Book - The Lost Past And Finishing The Unfinished By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

The Lost Past Finishing the Unfinished

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DIMITRIJE IGNJATOVIC A Compilation of Fantasy

The Lost Past and

Finishing the Unfinished

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The Lost Past Finishing the Unfinished

To the latter generations, and to those who do not have a smidgen of gothic or evil in their souls, from Dimitrije Ignjatovic

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PREFACE TO THE FIRST COMPILATION OF FANTASY BY DIMITRIJE IGNJATOVIC I am an amateur writer and this is my work I advise the curious to read, as it would expose my taste towards matters sinister and gothic, not expressing, believing or exposing any religion. This Preface I am going to devote to ridding the book of any controversies that may arise, as in the infamous Dungeons and Dragons series, and every contemporary author’s infamous rival, J. K. Rowling and her Harry Potter series, that are called fantasy but not only do they have not a bit of old fairy-tale tradition now called the traditional fantasy, oft derided with the terms go-I-know-not-whither-and-fetch-Iknow-not-what, the-emperor’s-son-in-law-and-the-winged-grandmistress, the-golden-apple-and-the-nine-peacocktails, the-birdgirl, the-dancing-waterthe-singing-apple-and-the-speaking-bird, or somesuch, but that the new fantasy stories put satanic concepts in our children’s minds, put satanic words I don’t want to mention in their language, disable them from discerning reality and fantasy, even leading to schizophrenia. This is the exact opposite. I am a Christian writer, and therefore I write Christian, traditional fantasy, in the ranks of what you might call go-I-know-not-whither-and-fetch-I-knownot-what, or perchance the-dancing-water-the-singing-apple-andthe-speaking-bird. This is no Harry Potter, no Lord of the Rings, no Dungeons and Dragons, and no Chronicles of Narnia. This is a revival of old, traditional fantasy like Peter Pan, or Le Petit Prince, or perhaps, the Tale of Tsar Saltan, of his Son the Renowned and Mighty Bogatyr Prince Gvidon Saltanovich, and of the Beautiful Princess-Swan ... old fantasy that may now be derided as old-fashioned or Christian. However, these are not parables of the Christian or any other religion. This is pure fantasy. Most modern parable authors make parables that are show-through in some way or another: their

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parables, if they can be graced with the name parables, show through their monkey-slow talent, and behind the stories one can see such authors of new-line parables are religious zealots, who, for the most part, are capable of nothing, except for inexplicable synonyms (most of which are found with a thesaurus) and slow comparisons. I could have such a fellow whipped for, as Shakespeare would say, o’erdoing Termagant – it out-herods Herod. I write for kids, and without satanic elements. I write completely religiously impartially. That doesn’t mean middleparadigm, atheistic, or satanic-but-not-to-offend-Christians, or new-paradigm Christian, or anything like that. I, as I said, am a Christian – an old-paradigm Christian – writer, and I am not writing anything that has the slightest tinge of Christianity or Satanism or any religion here – this is not the kind of books that teaches counterfeit spirituality. This doesn’t teach any religion. And, because I am a Christian writer, I don’t think it will succeed. I think fame is Satan’s gift, but read it anyway if you’re interested, and don’t accept suggestions good-for-granted. Dimitrije Ignjatovic

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The Lost Past Finishing the Unfinished

DIMITRIJE IGNJATOVIC

The Lost Past

The Lost Past Finishing the Unfinished

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Preface This story is the journal of the brave girl called Helmi, as she goes towards danger until she faces herself. Hopefully it will expose my taste towards matters gothic, perhaps sinister, as long as they have no expression of faith or any kind of religion. The anonymous author unquestionably has a wide vocabulary, meaning having a wide scope of words to use, yet in his/her words I found words not known by many, that even transcend my own comprehension, and he or she originally used less known or obsolete spellings such as compleat for ‘complete’, lanthorn for ‘lantern’, and thorght for ‘through’, some of which I have elided, except when crucial to the pronunciation or to give one the true feel of the language he/she had used. The grammar is modern, but there are still some words that use archaic spellings, now obsolete. The archaic pronoun thou is often used in songs, but somewhere misused. The anonymous Author can be presumed to be Helmi herself, but that is never proven anywhere, nor is there any hint of that anywhere in the book, however, many authors these days write as if they were someone else, or change names, tamper with dates, dabble in who-knows-what; but seeing that there is not a trace of a town such as this ‘Wigeonbridge’ mentioned by ‘Helmi’ early in the book, I presume the Author wrote sheer fancy, sheer myth, and in a very emotional way relates Helmi’s adventures through this enticing, immersive world of fantasy, full of mythical beings and where nothing is what it seems, where Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s words from Le Petit Prince are a proverb: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.

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In my opinion, we should all learn from this book. In old fantasy, good always wins. Modern fantasy has lost the old fantasy’s piety. E.

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My First Meeting with Tarmo Ah, how much of my adventures and the events that happened in my life I vividly remmember, that it would transcend the most vivid fancy ever writ; the time has come, that I write them down, lest they perish for ever. I have lived a tempestuous life, without care from anyone; a life of running away I have lived, but in the eld it all calms, even for a wanderer with no home or family, a ‘bastard’ by everyone and everything forsaken. When one remmembers, images pass unevenly, erratically and perchance disproportionately through their mind. Some pass quickly, like thunderbolts during a storm, while for others it takes much time to wither like long, pleasant autumns. I was born as an illegitimate daughter, or ‘bastard’ as everyone preferred, into a rich, insolent, obviously spoilt family from Wigeonbridge called the Carpelans. So that one could call me Helmi Carpelan. It was them that gave me that name, Helmi, which is the only thing I ever liked about them, but they preferred to call me just ‘bastard’. They adored their spoilt, insolent son, Urmas, more than anything in the world. At lunch, as I remmember, he continuously protested that someone, which was always me, had to cut up his toast – he seemed to never have heard of such delicious foodstuffs as, say, a steak, which I never could eat until age eleven. On the other hand, they treated me worse than a slave. They never let me even touch a toy, not to mention play with it, so I matured very quickly. By age four, I had to bring them everything, and serve them as a maid-servant, and I was whipped for not bringing them breakfast at five o’clock in the morning. By age seven, I had to cook for them all day and night the most delicious foodstuffs, and never get a taste, or I would be whipped. Urmas got more and more spoilt as he grew, he was the same age as I. He got out of control whenever he disliked

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something; he’d had hysterical attacks when the tutor was arriving; everyone was in fear of the Carpelans. He started pursuing easy money and started gambling early into life. He spent 300 marks every day on drinking, and having fun with his friends. He was permitted to go away from home by now, but I was never before. He held his friends with fear, not love, and he changed them often. A typical spoilt, underdeveloped, immature boy that had everything – including scorn for little ‘bastard girls’ that had nothing. By the time I was eleven, I had that rebel’s instinct that outside there is a better world, about which I was compleatly right. I could no longer bear being treated as a slave by the Carpelans, those spoilt, insolent, dreadful millionaires who simply filled you with no other emotion, no other feeling than scorn for themselves, no other thought than a ghost of your mind being primed to allow any torture by them, that screams revenge. A person like me, an illegitimate child that has never seen the light of day by age eleven thanks to the evil Carpelans, and was whipped, treated as a slave, tortured and primed to accept torture and watch their easygoing life, it is so natural for them to start trying to get revenge on their oppressors, that I also did so. Who else would bear being tortured, treated as a slave and primed to accept torture with apparently the whole world advocating their oppressors, taking their side, and with no one to care for them, than a child like me, a child as silent as me? Such a child that is so primed to accept scorn good-for-granted, that she has to snap one day, and try, risk being perchance killed by her oppressors, or get revenge on the awful, spoilt Carpelans. I kept myself awake on the floor where I usually sleep, watched them go to their bedrooms and fall into the heavy Carpelan sleep. I sneaked to the front door and slowly opened it. It wasn’t locked. How cold that night was, yet how much vivacity I had back then! I ran, almost unaware that I was running for my life, through the front yard and skipped the fence, then through the road to the main part of the city. I ran off and down the road, then into the main city. It was then that I

