therefore decided to investigate. First he decided to go to Forstsilve. As he went into the forests of Forstsilve, he was confronted by a blast of wind that tried to drive him away. It took him an hour to get to the stream. As he crossed the frozen stream, the cold stagger blew him away, but he ran back towards the weakened blast. And he, running, at length found a transparent woman with silvern hair, in a mantle of snow. ‘Who are you, mysterious mistress?’ he said, totally in love with her. ‘I rarely get mortal visitors here,’ she said. ‘I am Nive -alba, the Snow-goddess.’ ‘And you’re beautiful,’ said Barleywine. Nive -alba pointed at Barleywine, and a blast of wind blew Barleywine to the ground. ‘I must admit, that I am,’ she said as coldly as the northern wind. ‘And, mortal, never try and break a goddess’s heart – it will only bring you more humiliation.’ Spirits, dancing through the forest winds, invisible, but audible like a gust of wind, the very mischievous sprights that scared off young children, and the reason why the forests of Forstsilve, the forests near Firton, are so seldom visited, have arrived and danced an unseen roundel around Barleywine, and sung – ‘Nive-alba hath defeated Barleywine’s heart broken, slain, And when Barley her entreated She him quell’d w ith might and main. ’

But then Fairies, the mischief sprights of another sort, not those evil, capricious sprights that scared the children of Firton, have appeared, also invisible, but audible as winds, as they drew their swords and in seven sourceless flashes across the clearing, they defeated the capricious spirits, and danced a roundel around Barleywine, singing – ‘We the Fairies do revive Barleywine and coldness bear: Barleywine is now alive, Nive-alba, leave him there.’ Barleywine got up, now hating Nive -alba, who had moved on to her cloud in the Deorum- Domus. Then all the snow had vanished, and it grew wondrous warm. One of the Fairies, named Nym, appeared unto Barleywine, in the likeness of a woman about Barleywine’s age, and size, with golden hair and leaf-like ears, opaque, with silvern wings, and clad in a bear-skin and armour-boots. She spoke in a low, cracked voice, ‘We, the Fairies, kill anyone that dares attack a visitor of this forest. But when defending you, it befell that I, Nym, fall in love with you.’ ‘I, Barleywine, love you too,’ said Barleywine, taking off his feathered hat. The fairies wed Nym and Barleywine, who settled in Firton, now Alderton, and Barleywine’s sense of class led them to se ttle and live outside the malice of Nive-alba, which was simply too cold to love.

On Dragonback By Dimitrije Ignjatovic The warrior descended from the dark clouds on dragonback, a lean, tall woman with a mace-like helmet that completely lained her hair, but showed her leaf-like ears and her elvish face. She wore silvern armour that emphasised her lean body contours, and silvern armour-boots. The dragon descended, taking her over a rocky, high mountain peak above wondrous white clouds; over a completely castled city on the mountain peak, called Heafodstol. This was the chief city of this small mountain-peak land yclept Blancmangeria. She rode over the castling and espied three humans, apparently sentinels, running to their shift in the churchward tower. But the dragon, being a dragon, burned them to ashes. This apparently pleased the elven warrior, and she strongly pulled the dragon’s neck, spurring him into a kink of copiously coughing up fire from his infernal lungs. Eftsoons the whole Heafodstol was on fire; still rising, the dragon took awa y the female elven warrior, amain springing with her into the dark sky, the grim rain eftsoons beginning to douse the fire. The morrow morning, what remains is a burnt mountain peak. The morning lark comes and sings, but no one arises to mark her merry song. Thus Heafodstol is shent.

But There’ll Still Be Many Miles to Go By Dimitrije Ignjatovic Over hill, over dale, through bush, through briar I have gadded; but narytime have I been mazed and ashamed as when I was at The Rampant Gryphon. Not only that the innkeep should have chosen a less commonplace animal-of-t’-Beastkin than the Gryphon for his coat-of-arms, but eke he was prating with us, as if he had drunk a Nepenthe Ale; that ale is the very one made with herbs that take one into extraneous humours, forbidden by all the faneholds of Terraignis. This hostel still sells it, in despite the fact that the sottish son of the King, who spends an abominable tax on the Kingdom’s fief-income on Nepenthe Ale and other dangerous drinks, has gone ill. As I was saying, he must have been deboshed with Nepenthe Ale. I could acknow the consequences of Nepenthe Ale through the very tone of a question. He prated merrily as if he didn’t mind any sorrow – sweet surcease at first, but deadly danger in the end. As I sat to drink my Merry Ale, I sat next to an Elven girl no older than fourteen years. She looked very frail-minded and childish, cute rather than impudent. This countenance was aided by her long silvern- white hair, eyes the very colour of gold, her long white mantle, her youthful face, and ove rall her small, lean appearance. Dark shadows roved over her head, the nature of which I could not explain. ‘Who ... ’ For a moment I thought it was Chrysanthem Azurbloud; my little Chrysanthem looked similar to the elf sitting before me – but no, her ears stood out at a different angle. ‘ ... Are you ... she?’ ‘I crave your pardon,’ she replied hastily, in a highpitched, nasal voice, hissing and mumbling her words together, ‘but I don’t know whom you’re referring to.’ ‘What is your name, Elvenmistress, then?’ ‘My name is Orchid Sweetbehest, and I’m here until the snow ceases.’

‘I’m Cloud Coaxfire,’ I replied, ‘and what is a fair damsel like you doing in this inn?’ ‘I am waiting for the snow to cease. This is the first inn I could enter. Too bad it doesn’t have any windows.’ ‘What, are you a fairy? According to the angle of your ears, methinks you have enow Winter-Elf blood in you.’ Verily, I ken all nine Races of Fairies and all the seven Races of Elvenkin, and I have met all sixteen races, as, as I have mentioned, I am of an itinerant class. This view may look strange to a poor unexpected guest who knows not our predicaments, as she is, if my guess is right that she is fourteen, over ten years younger than I. ‘Methinks I don’t. I feel cold even here by the ingle.’ ‘Yet you still look that mirthful?’ I asked in wilderment. ‘That’s what everyone’s been saying about us fairies.’ I took her out, and we were blown by the last gust of ceasing snow. It was still cold, and Orchid looked at me, wishing to return. ‘You can’t wait all winter,’ I told her. Then I returned to the inn. ‘Ar har, where is your elven love?’ guffawed the innkeep mirthfully. Everyone began laughing, even the choleric man who forgot to take off his fur coat. I was narytime ashamed thus in my life! I finished off my Merry Ale in one swallow, left twenty marks on the table and all wroth I went out of the inn to find Orchid, but she wasn’t there. I went my own way, towards Terraoriens ...

A Spright-in-t’-Wall By Dimitrije Ignjatovic The short, old Professor Hannila stood in front of me, not having uttered a word for indeed very long. He was looking around the esture that was all in tones of pine wood colour, teeming with books, he wanted perchance to find something beyond the range of human sight. His head, which was slowly moving left and right, stopped with an awkwardly abrupt jerk. It was turned forty-five degrees to my left. But he was still alive, I convince you. He had only found something just behind me, to teach me. ‘Ainikki,’ he told me, ‘today we are going to summon the keeper spright of this esture. It is in the wall. Perchance you can call him always, and unless you know its name, call him the spright-in-t’- wall.’ Around the word perchance, his voice was sta rting to degenerate and trail off into a mumble. I just barely heard what he said and around his word unless, I was going to warn him about his mumbling, but his voice cut mine off. ‘This,’ he reached out to my left and pulled out an object that looked like a circular mirror whose frame attached to a golden handle, hanging from a pendant like a magic talisman, ‘is a summoning mirror. In it you see not only what is in the visible world, but eke invisible things, like spirits. Watch closely, Ainikki,’ he said, ‘as I summon the sprightin-t’- wall, and then I will entrust the mirror to you. Make sure you summon not the spright of the same esture more than once in a twenty-fourth part of one day, which is to us one hour. Also, make sure you direct the mirror not towards the ground while saying the incantation, because if you direct it to wards the ground you will summon terrible, evil sprights. The summon spell won’t have any effect if you mispronounce the incantation.’ He then circled with the mirror’s reflection over the esture’s brown wall, and chanted – ‘Spright, of the sun,