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ran into a boy about a year younger than I, meaning about ten years old. He had a shock of blond hair and strikingly vivid blue eyes. He wore a dirty white tunic. With him was a pink, glowing faerie, no bigger than my fist, flying around. ‘Hello. Who’re you? Haven’t seen you here before. Are you not from around here?’ he said. ‘My name is Helmi.’ ‘Don’t tell me – it is you are that beast that lives in the Carpelan house.’ ‘Don’t mention that to me. So you fancy me a beast?’ ‘No ... you’re kind of ... beautiful.’ ‘You too,’ I giggled. ‘Helmi and Tarmo, sitting up a tree – ’ the faerie sang. ‘Pink!’ cried the boy, named Tarmo, protesting. ‘I – I – ’ At this point I started crying, both crying and laughing at the same time. ‘Y – you – this is the f – first time anyone’s t – told me that.’ He accompanied me while we ran through the main city. We were heading for the city limits. Men with lanthorns were walking by, lighting the paths of the main city. We clutched on a horse-pulled carriage driven by a short peasant, that arrived from our left, and arrived straight at the city limits. We got off the carriage, and it went off turning to the left of the city limits, and behind the corner of an avenue in the distance. ‘Who are you?’ said the guard as he clutched the ramp. ‘Travellers,’ I replied, and the guard opened the ramp. ‘Pass through,’ he said. ‘Tarmo,’ I asked Tarmo as we ran down an unlit road out of the city, ‘can your family give me a home?’ ‘Um, sorry, no,’ he replied. ‘It’s unsafe here in Wigeonbridge. Plus, Mum and Dad don’t want guests. Farewell.’ He ran back to Wigeonbridge, and I ran off to the bordering city. For the next three years, I travelled across the land and found many homes, changing them almost monthly, until I found a scholar family from Oxendale. They educated me, though I was not yet wont to being called ‘Miss Carpelan’. In relation to my former lifestyle, this lifestyle was faultless.

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I stayed there for a little less than a year, and became an educated person I am now.

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A Fateful Chance-Meeting Is that where it all began? No ... I think it all began with a little chance-meeting, again, with Tarmo, somewhere near Rummerston. I was then a grown girl of fifteen, and he was fourteen. I was wandering across a road called the ‘Lobscouse Road’ that led to the city’s inn part. Next to the road I saw a soldier in a cadet uniform that consisted of a green cape and a grey garment over a white tunic. He had a shock of bright brown, almost blondish hair and vivid blue eyes. He was relaxing under a tree. He has also changed during the four years, but there was no mistaking him. ‘Tarmo?’ I recognised him. ‘Helmi?’ he recognised me, too. ‘I couldn’t wait to find you! After all those years ... it would be almost impossible to tell it was you.’ ‘Look, I now have to train for the soldiers’ bow-andarrow training.’ ‘Aw, just a second ... ’ ‘OK, you can come with me, and watch. I bet I can shove more than fifty arrows into the bull’s-eye!’ ‘Can I just – ’ Before he could answer, I kissed him. He looked somewhat shy, he blushed, but his eyes sparkled. ‘Huh?’ he said confusedly, but there is no confusion in that gesture. ‘Silly,’ I giggled, ‘I mean it!’ ‘Oh. I understand.’ There was a note of sarcasm in his ‘Oh. I understand.’ While we went to the archers’ training camp which was across the field, we saw children dancing and singing ‘Ring-a-Ring o’ Roses’: ‘Ring-a-ring o’ roses, Pocket full of posies, Atishoo! Atishoo! We all fall down.’

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I admired them for being able to play, I tried not to scorn them for my sour grapes attitude. The sour grapes attitude was natural if one didn’t let you play at any time in your childhood, and you were forced to mature quickly. The emotion vanished when I heard what they were singing. We arrived at the training centre. It was a long straight path with ten big bull’s-eyes. The nine soldiers for this opening had some kind of prejudice against the game’s rules. But my Tarmo, apparently, didn’t. I presented myself as a watcher at the counter. Later, it was Tarmo’s turn. He was last at the list for this opening. He had to fire a hundred arrows, and if he scores more than fifty in the inner circle, he’d win a qualification, or a ‘qualley’ as he called it. The most one’s ever scored this opening was ninety-one, scored by one Jarvi. I thought the result was clear. But I was wrong. ‘Good luck, Tarmo,’ I said as he went to the arrow-path. ‘Er, thanks.’ ‘Halvari! Step forward to the arrow-path!’ Tarmo obeyed. When he fired his first arrow, his arm was trembling. The arrow went into the forest. He seemed not to stand a chance of outdoing Jarvi. But when he fired his second arrow, it went straight into the inner circle. At the end, he scored ninety-two. He defeated Jarvi by a single arrow. Later, as we went towards the inn part of the city, because Tarmo wanted to celebrate by drinking a beer, we went past the same children that were singing ‘Ring-aRing o’ Roses’. ‘Helmi Halvari!’ I gambolled around Tarmo. ‘How wonderful!’ ‘Wh—I have no idea what you are talking about,’ said Tarmo. ‘Um, we’re getting,’ I blushed, ‘married, aren’t we?’ ‘Helmi and Tarmo, sitting up a tree – ’ Pink started to sing her four-year-old chant. ‘Silence, Pink!’ I shouted, blushing even more.

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The inn was full of barflies, bards and dorm sleepers. A man in a fur coat was talking to the bartender, who was probably also the innkeeper. The innkeeper was speaking with a rhotic accent. ‘Have I no told ya,’ he told the man in fur coat, ‘aboot the prices in here? ’Un story, ’un drink.’ ‘’Afternoon, innkeep,’ Tarmo called to attention. ‘Good afternoon ta you too, ar har,’ he chuckled, ‘What’s yer name?’ ‘Tarmo. Er, Tarmo Halvari.’ ‘An’ what’s your name, ar har, lassie?’ ‘Helmi. Helmi Carpelan.’ ‘Are ya lovers or what?’ he roared. I blushed. It seems Tarmo blushed too. ‘I’m no callin’ ya some undisciplined youths,’ he added quickly. ‘What, ooh, lovers!’ Pink the faerie sprang out. ‘Hey, Tarmo, what about your girlfriend Helmi? Helmi and Tarmo, sitting up a tree – ’ ‘Pink!’ hissed Tarmo. ‘You’re embarrassing us!’ ‘So, you’re a changeling, huh, Tarmo, ar har!’ chuckled the innkeeper. ‘I’m not a changeling! That’s my faerie friend, Pink, and I loathe her. So, er,’ he said, ‘what are the prices?’ ‘Ya heard me when I was talking to this Esko guy here,’ he chuckled, ‘’un story, ’un drink.’ ‘So,’ said Tarmo, ‘so be it.’ ‘What stories do ya have?’ ‘I’ll tell you the one I’ve been taught in the military, a parable called Soini the Mighty Warrior. Here goes. ‘Soini was a mighty warrior. Everything trembled ten miles before him and ten miles behind him. One day, he was unsatisfied with the power he had, so he threatened to chop up everyone who disobeyed him with his mighty axe, “like a tree”. ‘To demonstrate this, he took a cowering audience in front of a tree. He wound up his mighty axe to destroy the tree. Now everything was truly afraid of Soini, the mighty warrior.

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‘But there was a butterfly on the tree. Soini couldn’t destroy such a beauty, and the axe fell right out of his hands and straight onto the ground. ‘The butterfly flew up to Soini, and told him, “You may think they would like to obey you because you are so strong, you hold them with fear. But if you hold them with love, and never threaten them, they will truly love you, and obey your every appeal, even with more pleasure than when obeying your cruel commands.” ‘Soini spared the butterfly and the tree, cast off his law and never threatened again, knowing that now he was truly mighty indeed.’ ‘That was ’un good story,’ said the innkeeper and gave Tarmo a goblet’s worth of beer. When Tarmo drank the beer, we went to the inn’s dormitory and found a messy bed. ‘This is the only free bed,’ I said. ‘No matter,’ said Tarmo, ‘we’ll sleep together!’ I wasn’t wont to love. But I accepted that. Pink started singing a song in her most melodious voice, a love song, to Tarmo and me. ‘Withouten Faeries’ Royalm true O Love that’s true can rare be found; A changeling with a Faerie friend Can love uncheck’d, his love is wound Round any Life, round any Love That’s been cast off discourteously, His love is true, her love is blue, And they’ll live in serenity.’ ‘Hey!’ said Tarmo, ‘I’m not a changeling!’ ‘Listen, Tarmo,’ said Pink in a soothing voice, ‘I’m trying to sing you and Helmi into sleep.’ She continued, in a tonality somewhat lower. ‘O thirty years, love, there have passed, Since Love O did connect our hearts; Thirty years more will count to last, Till our Life cracks and breaks apart.

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But my love true, and thy love blue, Will never part, and cease their life. It is love known by just a few That will never come to strife. A love eternal comes to life, Thou canst think it will break some day, But my love true and thy love blue, Pleased they will steal our hearts away. Thine amity will never die Like all those that died for sure And those that never will return Off casting those whose tears still pour.’ At that point first Tarmo fell asleep, then I did. Faerie sleep is heavy! I have never slept like that, relaxed myself like that, in my life! When we woke up, it was already tomorrow noon.

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Kalevi the Pickpocket Mrs Silven greeted us at the doorstep of their house in Oxendale. Their house was on the far end of the miles-long Braggart Road, that was perpendicular to an end of the Lobscouse Road in Rummerston. The Silvens were the scholar family that educated me. They’re of a kind sort, to say the least. Their home is quite quaint and full of books, many of which I have read with pleasure. I bet I have read The Playhouse over a good fifty times, and it made my life happy for I would get immersed into its worlds, rather than this cruel world that had no respect for a slave like me. ‘’Morning, Mrs Silven,’ I said, unaware that it was early afternoon. ‘But noon has since past, Helmi,’ she said in her prestige accent. ‘Hey! What does this mean, she knows you?’ Tarmo asked me. Assuming he was talking to her, Mrs Silven said, ‘Yes, of course, I raised her since she was thirteen. Enter.’ ‘Well,’ said Tarmo, entering, ‘my name is Tarmo, and as you see, I am a soldier cadet.’ ‘And he’s a compleat sot,’ Pink sprang. ‘My pleasure,’ Mrs Silven shook his hand. ‘I have never seen a changeling before,’ she added. ‘I’m not a changeling!’ Tarmo snapped. ‘This is my faerie friend Pink.’ When we entered, we saw Mr Silven reading The Playhouse to a little boy in a dirty tunic. The boy looked about nine years old, had a shock of blond hair and wide, vividgreen eyes. He reminded me of Tarmo when we first met, except Tarmo’s eyes were a vivid blue. ‘When night came black, we were asleep Oh on the topmost hill; How soft and cold the night air was,

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We had our thoughts’ fill. ‘When we awoke, we two, with tears Did in sorrow part; And all we had to say was cheers, With sorrow in our hearts.’ Mr Silven turned his head up. ‘’Afternoon, Helmi, stranger,’ he said. ‘My name is Tarmo,’ snapped Tarmo. ‘Meet Kalevi,’ Mr Silven told him. ‘Hello,’ Tarmo said. ‘Hi,’ said Kalevi. ‘Hello, Kalevi,’ I told Kalevi playfully. He folded his arms angrily. ‘Oh, don’t be such an angry-face.’ ‘Why you treat me like a baby!’ Kalevi said. ‘Why don’t you be my accomplicy?’ ‘That’s “accomplice”, Kalevi,’ Mrs Silven told Kalevi, and then she turned to me. ‘I adopted Kalevi when I was at the market in Draughtsdale, it is a dangerous trip to Draughtsdale, unless you know the right path. ‘He got away from prison, the policemen were running after him, then he started picking my pocket, and when they caught him, I paid the ransom for him and promised to raise him a better child.’ ‘Well, certainly, Mrs Silven,’ said Kalevi, emotionally hurt. ‘Ooh,’ Pink said to Kalevi, ‘what’s the last thing you stole?’ To calm Kalevi, Mr Silven continued reciting. ‘And soon, I was alone up there Surrender’d to the clouds; The nature all sang how thou wast Alone, with sorrow shrouds. ‘But worry not, I won’t forget thee; Alone now, with my mind, Stand sentinel, prithee, like me, Or other Husband find.’

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Around this point Kalevi got hysterical and started crying frantically, ‘I don’t want the stupid playhouse-book! I wanna go away!’ So the Silvens were wolf-in-lamb-skin, after all, towards Kalevi. ‘Calm down, Kalevi, it is I want to read!’ said Mr Silven. ‘Helmi, about your manners,’ said Mrs Silven, ‘I deduced from your behaviour that you still behave scornfully, as if you still cannot get accustomed to the fact that it is natural that one mocks you, but one doesn’t have to mock you, for your predicament. Take Kalevi for an example. He even mocks those who are richer than him, and he is compleatly accustomed to being mocked, called a pickpocket, that in his mind the word pickpocket has lost its meaning! I advise that you go around the land to find someone poorer than you.’ ‘Poorer than I? Is there anyone – ’ ‘There certainly is, as this is a big land.’ She gave me that penetrating look I identified her with. I could feel her confidence. ‘How come you felt what I feel?’ I said quickly, to avoid having her interrupt me. ‘I haven’t said a word since I entered.’ ‘One’s gestures and expressions speak volumes,’ she said. ‘You were quietly analysing Kalevi if he would mock you, though he doesn’t know anything about you. He’s only nine, Helmi.’ Tarmo and I then left the house and up the road ahead of it.

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The Dark Forest Night has since fallen in the forest we arrived at; an eldritch, dreadful forest was off to all directions in which we could consider running. We were in the middle of a dark forest, with no lanthorn to show us the way. It wasn’t pitch-black; we could see our environs, though distorted and a dark blue; but there was much we couldn’t see. Trees round the paths ahead were dancing under lightning bolts that thissen insufficiently illuminated the forest, and they were singing a horrid song about prey. We went under one tree, to sleep until dawn arises; probably the forest would be brighter at day. Tarmo climbed the tree to fetch some apples, but Kalevi fell off the tree and right on Tarmo. Tarmo caught Kalevi, but couldn’t hold him long – halfway down, they both safely fell onto the path covered with grass. It seemed Kalevi ran away from home again, following us. ‘Oh, look who we have here!’ said Tarmo sarcastically. ‘It’s the pipsqueak from that family of yours!’ ‘Who you calling pipsqueak, pansy-pants!’ Kalevi shouted back. ‘Pansy-pants!’ Pink laughed. I couldn’t sleep any more. We moved on. The tree in front of us cried and caught us three. As it carried us out the opposite end of the forest, the uncaught Pink accompanying us, it told us, ‘We don’t want guests ’ere. ‘An’ stay ye out. We, the Walkers, are an inhospitable race. We hold lore thousands of years old. Unlike the Faeries.’ It struck the flying Pink with a really big branch, and caught her with the same branch with which it held us. By the time we arrived outside the forest, and on the cliff above a very big city, it started raining. The tree dropped us violently and left. Pink lay limply on the ground, her pink glow fading. ‘D – do not worry ... rain will heal me.’ She fell unconscious, her glow still fading.

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After the first drop of rain fell on her, she began regaining her eidolon’s glow, which was now an odd chartreuse, but soon became pink and her wings jerked as more and more raindrops fell on her. Her wings flapped faster and faster as she regained consciousness, and her usual pink glow was fully regained within minutes. She sprang up into the air. ‘She’s alive!’ I said in wonder. ‘Wonderful stuff, faeries,’ said a voice behind us. ‘Rain heals them, and they change children – ’ ‘I’m not a changeling!’ shouted Tarmo, and we turned to find a man in green that stood at the cliff. He went slowly towards us and knelt before the rejoicing faerie. ‘By the way,’ he said, ‘my name’s Ahti.’

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Autumnsdale ‘What, er, who was that tree in that forest, that nearly got me killed?!’ Pink asked Ahti. ‘That forest,’ Ahti told Pink and us, ‘you have just passed, was no ordinary forest, but a forest by Sorrow cursed. I am one of the many guardians of the city below, that is called Autumnsdale, whose inhabitants have been rendered unwitting by their sorrow and they’ve locked themselves inside their houses and one can’t extract anything useful from their minds. One has to go past this wit plague that will last for one hundred years that has begun for their sorrowful remembrance of the late hero named Ensio, that died in fire fighting the dragon in the gorge of Hyacinthia; they have lost their wits till the plague ends. I will guide you up Autumnsdale.’ ‘Thanks,’ I said. As we passed down the smooth side of the cliff-cut mountain, and through the deserted streets of Autumnsdale, Ahti guiding us, the rain grew stronger and stronger still. We heard a thunder and a rush of wind. ‘Oh great ... ’ said Tarmo. When we approached the palace at the far end, we couldn’t bear anymore the storm. ‘Go on, hurry,’ Ahti hurried us, ‘we have no time to waste.’ The city’s palace was a towering, ominous-looking building; in front of it lay the corpse of a boy, and the city’s King, a crowned man in red, with long grey hair, seemed to be mourning the boy. ‘He’s – he’s killed the Prince – he’s killed my son Manne – ’ he stammered ‘ – for Sorrow!’ he screamed. ‘That foul villain – the enemy of Autumnsdale – ’ he stammered, mad with sorrow. ‘Finnur, the Dragon of the Gorge – he – he – ’ He broke into tears and uttered some unintelligible words, much like ‘over Draughtsdale he abideth,’ then ‘Manne coming after you,’ then he collapsed, then cried, ‘Revenge!’