My Knowledge illumine: Spright, O spright-in-t’-wall, Right here, appear!’ Then, an airy white gust of wind sprouted out of the mirror’s reflection. ‘What can I do for you?’ the spirit said, sounding like an ear-piercing, windy wailing from a brass throat. ‘Lift this table and suspend it above Ainikki.’ The table behind the old Professor Hannila was caught in the gust of wind. It started to rise and shakily fly above me and stopped above my head. I was scared stiff when I looked up ward. ‘Professor Hannila! It’s gonna kill me!’ Professor Hannila simply said, ‘Take the table where it was, drop it and leave.’ The spirit took the table away from me, as its sing-song, gusty voice said, ‘All right,’ and the table dropped, with a loud thump, on the floor behind the old Professor Hannila, where it had been originally, dead as a doornail. The spright-in-t’- wall had left. ‘The sprights-in-t’- walls,’ the old Professor Hannila went on to explain, ‘are all good spirits, mark you, Ainikki. Good, but only in good hands. They do what one tells them to do. Thus, be precise when you tell them what to do. I entrust you with the summoning mirror. Keep it.’ ‘I promise, Professor,’ I said, and he raised the summoning mirror above his head, with a proud look in his eyes, and he put the mirror around my neck. So far I’ve held it as my dearest possession, and I always will.

The Tarns of Terrasexmontium By Dimitrije Ignjatovic My village, a glacier-cross a way from Poppleford, in Terrasexmontium, was on the coast of the Tarns of Terrasexmontium, the Westerlake part of the tarn that, says the Traveller, was supplied by the water of glaciers from all the six mountains. And my Great Elder’s home, where I live, is exactly at that point from where one can see that the two tarns are joined by only a narrow strait, yet separated by two narrow, long isthmuses, much like the two eye-holes on Fluminis-mater’s helmet when she’s depicted in her war form on the many statues on which she’s depicted in that blazon. I descended towards the lake, writing in my notebook on concentration for magical purposes. It was something for my Great Elder. My pocket ink-bottle was running out of ink. I had to go home. But instead I sat down at the coast and tried to do the practices I have been taught. I first had to relax. First I remembered that the tarns were the most relaxing place in the whole Centumhecatareas, so relaxing that many a wounded knight came here to recover and many a Mage came here to practice his sorcery. I soon fell into a dream of fancy, the fancy I have perchance seen on my woodcuts, a pendant, two pendants, three, the third of a different kind. Then stand on the dexter a male warrior, on the sinister a female scholar, him being Human, her being Elven, and they were holding each other’s hands in a link, a magical pose to me very familiar – I held it long ago with my Great Elder, upon my Initiation Day. Then I woke up, and saw two spirits, but those who Dark Mages (I am not a Dark Mage, but I have read a lot on them) euphemistically called spirits of another sort, the Good spirits. They were artificially welcomed, and they vanished as I didn’t command them.

After my fancy dream, methought, what a pity I couldn’t properly see them. Then I saw my notebook. It had been hailing, and the hail has destroyed it. Eftsoons I heard a familiar voice singing a doggerel song, an old man’s voice. ‘Oh if ever thought and passion Ever songs sing out of fashion: Oh, the world would dangerous be, Living in thought-poverty: Come hither, come hither, come hither: Oh if ever thought and passion Ever songs sing out of fashion. ’ I was distracted until he addressed me, ‘Greetings, apprentice.’ I turned around. I looked at the Great Elder in amazement. I thought I left him at home! ‘I have followed you, and when I saw how you almost summoned those sprights I think you saw, I found you summoning the two most powerful sprights that can be visibly channelled! You simply couldn’t handle it,’ he shook his head in regret. ‘I will let you off your essay on concentration for magical purposes. You have proven to have mastered the basis of spell-casting, you only need to practice it some more.’ Then we went home. I waved goodbye to the tarns of my enlightenment, the tarns I honour.