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That one word and he died. O, how can I forget this agony, this plague? ‘There goes the King of Autumnsdale. He couldn’t handle the wit-plague,’ Ahti told us with a strange expression I haven’t forgotten until now, on his face about fifty years of age. It was an ironical, yet calm expression; he seemed to be smiling hypocritically, but he wasn’t at all. Uneasily, we went and reached the mountain wall we couldn’t avoid save for climbing it. We climbed the mountain wall and found a cave. Then the storm stopped, and we realised it was early morning. The cave stretched like a corridor to the opposite of the mountains, from whence we saw a city. The city was, luckily, very populated. The top part of this city was a triangle-based tower on its castle that had a huge icosahedral roof-ornament whose one side was attached to the otherwise triangular rooftop. The castle was whole in regular shapes – the King that founded the city was of a scholarly class. The city was divided into five parts – the main part with the castle, the inn part of the city, the market square, the library and the arable fields with small forests.

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The Rummer ‘This city,’ Ahti said all of a sudden, ‘is Draughtsdale.’ ‘Most famous for its inns, I deduce from its name,’ Tarmo said. ‘Tarmo!’ I squealed chidingly. ‘This city is my home,’ Ahti said, ‘and I, though guarding another city, am familiar with it. I will get you a drink as gratitude to you for finding me a way to get home quick.’ ‘Well, not really quick,’ claimed Kalevi the pickpocket. We descended the mountain and found ourselves in the main part of the city. As we went through the crowded streets we saw we were going up ‘Sawyer Avenue’, then up ‘Shelterwood Lane’, and then ‘Swingletree Street’, then we ended up in the inn part of the city. We entered an inn whose sign had a picture with sixtyfour eight-point stars and a sun-in-splendour with thirtytwo rays. It was a poets’ inn – there were poets inside that recited their poems, but also there were ordinary barflies there that hearkened to the poets reciting. ‘What do you want, Ahti, and what do the strangers want?’ roared the innkeeper. ‘Can you get us three beers for forty pence?’ said Ahti. The innkeeper shook his head, ‘Nah.’ ‘Fifty?’ ‘Nah.’ ‘Sixty?’ ‘Nah. Listen. Three beers cost one mark and twenty pence!’ ‘Boy, how prices have risen since I’ve last been here!’ said Ahti, paying exactly a mark coin, and two smaller coins, each smaller coin of ten pence. The innkeeper took the money and gave us three rummers full of beer. ‘Yuck,’ I said, ‘I’ve never drunk such a – ’ ‘What do I get?’ ‘Apple juice for the boy, please.’ said Ahti. ‘Er,’ said the innkeeper with the most sarcastic expression I’ve ever seen, ‘that will be twenty pence.’ Ahti paid two more coins, each of ten pence, and Kalevi got a rummer full of apple juice. I wished I was to drink

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apple juice. I slowly drank half of the rummer’s worth of beer I got, just so I don’t get embarrassed. I felt somewhat woozy, so I stopped and discontinued drinking. Beer is such an intoxicating drink. The guard in fur coat, who had apparently followed us, laughed. I felt so humiliated. Being noble is tough work. We exited the inn and went around the library and behind the palace. Presently we ended up at the meadow that separated Draughtsdale from other cities. Ahti left. ‘Goodbye,’ he said. ‘Goodbye, Ahti,’ we replied.

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The Dragon and the Sage The gorge we descended into separated Draughtsdale from Wigeonbridge, though Wigeonbridge, the city I first remmember living in, was at a significantly higher peak. We descended down the side, onto its dry ground, and walked down two hundred yards or so. Suddenly, a dragon jumped down in front of us: a horrid, flying, fire-breathing dragon. It spewed fire at us, so we had to retreat. The dragon flew up. Its head had passed us: the dragon was seventy yards long. Tarmo jumped up into the air with his sword. He missed. ‘Tarmo,’ I cried out, ‘wait for the dragon to fly low!’ The dragon flew lower to spew more fire at us, about sixty inches above the ground, then up, and Tarmo jumped up, slashed the dragon with his sword, burying his sword straight into its heart. Presently, the dragon fell, and Tarmo jumped back just in time, and joined us. ‘Tarmo, they sure taught you something at military school,’ I said. ‘Well,’ Tarmo blushed, ‘do you remmember that I won the opening at the bow-and-arrow training?’ I laughed. ‘Come on.’ We proceeded down the gorge. It was a long way, searching the gorge. We found a tunnel, an entrance to a cave. As we entered the cave, it was very quiet. We could hear nothing save for cave liquids dripping. We entered a chamber in the right side of the cave pathway. Inside, the chamber was equipped like a living room. There was a man inside, a very old man with a long grey beard. He appeared very weak. He glanced at us with his pale blue, wise-looking eyes. ‘Glad you came,’ he said in a raspy voice. ‘It’s been seven hundred years since anyone came into this cave,’ he con-

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tinued happily, ‘and I’m not yet bored. You children may not remmember me. My name is Pasi. I was the local sage back then, they came to me for wise advice. Modern sages, they are usually young and they peddle some easy rhymes that sound wise, the word sage has lost its true meaning!’ ‘So ... what would one do if he was born as an illegitimate child, has lived with a cruel family for eleven years where he has been treated as a slave, and still cannot stand mocking by children and called a bastard?’ ‘You should find someone who truly understands what sufferings you’re in.’ ‘Someone poorer than me?’ ‘Yes. The one who told you that said it well. But I am still very unhappy. People don’t come here often, as I’ve said before. That is because of a dragon, named Finnur, that lives here, and that no wise man would risk his life to descend into this gorge because of him.’ ‘Er ... ’ I said, the picture of Tarmo fighting Finnur flitting like fire through my mind, ‘we defeated Finnur.’ ‘Verily?’ he asked. ‘Verily,’ I answered. ‘We’ll tell everyone who has been avoiding the dragon that they may freely enter the gorge for advice from Pasi, the One and Only Sage.’ ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Er, goodbye,’ Tarmo said. ‘Goodbye.’ We went out from the cave and down the gorge. The air was pleasantly cold. It seemed that even our footsteps were ecchoing through the gorge. At length, the gorge opened up and before us there was a city. It was more marvellous than any city I ever saw; especially the palace stood out. It was made of bricks of various colours, the highest tower was a bit higher than the gorge was, and each several brick was comprised of four equal cubes, in different formations, and the market-square was the next more impressive – it had a podium where travelling actors could play – the famous Playhouse described in The Playhouse. ‘Look,’ said Kalevi, ‘this place looks familiar!’

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Where? What? Then he pointed at the playhouse. Is it – is it not Starvelingham, the city of many monuments? The city’s statue confirmed it. The King and a Starveling Hound. Until then, I only knew Starvelingham from paintings at the Silvens’ home – the Silvens admired it. Yet it is so difficult to access by those from Wigeonbridge or Rummerston. It was the capital city of my country, the most-admired chief city of Fianchia, that stood while its people were starving hungry. But then, I saw Starvelingham first-hand, and I admire it more than ever.

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The Faeries’ Rede We met a peasant, visibly careless, who was mowing his part of a field next to the forest with a rather large scythe. He stopped in the sun to talk to us. ‘What’s the story, pals?’ A polite peasant, it seemed this instant. ‘We want guidance through the city,’ I said. ‘Ay what?’ ‘How stupid can those Starvelings be?’ Tarmo told me. ‘Er ... we want you to lead us through the city,’ I repeated, a bit angry. ‘Eh, well, you’re a bit insolent, newfangled changeling,’ said the villager. Before he could continue, Tarmo interrupted him with a hiss of ‘I’m not a changeling!’ But they apparently didn’t mind. ‘Tourists to Starvelingham, huh? I’ll be glad to guide you.’ ‘How odd,’ said Pink. We went down the market square. It was a Playhouse Day. The actors at the podium were playing. ‘Remmember ye that eight-and-six We oft wanted to play, Just several costumes, acts and verse And we can play to-day. ‘When thou dost play, it’s like a tale Of many a dream come true, Oh, I play Piper, thou play’st the Queen, And our hope will be in you. ‘It is that easy, on the ground I try, kiss thee awake, And thou act’st as if thou sleep’st, Thy true role, thou’lt forsake. ‘While Puck around, so playeth spright,

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A mischief as he mak’th. Such easy ways, to act in plays, As his role he forsak’th. ‘And play, my love, the play’s alive, O such a rite play we, Not until the break of day, We’ll part this company.’ I’ve loved plays since I was adopted by the Silvens, and now I saw a play, or rather, a part of a play, with Tarmo. ‘This way to the forest,’ the peasant said, and I snapped back to attention. The forest was a nice lilac forest. The peasant led us halfway through, where the path began to rise. ‘I’ll leave you here. This is the path out of Starvelingham.’ He went back to Starvelingham, leaving us there. Halfway up and out of the gorge, we met the proverbial Four Faeries, the Faerie Queens. They also were very small, and had wings, and could fly, like Pink, but these were in different colours. Unlike Pink, they wore small crowns. I didn’t recognise them at first, but Pink pointed out, ‘There’s my Queen!’ The first was a bright chartreuse-green; the second was a shiny, silvery blue; the third was Pink’s shade of a pale mix between pink and magenta; and the fourth was a shiny, pure yellow that almost had an orange-yellow tint about it. The yellow one said, ‘We are the four Faerie-queens, as many of you would say, Whom many would disdain, but we will help today. We are just spirits of no common rate, Whom our people hath forsaken, to this date.’ ‘Peaseblossom!’ said the green one. ‘Cobweb!’ said the blue one. ‘Moth!’ the pink one. ‘And Mustardseed!’ said the yellow one. The yellow faerie continued.

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‘Ye must be visitors from yonder country. The service ye want – we mark silently.’ Much I marvelled this farce of faeries to speak right now. The Faeries continued – I wanted to mark them still. It was Moth, the pink one, who spoke, perceiving Pink. ‘What marvel do I see? Of my Kin is she – I’ll take’t good-for-granted – what want’st thou, faerie?’ ‘I want wise advice, if thou say’st yes – By Pink my name, thy Majesty faerie, I was afraid while in a foreign world, I want the faerie-land to be with me. Thus I wish I’d ne’er break up with thee.’ ‘O, thou’lt ne’er, thou wilt ne’er: I will stay as nice, Although invisible – giving thee advice. I’ll send a link to thee – ’tis an easy price.’ ‘Gramercy, Queen Moth! Whatsoever ’tis – That thou dost give me – I’ll take it with ease. When thou guidest me, mysteries remain – Will I have control o’er myself again? O, when I hear thee with me, when thou giv’st advice – Ay, I will take it – is there any price?’ ‘As I told thee, nay – but we must now disband. I’ll ever be there. We are hand-in-hand.’ There was a swift ray of magenta-pink light from Moth to Pink and she shuddered, falling unconscious to the ground. ‘Pink!’ I cried. ‘What have you done to Pink, wretch?’ ‘Those are normal consequences. We are now connected.’ ‘What!’ I still was shocked. ‘Explain yourself!’ ‘Do not be silly. She will arise.’ ‘Huh?’ Pink awoke on the ground. ‘Where am I?’ She also heard the strange, flitting sound echoic of Moth’s flying, around herself.

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‘We are connected, Pink,’ said Moth, and her voice echoed around Pink. Pink flew up and we went up, out of the gorge, and ending at the opposite end of Lobscouse Road in Rueingham.

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Rueingham and Weedston As far as I know, Lobscouse Road ends here in Rueingham. Ahead of Rueingham’s Lobscouse Road is a road named the ‘Spearhead Road.’ That road ends in a frontier with Polecenia. We went a long way down Rueingham, down an avenue called ‘Maidenhair Avenue’. The evening has come; the sky was already half-darkened. ‘Certainly,’ I panted, ‘there will be an inn to rest in.’ ‘Hope so,’ said Tarmo. ‘I’ve never been to Rueingham.’ ‘I’ll pilfer some meat, if you’re hungry,’ Kalevi chimed in. ‘Kalevi!’ I hissed. Pink flew over the signs, shedding her glow on them, flying low to see one word – Maidenhair. She began singing. ‘O maidens and their beauty hair Some blond, and some are brown – Us faeries can e’en pink hair have And maidens can thus beat us down.’ ‘Pink!’ I said, offended. ‘Do not insult!’ ‘Yes, right, Pink!’ said Moth’s invisible eidolon. We proceeded down Maidenhair Avenue until we reached the city gate guarded by a gigantic green troll. But he was a polite one. ‘Answer me this riddle an’ you may pass!’ he said. ‘I tell of feelings true within my letters. Use your imagination and I come to life. What am I?’ ‘A novel!’ said Pink. ‘The answer is – a novel!’ ‘Correct.’ With heavy steps, he moved past. When we went through the gate, we could hear him returning, standing guard. His footsteps were heavy. When we saw what we were standing before, we were more than astonished. We were standing before a fountain. I’ve seen many fountains, but there was no fountain in all of

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Fianchia like this one. It resembled a lark whistling by the springing water. Kalevi stepped to the left and noticed a city in that direction. (‘Hey, look! A city!’) We all turned to the left and went ahead. About a hundred yards ahead of us we saw a city and a guard on patrol. As we neared the guard, he stopped. ‘Good evening. Who are you?’ ‘Travellers,’ I said. ‘Ordinary travellers.’ ‘Well, welcome to Weedston,’ he said, ‘you have many inns to choose from in this town, in which you can even eat. I eat at Santeri’s when it’s not my shift.’ He let us through. As we walked through the city, we immediately found its inn part. Santeri’s inn was just across the road, then to the left side of the road to the left of the entrance we found to the inn part of the city. Santeri’s was full of guests sitting at tables, so we found a free table near the entrance to the dormitory on the upper floor. At least here the guests were decent and decently eating. A waiter approached us. ‘’Evening,’ he said, ‘what do you want?’ ‘Can one get anything here for twenty pence?’ said Tarmo. ‘Yes, well, there’s broth for five pence, beans for ten pence, and beer for a penny. That’s all I can offer you for less than twenty pence.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘three dishes of broth and a beer.’ ‘That’s fine with me,’ said Tarmo and paid him three coins, five pence each, and one coin worth one penny. Soon, our food arrived – one dish of broth for each of us (Tarmo, Kalevi and me), and a mug of beer for Tarmo. The broth tasted bland. It was nothing compared to the broth at the Silvens’ home. When we finished eating and drinking, we went to the dorm. Pink sang to us as usual. ‘Whither faeries will live free In a bigger faerie-land, There never discord will be

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And faeries will never disband, But when the wolves behold the Moon All with thirst for human blood Be sure faeries will destroy Their rites loving everyone’s good.’ We then fell asleep. When we woke up, it was morning. Then we arose and headed straight out of the inn. Then we went down to the market square down its part that is to the right of the inn-and-house part, and up a road called ‘Mirthshunner Road’. It led us in a wiggly path up round Rummerston and through the gate straight to a section of Lobscouse Road.

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Now There Are Two of Us A short way up Lobscouse Road, I remmember, the wind that struck us this time was pleasant. We were lightheartedly going to Oxendale, to have a drink. It was about noon. Halfway through to Oxendale, we met a girl, no older than eight, sitting on the side of the road, alone, unguarded, in a torn dress grey with dirt. ‘What’s your name, little girl?’ ‘Kastehelmi.’ ‘Strange coincidence. Mine’s Helmi. Just Helmi.’ ‘There is such a name?’ She seemed not to know the world around herself and the language much, proven still by her lisping. ‘Tarmo,’ I chid Tarmo who was just pulling out his sword, ‘how can you show her violence when she obviously needs parental care!’ ‘What caring humans!’ said Kastehelmi. ‘Tell me your life. How do you live?’ ‘I’m running away from home.’ ‘How odd. Why?’ ‘I was born a bastard into the rich family from Wigeonbridge – ’ ‘Wigeonbridge! I’m from there too! Tell me more!’ ‘They were called the Harjannes.’ When I heard the name Harjanne, memories sprang into my mind. I knew those insolent friends of Urmas, they came to the Carpelans’ home to play with him! One of those rich, insolent boys was named Albert Harjanne. ‘They treated me like a slave, so I had to run away.’ ‘How strange. I was born as a bastard into the Carpelan family.’ ‘Really? One of the boys that came into the Harjannes’ home was named Urmas ... Urmas Carpelan. Albert always gambled with him. How odd.’ ‘They also treated me as a slave, so I ran away to a scholar house where I grew up.’