Centumhecatareas, My Voyages! (Excerpt from The Lore of Centumhecatareas by an anonymous Traveller) I have travelled far and wide over this wo ndrous world yclept Centumhecatareas, which I, as a Traveller, still admire. I have chosen to tell you about Caricisinsula, from the time I went there to clear off all the myths on that islet. Caricisinsula has, thus I am told, only one port town, Ivy-Elm, where the elms are cultivated for their wood, and the port village, Bulrushton, just opposite yonder Bulrushenshore, where bulrush was cultivated for finest baskets, along with Bul rushton, in all of Centumhecatareas. Even in Ivy-Elm, the recognizable coats of arms were carved in woodcuts, and then imprinted on heraldically coloured parchment. I have been told when I was a child, I vividly remember, that in Ivy-Elm, my latter destination, Hederae-deus, the Ivy-god, hides in the Forest of Ivy-elm. (Yes, there are no regularities in the spelling of geographical names, and this is what befuddles me the most in the description of my voyages.) I spent my growing years, while I was classless, poring over ancient mythology books, pondering longforgotten lore deep into the night, even learning some nonstandard sorcery that oftentimes got me into trouble. During my whole classless age, my whole childhood and half my teen years (while I was still classless), I have found nothing on Hederae-deus or any such god! Like many of today’s Elves, I saw the gods but as their winds and their manifestations or materialisations on earth (as opposed to when they are in the unseen Deorumdomus), and I could al ways hear their voices when they are near me, feel their presence when they are near me. But I only saw the gods’ true forms on illustrations of mythology books and woodcuts, thus I cannot be deceived by the many counterfeiters, who would do anything to look like gods they have seen on paintings of gods painted by some

honest Seers with artistic talent. The counterfeiters would even cast spells on their forms and costumes to transport themselves onto the ethereal plane, so they would be ethereal, airy, wight-like, transparent; and some would even cast on themselves, and sometimes even their costumes, spells that would make them glow from the inside; but no, methinks, they cannot fool me, as I cannot see gods. The magic the counterfeiters use as costume is only outward magic, and sometimes the counte rfeiters misportray the gods so terribly that even an unknowing Un-seer can recognise it as fake if he has pored over the mythology sung by Seers carefully enough, as I have. * As I was boarding the ship down in Portston, Fluministerra (on a scheduled path back to Terralibera from Paludisterra), I was asked for transport- tax, by some Caricisinsulan sailor Humans. Humans were the best for the Sailor class, as they could swim better than we elves could; but as one can see from my writing, we the elves are wiser. (‘Gizza tree mahks, if yeh want to enteh!’ said one of them; methinks he is from Caricisinsula, by both his accent and dialect.) And yes, I did pay them three marks. Thus, I was left with seven marks and another mark in pennies, then another fifty pence in pennies. Also they left my vellum notebook (far cheaper than a parchment one in Terralibera, as in the villages of Terralibera, where it was produced, there are many cow-breeding farms, but no sheep-breeding or goat-breeding ones), my bottles of ink, and my quill. A more adventurous type than I (which I forsooth doubt there is) would skip Portston and Courtston (the chief city of Terratruncorum) and sail from far more to the north, up from Fireton (the port town of Terraignis), which I consider a foolish waste of time. After all those people on the dock (a massive crowd, they were) boarded the ship, it was unanchored; the sails we re hoisted, and the ship started to sail. I was wont to sailing; I have passed the Fireton-Pruniinsula track so many times that I have eradicated the seasickness in me like no Elf that I know.

As anyone there could see from my clothes (I was the only one wearing a cape), methinks, I was the only one not going to Caricisinsula for mere summer fun (no Elf or Fairy would) – but many around here would already have found out that I am writing a travel account. I am, as I have said, a Traveller by class; but in all my voyages, I have seen no Traveller like me – a talented Tra veller. The peaceful travel lasted only the first day. Then a wild tempest that awakened me near sunrise of the second day forced us to stay at Temerton, the southern port town of Terracasei. By evening we already hoisted the sails again (two of them were replaced, as the old ones, which were replaced, were torn and useless) and took a turn towards Bulrushton, where we arrived the next afternoon. Behind the wooden port, there was a grassy path with crop-fields of reed mace. As I hiked towards Ivy-Elm, the elm trees (all entwisted with ivy) were more frequent. There were also many elm-tree stumps. * Ivy-Elm looked more like a village than a town. There was a castle, several inns, many houses, and a forest of elms surrounding it. Also, there was a landmark, the Forest of Ivy-elm. I went to a nearby house and knocked. A Human lumberjack opened the door, a tall middle-aged man hardened by work, with a shock of red hair and a red moustache. He seemed to be waiting. He wore yellow clothes, a doublet and hose, and he wore a cheap pyrite blowinghorn around his neck. Apparently, it was the Horn of Scorn, the herald of many Human faneholds of Pudore-FastiditHominis-Deus, the god of men and Shame-holder. I did not answer him while I was drafting notes on him and my surroundings. ‘Go ’ed, speack,’ he tried to convince me. ‘Are-eh, I’ve neveh seen an Elf, one of yews.’ ‘You have never?’ I reply, thinking us Elves are commonplace enough. ‘Well, how may I helf yew?’ ‘You may guide me throughout the forest to the northwest and out. I want us to search every tree.’