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‘What, now there are two Helmis?’ Tarmo said. I was dumbfounded with emotion. For a long time, I couldn’t utter a word. I have been regaining my emotions, they were normalising into what Mrs Silven originally expected. I felt my quest was over. I so pitied Kastehelmi that I regained my emotions. I so pitied her that she felt like an extension of me. ‘I will care for you from now on. Come on, let’s go to the Silvens’.’ ‘Caring human!’ I took Kastehelmi up, and then we went with her up Lobscouse Road. Then the road became a bit steeper. We passed by that dark forest we went through. It looked as if it was calm by daylight. We went up the road further, through the main Oxendale, until we reached a house at the opposite end of Lobscouse Road. We knocked. Soon, Mrs Silven opened the door. She glanced at us the way only she could. She inspected all of us, and opened her mouth as if she were to say something, but having nothing to say, she closed it again. She noticed Kastehelmi. We’ve left her speechless.

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The Monster Inside Me Defeated We told Mrs Silven everything about Kastehelmi and how she suffered mainly from what I have, and everything she told us. ‘How strange!’ said Mrs Silven. ‘What a singular occasion! O strange coincidence!’ ‘Well, yes, it’s amain amazing. But I am not amazed. See, my amazing quest has taught me that nothing is truly outstanding. Kalevi,’ I commanded Kalevi, ‘will you wake Mr Silven up?’ ‘Yes’m,’ he said, and went to Mr Silven’s bed. ‘Somehow,’ said Mrs Silven, ‘somehow you have changed. However, I need more certainty to confirm that answer. I went to the desk, took out a scroll of parchment, a quill and some ink, and wrote verse in seven-syllable style, though still not perfectly exact metre, as I intended, as exact metre was the playwright’s wont. At first it sounded to me like railing at Tarmo, but then it quickly turned into the natural love poem style. ‘Tarmo,’ I said hesitatingly, ‘er, I have writ a p—poem for you.’ ‘A poem?’ I started reading in the famous affected style well known among today’s actors. At last, the more I read, the less could Tarmo suppress his laughter. ‘Betwixt us twain a Scorn hath lain, But thy Love doth quell it amain. O hinder’d love, hinder’d by Scorne, We’ve lain it many a Morne, Wind up, wind down, have ventured we Till I said my Loove for thee. To my friends scorn-full thou wert – Scornful, but ne’er to desert. Now thy spaniel’s Love remaineth But it never us disdaineth.

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I love thee Tarmo, I know well, No scorn can my Love now quell. Leave my heart or say a lie – Then I’ll study how to die.’ ‘Ah hah ha hah ah ha!’ laughed Tarmo. ‘Did you try to prick a soldier?’ ‘Tarmo,’ said Mrs Silven, ‘calm down your obvious insolence!’ ‘Uh, sorry,’ I apologised, ‘I didn’t have a monosyllabic word for insolence in my vocabulary!’ By the time I said that, Tarmo was already outside. ‘Get out of our yard!’ he shouted. I went outside to see what was happening. Outside, some children were dancing in a ring and singing – ‘The common cormorant or shag Lays eggs inside a paper bag. The reason, you will see no doubt, It is to keep the lightning out. But what these unobservant birds Have never noticed is that herds Of wandering bears may come with buns And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.’ I marvelled that wonder of playing, without a sour grapes attitude. The sour grapes attitude never appeared! I searched for traces of it. There were none. I analysed what they were singing. Every reason for a sour grapes attitude. I rushed into the house. ‘I’m cured! Mrs Silven, I’m cured! I can feel it!’ ‘Just as I knew. Well then, keep Kastehelmi, and I’ll raise Kalevi.’ Then I heard Tarmo scream at the children, ‘Hey, go play in Rummerston, will you?’ I was then utterly displeased.

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Conclusion Since my achievement, life started getting better for me – I was enjoying it. I enjoyed everything round myself, even wrote verse about idyllic vistas throughout the regions of Fianchia that were easily accessible from Oxendale. At those poems Tarmo would laugh, at some I would laugh, too, for I was ill at verse. Since then, when I got cured, my love for Tarmo became increasingly natural, as I was more wont to it, as Tarmo was more wont to it – even, methought, some of his scorn disappeared. However, Mrs Silven never thought me wont to love until the next full moon. The full moon was also shining on that night two years later, when I was seventeen and Tarmo was sixteen. It was then that we got married. There was a feast at the Silvens’ house that I will never forget – Pink called faeries in to sing and dance in the house. Our adventures I will never forget, even though they now seem like a distant, long, but pleasant, faerie dream; thus I want to set them down, to have them leave a trace. It is an instinct that one can never suppress – something grown into everyone’s nature. Four years after mine and Tarmo’s marriage, Kalevi was fifteen, and he has grown into a responsible man who never thought of a crime since I got cured. He grew into a good soldier cadet, though his dishevelled, strikingly blond hair showed his adventurous nature, despite his quietude. By then, Kastehelmi has grown out of her submissive character, and thinking she’s not human in some way, and got well educated, but as she was younger when she ran from home than I was when I met the Silvens, she mentioned nothing like my sour grapes attitude, meaning she matured quicker than I did, and she got to know the language and the world around herself better. Both of us passed the Life’s course the same way.

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Pink was no longer afraid of the mortal world, so she went one day to disconnect herself from Moth. When she returned, we no longer heard that invisible eidolon of Moth, whom we heard as a mere voice. No-one regarded Tarmo a changeling anymore. Thus end our adventures, but there’s still something missing. What is Life? What a simply-put yet hard-to-answer question! Our adventures would say it all, as a parable, though no one is certain how to use that knowledge – no one would agree: there are many sorts of people, each different from all the others. Know them, use them, wield them. Be courteous toward them, don’t be one of those tyrants; that class should be eradicated. Life is to grow and learn and leave as much trace as you can. Yet I have not, and I never will, compleatly gain the knowledge of the wonder that is Life.

The End

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DIMITRIJE IGNJATOVIC

Finishing the Unfinished

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Bonus

Finishing the Unfinished By Dimitrije Ignjatovic Wake up, Asky. I cannot do anything without you. The youthful female voice rang round Asky’s head, or inside it, or whatever ... Wake up. Asky did not move an inch. The voice had no visible source. We used to be friends. Asky was a young man of around twenty-seven, darkhaired, around 6 feet tall, pretty thin, with large eyes and a face narrower than usual. Please wake up. He was sleeping calmly on the rock. Aw, wake up. Why are you like this? ‘AARGH! MUM! GOOD LORD, THE DREAM, I WAS – where am I?’ Asky was now awake. Asky ... ? ‘Yes ... ?’ He rubbed his weary eyes. Asky, you are not at home. Asky looked around. ‘Wh—who are you?’ His large bluish-grey eyes were open. Call me Nepenthe. ‘Why have you, or those that named you, chosen that name?’ I kill pain. ‘And where are you, Nepenthe, if that is your real name?’ Wherever there is pain, I am there. I am everywhere, to be in position to argue over everything. Asky got up calmly. I chose to guard you, Asky. The world didn’t look like his own. Long, vast vistas of forests, rocks of which most were half-pellucid. I’m your friend. Green grass completely unlike his own world. Tall green grass. Remember me? Nepenthe is my real name. Lost in the mist, per-

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haps a hundred miles away, there were high, snow-capped, sharp-peaked mountains and very high, snow-capped mesas. Ahead was a long, deep valley, behind was another one. The valley seemed to be surrounding the entire rocky mountain Asky was standing on. We have been separated. He was standing on the rock halfway to the top of the mountain he was standing on. There was no sun in sight, but the sky was a pure cyan. We have to finish the unfinished. ‘What do you mean, separated?’ His voice echoed through the valley. ‘Why can’t I see you?’ Nepenthe’s voice seemed to be lost for about ten seconds, probably until she thinks of what to say, and finds it sure it is not a catchphrase. We were accomplices, Asky. You were in this world before. This is a world just outside your world. I am its mind. You have been called because of the mind that lives in you, Asky. Asky, that is its name. This is Emoticon, the world of the Mind’s feelings. You are to discover your sense of reasoning here. I am the Painkiller. You have been brought here because your mind is overcome with sorrow, Asky. I am the guard-mind of Emoticon. Asky just stood there, sorrowfully looking at the landscape, with sad, inexplicable understanding. Proceed. It will be of no use listening for my voice. It’s up to us to finish the unfinished. It was a tough descent down the mountain, especially when one’s wearing a cape. Asky got off relatively easy except for a cut on his right palm, and his cape was torn, as at one point he had to hang from a tree. ‘Nepenthe?’ he called out, to make sure she’s still with him. ‘Are you here?’ I am a mind. I travel like a ghost, unseen, undamaging, undamaged. ‘And I?’ Asky asked. You are a body with a mind in it. Your mind part is not damaged by bodily injuries.