‘Are-eh I’ve neveh been dath fahr away meself!’ he la mented. ‘Bur not lycke I won’th try an’ gythe yew. We all know, When a scone’ead’s kind, gythens kum the mind.’ I felt amazed and confused until I realised it was his fanehold’s version of the proverb, An ye should be kind, guidance come to mind. It had lost enough of the meaning in his version – how come it says scone’ead when it is about kindness? But I thought better of saying it does not go like that; perchance his fanehold is one of those new faneholds that do not conform that firmly to the Values. There are no two identical faneholds in all of Centumhecatareas. ‘Soft, guide me then.’ He led me through a path full of inns, cheap and bad; I know this as he led me into one to get me a free drink and food (‘Don’th be such a biff, iss en us, dat!’) But this inn he led me into was not only smelly and crowded with sailors – the food they gave us for the lumberjack’s fifty pence was so horrible (a stew of the cheapest cuts of lamb meat, mixed with hardtack, which seemed to be called lobby) that I was disgusted at the first spoon. (‘What, young la? Haith my freeman’s food? Pure wan roond the face?’) I don’t want to recount to you more, but us Elves are very sensitive to disgusting food. After some hardships, we went out of the inn and to the west. At length we arrived at the top of a hill in front of the Forest of Ivy-elm. ‘Well, er, dis here is de Fores of Ivy-elm, metinks,’ part of his words were lost in his chuckling. ‘Neveh been so fahr meself.’ ‘Now before we enter this forest, can you tell me, only for the risk of counterfeiters, where is the nearest fanehold?’ ‘De neares fane’old? Iss a the nord of here, righth ahind de inn you ate in. An’ I’ve no idea what countherfittehs ahre.’ He led me through a forest of elms, until we reached a ‘sketchy’ place where no elm tree was entwisted by ivy. A true Caricisinsulan knows what is sketchy about a forest on his islet – perchance the ivy-elm relationship I had noticed and the one I pointed out. Perhaps that was why,

throughout Centumhecatareas, the ivy was called ‘the female ivy’ in poems. Perchance this was also why female authors, never made their seal-stamp out of elm, according to the popular custom. My seal-stamp is made of alder. * ‘Forsewt sketchy. I’ve neveh seen an elm unentwined wid an ivy,’ wondered the lumberjack. I have not asked him for his name, because if I have, he would ask me for mine. I haven’t told him my cause, because if I have, I would have revealed who I am, and that I don’t want for my reasons, but no reason standing out in particular. We went further downhill and deeper into the forest, following the trail of unentwined elms. At length we found a counterfeiter exactly as I pictured one. He was wearing a suit of ivy leaves, and he was transparent, ethereal, glowing from inside. He favoured a narrow-faced Elf with his hair dressed in ivy leaves, and he was lean and tall. I wonder what te rrible spells he had cast on his body to attract guests; he looked like a twisted version of Herbarumnuntius, the Spring-god. ‘By my honour! Iss de Ivy-god!’ ‘Ivy-god? ’ I chuckled in scorn. ‘An Thou be Hederae-deus, I tell it Thee,’ I quote the declination of faith, and when it seemed completely unsuitable, I began to alter it, ‘for Thou art wonders visible , and I take Thee for a counterfeit.’ ‘An I be counterfeit, then I am not, for we can never be counterfeited,’ the fake Ivy-god adapted the words of Nive alba, the Snow-goddess, from the creation myth. His voice was a chant in a poor attempt at imitating Herbarumnuntius, the Spring-god. The fake Ivy -god chanted more like a skald than like a savage. ‘Ay, but Thou art forsooth a counterfeiter, methinks Thou glowest like one – from the inside,’ I tried to keep that inspired, scornful tone, as my fanehold, being an Elven fanehold, forbids the Horn of Scorn. ‘I know, namely, that I am an Un-seer. How can I see Thee, when I am so?’ ‘Thou cans,’ he affirmed, but he did not deceive me. A writer like me, even if he were a Traveller by class, would