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To the left is the path to Sorrow. I was written by many that do not know what they think. They were trying to make themselves a guard mind. In Sorrow they ended up. Go on. Proceed. To the right. To the right was a narrow path, cleared from grass that was almost ten feet tall. The air was pleasantly cold and fresh. This is the path to Joy, Asky. Down the grassy path, a country road was opening. The road, unlike the roads of Asky’s home world, was not asphalted. Down the road he was walking down, with Nepenthe as his companion, feeling her protecting him, there was a city. A huge city, primeval or medieval, but without a castle or a moat, just behind that river that, with the country road, made a right angle. Over the river there was a bridge, guarded by a troll. When Asky approached the troll, he stammered, ‘G— good morning? Sir?’ That is a troll, Asky. He is very dumb. ‘Pey me an’ ya my pass!’ said the troll. ‘I’ve no patience ta stand on this damn bridge four oors, an’ then a damn wee ’un has nay smarter than ta poke me wi’ questions! An’ I’m no a good ’un when interrupted in me naps! Pey me five oonces of gauld an’ ya my pass!’ His name is Pushion. ‘P—Pushion?’ Asky paused. ‘Uh, good morning, Pushion.’ ‘Hoo dae ya ken me name? Ach!’ He splashed into the water. The city looked more like a village, with brown-haired men and women, all in vivid-coloured tunics, scuttling around, doing old-fashioned agriculture. ‘Oi sire!’ the young lean man in red tunic, that was ploughing the field just past the bridge with a horse-pulled plough, greeted Asky. ‘What are you doing, in that weird a clothes, strutting round like some upper-class sire who always gets mopey, that Old-sire that rules us, vexes us, oppresses us ... damn it, be free in your strides!’ ‘Why don’t you watch what you’re saying.’ Very good, Asky. He stood for a while. ‘What’s your name, if it can be said in proper speech?’ Asky said. ‘My name is Acanthio,’ the man said.

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‘My name’s Asky,’ Asky said, with a blunt smile, and Acanthio the villager asked, ‘And what do you want, sire?’ ‘I want us, you – ’ He cannot hear me, Asky. ‘Oh, you and me, uh, to find my shattered, scattered reason. My reason is shattered and scattered throughout Emoticon. That’s why I’m here.’ Yes, Asky. You have found the piece of logic. ‘Come with me,’ Asky said. You are still scornful, Asky. Is he a villain to you? ‘D—and do not call me sire. I am a noble man.’ Asky, you can not yet call yourself noble. You are still talking with a great amount of disrespect. ‘Come,’ Asky said. The pub has always smelt of beer and wine, and there was always an ear-piercing noise from the attic. Just gamblers, as Bearskin the bartender told them. Do not order anything for me now, Asky. They cannot see or hear me. Be calm. I am only a mind. ‘Yes, I’d like some apple juice. And, what?’ ‘Acanthio, my friend! Best beer this year, just for you, har har! It’s on me.’ ‘I can’t drink any more,’ said a man in a bronze armour vest over a white tunic and dark green cape. There was a long sword attached to his belt. His shiny whitish-blond hair straggled down to the floor of the pub, but his beard was cut relatively short. ‘I have to stay ready. Will you drink this?’ he asked Asky. ‘I’ll tell you a story about Potent the mighty warrior in exchange.’ Let him speak. His voice was a pleasant tenor. ‘Uh, no, no, I have to stay sober, thank you,’ said Asky. ‘Then no story eh, heh heh,’ said the warrior. ‘By the way, my name’s Thunderwar.’ Thunderwar drank the beer in one swallow. ‘Aargh, who cares.’ Do not fool yourself, Asky. No beer can ease sorrow. ‘Are you sad?’ Asky asked. ‘Ar har, you still got it,’ Thunderwar laughed, ‘my wife died a month ago. Quite a fool, you know.’ ‘You aren’t sad any, I guess?’ It is quite unreasonable to drink when you’re sad. Leave him. He is beer-crazy. ‘Uh, goodbye.’

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‘Goodbye to you too, ar har, bloody thunder war.’ He collapsed. ‘Acanthio,’ said Asky, ‘I can’t stand this place. There are too many drunkards here.’ They left the pub. Acanthio got his mountaineering stick and they proceeded. That was the piece of respect. A reason is very big, maybe big for most to comprehend. Yet it is small enough to stand on a mountain peak. It must not be lonely. Acanthio, though a lowly peasant, looked quite impressive on that bridge that was perpendicular to the bridge through which Asky entered the village, surrounded by that river and tall grass. The bridge was long, but soon they come to a forest, a dark forest of Sorrow. They turn right to a path that is pitch dark, so the trees seem to be moving. No! The trees were actually moving! Asky and Acanthio ran in panic, and ended up at a path by that same river they crossed when exiting the village, but opposite the trees to the right of the bridge. The path continued to a hill, which they climbed by a spiral path. It was obviously inhabited. When they arrived at the top, they found a small temple. There was a sign nearby. Asky read it, quite amazed. ‘What church is that?’ VISITOR, WE ARE NOT HARMFUL. WE ARE THE SERICS, FOLLOWERS OF THE SERICINE, THE CHURCH OF SERIOUSNESS. Acanthio is right. Enter this temple, Asky. It will do you good. An old man in a robe that looked similar to a robe of a Roman Catholic monk, except it was a dark blue, came in front of the temple. He looked at them and coughed. ‘Visitors,’ he said, ‘it appears by the way you’re dressed, child.’ He shook Asky’s hand. Asky felt strange for a moment, then he shook the monk’s hand back. ‘Greetings, child,’ he told Acanthio. ‘You’re from Agricia, aren’t you?’ ‘Yes. We have come in search of Asky’s reason, that’s, er, shattered, and, scattered throughout the world of Emoticon,’ Acanthio said. ‘Um, this is Acanthio, my friend.’

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‘Enter, children. It will be most enjoyable that you can rest here for a while. We seldom get visitors here.’ They entered the temple. Inside, all the furniture was blue. It all, except for the colours, looked like a Roman Catholic chapel, except for a shiny blue floor, a classroomlike structure where the sermon room should be, two chorus rooms above, and an organ room. Inside, the school children, those children in blue robes, with their long blond hair arranged in regular curls, were taught a school song. ‘Whither Science doth us take We shall take our Knowledge on. Oh, olden stories we’d forsake And oh, bid all their trace begone. How, and why, do we preserve Our olden saws that hearts do hit? Oh, this saw we can worship, serve And write it as an endless writ.’ ‘What are they doing?’ Asky asked the priest. ‘They are learning to be priests of Sericine.’ Asky’s attention trailed off. He so wanted to pull one of the children by his or her long hair, to check if it is a wig. I can hear your thoughts, Asky. What you want is scornful and unserious. ‘Oh, and by the way, my name is Wormwood.’ ‘Wormwood?’ said Asky. ‘Yes, Wormwood. That is my guard plant and the reason I joined Sericine.’ Asky just listened. No need to make a smart remark, he felt, not at all. ‘My parents sensed my Seriousness; they knew I would be a good Seric. Mark my words, child: A priest is not ostentatious; woe to those periwig-pated actors who strut across the scene, and bellow to the audience like the worst insulters of humanity. That is unserious and ... and scornful.’ ‘Scornful?’ Asky wondered why Wormwood just repeated Nepenthe’s words from several minutes ago. He cannot hear me, Asky. Only you can.

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‘However, respect is the key, to Seriousness, and to Sericine evenly.’ He glanced across to Asky. ‘I bet,’ Wormwood said, ‘you are well known for asking?’ ‘No ... I don’t change names that quickly. I mean, where do we go if one has to find their lost Reason?’ ‘You will go down the Horswood forest. It is well known that it is full of wild horses. There you can go to a kind man by the name of Rico, who would give you a horse when you tell him a Seric sent you, he was a Seric himself once, he was made a Seric around year 584 after the Serics’ first book was written, that’s ten years ago, so you can expect no jokes from him. He’s a plougher, just like Acanthio. He can tame a horse so it doesn’t neigh even to laugh unless told to. Acanthio, child, do you know how to ride a horse?’ ‘A horse? I guess I can, but he has to be very tame.’ ‘The horses he tames can only go if they can see, so when you arrive at the dark part of the forest, leave the horse there. Acanthio will take the horse back when he goes to return to his village, won’t you, Acanthio?’ ‘Yes, yes I will.’ ‘So, in the dark forest, you will need a lantern. Ask Rico for a lantern, and move carefully. There are dark-hounds in the forest. All they fear is light. When they attack you, flash your lantern round, and they will run away like seriousness from jokes. When you arrive at Whyteton, the town with white houses, ask them for Shillingwise; he is not greedy, but wise about rationing. Now farewell, children, most honoured travellers.’ You have found the piece of serious listening, Asky. He left them. Having nothing else to do, Asky and Acanthio left the temple. The air was pleasant, a refreshment from that of the temple’s air. They turned right and jumped to a limestone below. In the limestone there was a wide hole down to its bottom, letting through the river. They jumped to the ground below, a clearing in an alder wood, where a narrow, branched path was cleared in the tenfoot-tall grass. They went through the forest. The crickets were chirping. There was a soft breeze. The path turned left, where