know how to inflect the thou pronoun and know that if he were a real god, he would manage to say thou canst! This confirmed my suspicion that this is a counterfeiter! ‘Take me to the nearest fanehold!’ I cried and ran away with the lumberjack. * Luckily, the fanehold, which was just behind the inn I ate at earlier, does not hold a guestbook. Nowadays, the guestbooks are regarded some what old-fashioned; for me, this is all for the better. I want no one to know my name, because I do not want to have to explain to the whole Centumhecatareas that I liked to live on the edge of danger. The Scholaress, who was bearing the elm lozenge of being a votaress of the fanehold of Ivy-Elm, recognised the lumberjack as Kineric, her most faithful donator. For my name, she did not ask me, she kept calling me child. (A whole book could be written on the formal titles of address in faneholds.) Methought, it was a pleasant fanehold. I told her that the accounts of Ivy-god were all thanks to a counterfeiter, (as a Scholar by class, she would know what a counterfeiter is) and she called the mages to wake up and look for the counterfeiter. I told the mages that the counte rfeiter is probably an Elf and that he is clad in leaves, and that he is glowing from the inside. Methought that was enough information. Later, at the sign of Ivy-Elm’s border, I parted ways with Kineric the lumberjack, and returned towards the docks. There I boarded a ship to Bulrushenshore, it cost me two marks, and I arrived at Bulrushenshore the next morning. I took a horse-carriage transport to my home in Kingston, Terralibera, and after I paid the coachman, I had no more money. Once I returned to Ivy-Elm, and on the border-sign they’ve put up a new message, NOW ENTERING IVY-ELM, THE CITY THAT FAKED A GOD. Yours truly, [seal of the Traveller, depicting a rampant gryphon]

A Faerie Haunting By Dimitrije Ignjatovic On the fo’c’s’le of a ship our Faerie-Clan is supposed to haunt tonight, I writhed round the sail-mast in boredom. I, along with my fellow faeries, am on a long-lost mischiefmission that has nearly none of the esoteric value that the one about cursing crows had. That one was still talked about among my friends faeries, who were doing postparations from the mission. I soon fell down along the mast, as I could not flap my wings fast enough. This awaiting mission has well exhausted my blue glow and it was already gro wing a sky cyan. ‘Why am I always assigned such exoteric missions?’ I sigh, although no one can hear me. I am my own namesake. When people hear my name, they immediately think of the arising sun-disc in the sky that colours the sky in gold. The rude leader of our Faerie- Clan, Densleonis, wiped his tunic and approached me. When his wings, which were poking out of two big openings on the back of his tunic, were flapping thus, I knew he was angry. ‘Aurora?’ he asked in his insincere voice. ‘Idling again? You should keep watch over the fo’c’s’le until I give you this sign!’ He whistled and flew away towards the boarding planks. Eftsoons I heard some voices and a panicked whistle. I hid as quickly as possible. I partly flew, partly ran into a small, open cargo box and made myself invisible. The three sailors, apparently uneducated, took the box I was sitting in (‘Are-eh dis khargo box is pure ’eavy! Whadda yews two tink is in it?’ said the front carrier, then the back carrier adds, ‘A-L-E ... well, metinks it’s ale!’) Ouch! I suddenly bumped against the top of the box. I fle w a way. How dimwitted are those humans? Is it that difficult to notice a faerie in a cargo box?

‘Eh ... ’ said the third human, silent until now, drinking up his ale, ‘did yews two seem to hear someting?’ Alackadaisy, we must face it – humans not only have no wings, they also are big, ugly and all they ever think of is ale! Another man came aboard. ‘When do we oyss de sails?’ he said. His black boot was stomping round my post, yet we cannot leave our haunting-place. We are to die on our mission if necessary. Well, due to the nature of our missions, our post wa ypoints were much looser than a human sentinel’s wa ypoints and posts. Thus, I ran down into the empty ro wing deck inside the ship, while they were still bickering out there about the existence of faeries. When I neared the foghorn, which was twice my size, I dared blow into it with all my strength, and it made such a sound that it would upset the four humans aboard. * Eftsoons, from my hideout in the dark room, which was lit only by my blue glow, I heard footsteps. I quickly realised that the pain from my bump into the cargo box had left me visible – so I made myself invisible again. I know that invisibility would not make me any less solid – but those four humans must not see me! One of them – the one whom I saw drinking stolen ale earlier – was approaching with a lit lantern. Of course, when I am invisible, I do not cast a shadow – I never do. As far as I could see him from this distance, the candle in the lantern was only two inches long. ‘Who’s dare?’ he roared. The lantern-light illuminated the whole rowing deck. ‘Hey! Yews tree! Ith seems we’re under faerie attack!’ ‘Faerie attack?’ I hear someone laugh from ou tside. ‘Dare’s no such ting as faeries, scone’ead!’ Infuriated at the human ignorance, I flew towards the lantern and blew the candle out. Then I exited the dark rowing deck. ‘Faerie attack!’ they all cried and fled the ship. I wandered the abandoned ship and called up the rest of the faerie crew. I whistled. All the seven appointed faeries, except for Densleonis, appeared before me. I had made my-

self visible again when the human crew fled the ship. I went to the boarding planks and found – Densleonis hiding in a cargo box! ‘W-What ... ?’ he stammered. ‘A—Aurora? ’ ‘I’ve handled those humans. I thought us faeries could not get scared.’ We all then went to the faeries’ plane of existence. * The Faerie King and the Faerie Queen were awaiting us in Fayery. They told me that I have been brave, like a faerie should be, and of all the others, they singled out Densleonis, our former leader, for a descension for recreancy, into the exoteric faerie rank, and they appointed me as a leader on one crow-cursing mission.

Bonus

Reflections on the Imagination By Dimitrije Ignjatovic How do I present my imagination, which I have first to thank for helping me write the First Compilation of Fantasy Stories? Certainly not as, as James Ba rrie said, zigzag lines similar to the body temperature graph. Certainly not as the electroencephalogram. It is a neverland of ideas, and it takes time to dig them all out. An isle, a world, two worlds, three, a mountain region with nine peaks, all that can describe it at once, as I am a children’s writer. And the characters are what I base the story on. They can be Elizabethan, medieva l, modern, primeval; hunters, gentle knights, heirs; melancholy princesses, fairies or any spelling of them, elves, or mischievous sprights akin to Robin Goodfellow the will-o’-the- wisp; even malignant will-o’-the- wisps; kings, rusalki, youngest sons; changelings; trolls; peasant guides; dukes that dabble into evil and expect good to come out of it; impudent brats; spoilt snobs; debased innkeepers; occasional barflies, mighty warriors; dragons, unicorns; stalwart guards; exalted Muses, unseen painkillers behind whole worlds, fairy queens, elfin kings; queens and elfin knights; bards, infamous poisoners, hardened warriors, boyars, sailors, templar knights, soldiers; the Weird Sisters; wandering orphans, illegitimate children forsaken by everyone, pickpockets; solicitors, kind short elves, motley fools, wa rriors that want to look like fools, half-elves and eccentric scholars. They can be in almost any situation, say, one has no past, one has no future; one’s in a spoilt, impudent family; a troll that guards a bridge; a motley fool playing a player’s rite and declaring, say, ‘Wilt thou, young sir, hear the tale of a half-made fool uglier than I?’ and there the whole aesthetic of the ugly develops; a knight always having the same cruel protocol for war; a man not unlike a scholar arriving on a unicorn from a completely different world; a warrior defeated by himself; a mere book of world geogra-

phy posing a threat; an illegitimate girl and a soldier-intraining in love; or, perchance, a prince whom his scholarship kills. The landscapes? Marshes, forests light or dark, clearings, heraldic flowerbeds, mountain regions, cities castled or uncastled, castles, dungeons, churches, cliffs, oases, meadows in fog or without fog, grazings, gorges, canyons, islands, isles, islets, heaths, seas, lakes, rivers, oceans, grim ruins, heraldic fountain sites, skies and clouds, villages, mesas, snow-capped mountains with their peaks in the clouds or in fog. All can be found in my imagination, fantasy, short stories, mini-plays, screenplays and novels. To live and write fantasy is to live in the sky of dreams ... to see the invisible ... to relax, concentrate, visualise and project onto the paper what one sees in his mind’s eye. It is to see it, then describe what one sees in his mind’s eye. It is to break the thick glass between dream and truth. Dreams are much sweeter than reality. It is man himself has the power to catch a dream as it yields to nothingness. I welcome all the stories that happen in my world, and that I am thus, in my lush imagination, entreated to we lcome. They are, to a trained eye, interspersed with heraldic images.