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the alder wood had already changed into a light lilac forest. To the left of the path, there was a batch of nettles poking out as undergrowth. Acanthio handled the nettle stings pretty well, but Asky got stung on the nettles and with some scratching and attempts to suppress panicking, he moved out. There was a clearing in the lilac forest in which a young woman of about thirty, apparently a maid-servant, was kneeling on the ground looking for something. ‘Hello, visitors,’ she said, rolling the ‘r’ sound just like Wormwood the Seric, except her voice was a bit nasal. ‘Sure yis must be wandering from another country.’ ‘Yes, well, Asky here really looks like a stranger, but one would rarely get visitors here,’ said Acanthio. ‘So what’re you up to?’ ‘I do be collecting shrooms for Master Rico.’ She got up, wiping her dress with her hands. ‘Will yis join me? Me hands be all dirty.’ ‘No, we’re looking for Rico.’ ‘Oh, I be afraid yis do be after missing him,’ she said. ‘Master Rico’s hut bes to the right of this clearing.’ ‘Thank you.’ ‘Bye.’ Asky and Acanthio turned back, then left. There was more grass in this forest. The grass was almost covering the lilacs. They walked on for half an hour, and then the path turned left, and within twenty yards, a huge clearing opened in front of them. In the middle of it, there was a house with a very big horse-stable. There was a man of about thirty-five, with dark brown hair, in a pale red doublet with a frilled neck, burgundy-red knickerbockers, knee-length black boots, meaning he was apparently an Eques. ‘Ahoy Rico!’ Acanthio bellowed. ‘Can you give me another horse?’ ‘Well, Acanthio,’ he said, as Asky and Acanthio approached, ‘if you’re going to have another of my horses for nothing – ’

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But Acanthio replied, ‘Nuh-uh-uh-uh-uh! We have been sent by Wormwood your teacher, a Seric, to transport this stranger here, named Asky, to Whyteton, so he can find his lost Reason.’ ‘Reason?’ said Rico. ‘Right, I’ll give you a horse. But mark you, I do not want you stealing it. Pay me.’ ‘Alright. A twopenny is all I’ve got.’ ‘Right.’ Acanthio gave him a gold coin with a seal that depicted something that looked like a ‘2’. ‘Right,’ said Rico. ‘I will give you a good horse.’ Soon he came back with a palomino horse. ‘Call him Horace.’ ‘Horace?’ Asky repeated. ‘Yes, Horace.’ Rico said. ‘And where can we find a lantern, a rope and two pieces of wood?’ ‘Oh, so you want to go to the dark forest? Here they are!’ He handed them a rather big lantern with a four-inch candle, a longish, firm rope and two small pinewood sticks. Acanthio enclosed the sticks in the lantern for safekeeping. ‘What are we waiting for?’ Asky said. Acanthio shrugged and mounted the horse. ‘Come on, Asky!’ Asky hesitatingly mounted the horse, too, but behind Acanthio. ‘Gee up, Horace!’ shouted Acanthio. The horse started to canter quickly, through the wide path to the left, then through the narrow path to its right, to both sides of which there was an oak forest. Asky felt a pleasant breeze as he and Acanthio rode on the horse as it cantered through the oak forest. At length, they rode past several wild horses that were prancing around among tallish ferns. Asky could barely hold the unlit lantern in his hand as the horse started to gallop through the windy forest that was getting darker and darker. Sometime later the woods became very dark, almost completely dark. They were apparently in a beech forest. They could barely recognise a narrow pathway ahead, narrowed by four rows of beeches around it. The horse sprang up and refused to move any further. Acanthio

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made a noose of the firm rope and tied the horse to a nearby tree. Asky took out the sticks, rubbed one of them against another and thus lit them, then he lit the candle in the lantern with them and put the burning sticks back in the lantern. To prevent a forest fire, he closed the lantern. The fire started very well. They proceeded through the dark forest. Asky was lighting the way. At length, they heard a dreadful growling. Acanthio, apparently, wasn’t scared. Those are the dark-hounds, Asky, said Nepenthe’s voice. They are very dangerous, but they fear the tiniest spark of light. You have your lantern, Asky. They won’t attack you or Acanthio. Asky and Acanthio went on. Asky ignored the growling, as much as it was possible ... until Acanthio stopped in fear, taken aback. A huge monster that looked vaguely like a cross between a large dog and a wolf with huge sharp fangs jumped into the pathway. This is a dark-hound, Asky. Approach him with your lantern. Asky, though a bit frightened, approached the darkhound. ‘ASKY! NO!’ Acanthio screamed, but he couldn’t discourage Asky. ‘Hi, doggy ... ’ Asky said, ‘want some of this?’ He approached the dark-hound with his lantern. The dark-hound gave a high-pitched yelp and ran back. ‘That was a silly risk, Asky!’ Acanthio berated Asky. You have found the piece of bravery. At length, the forest opened up and they beheld a cliff, below which there was a huge town, whose houses were all white. ‘I reckon this is Whyteton.’ But do not just run into danger like that, Asky. Like Acanthio said, that is a silly risk. They descended the peak off the smooth side of the cliff. They crossed the bridge, and found a human guard standing there. He was lean, with shoulder-length blond hair, with a very narrow, expressionless face, in a bronze armour vest over a white tunic, and over his armour vest there was a dark green cape. He was wearing a green hat with a red feather in it.

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‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’ ‘What’s your name, my fellow?’ said Acanthio. ‘We’re travellers. I’m Acanthio, this is Asky, and who are you?’ ‘My name ... is Stallworth.’ ‘Well ... Stallworth ... can you let us through?’ ‘Why should I?’ ‘A Seric sent me, Stallworth. We need to find Asky’s – ’ he pointed to Asky – ‘ shattered, scattered Reason.’ ‘Yes,’ said Asky. ‘A Seric? What’s his name?’ ‘Wormwood?’ ‘Sounds good to me,’ said Stallworth. ‘You may pass.’ The gate guards opened the gate and Asky and Acanthio entered. In Whyteton, every house was white. Between the roads that were of soil that was not covered by sand, even slate, there were farms with tall grass growing at places, and usually crops were grown there. Ahead from where Asky and Acanthio entered Whyteton, was a wooden-framed adobe house with a wooden roof and un-glassed windows, but the adobe was entirely white. A row of red rocks was apparently plastered in near the roof with white adobe. The door was a rectangular wooden door, surrounded by white bricks plastered in with adobe. They went in. Inside, everything was cheap, yet comfortable. There was an old man inside. ‘Hello, foreign visitors,’ he said, ‘how may I help you?’ Before Acanthio could speak, Asky replied, ‘Where is Shillingwise?’ ‘Ho ho, silly foreigner, I am Shillingwise.’ ‘Any advice on saving money?’ ‘If you want to save money, you better not spend every single penny on biscuits. Be modest. I haven’t spent a halfpenny in the last ten days.’ ‘How come?’ ‘I just used the cheaper goods I bought earlier.’ ‘Nice advice. Bye.’ ‘Bye. I have a lot more experience.’

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They left. Asky had remembered. Although he is accustomed now to such a world as this, and delighted by its beauties, he is still from another world. He is only in Emoticon to find his lost sense of reasoning, some of which is shattered and scattered throughout this world. Known as Emoticon. As they went to the right from where they entered, to the gate on that side, Asky said, ‘Acanthio my friend, listen; when we reach the gate, we will part; and I will proceed up the mountain and quest for my Reason alone.’ He proceeded somewhat in front of Acanthio. ‘Come. Although we will part now, we will forever be friends.’ ‘Asky?’ Asky proceeded. Acanthio ran with him. ‘Asky!’ he cried, and followed him. ‘You can have Horace!’ ‘You need me!’ he said, panting, arriving beside Asky. ‘For one more situation.’ He pointed at two guards. The guards had long handled spears that had curved blades projecting at the base of the spearheads. ‘They’ve got partisans.’ It was clear the spears were called partisans or some such. Asky neared the guards, who said ‘Halt!’ ‘Hello,’ Asky said, ‘I want to pass. We’re friends of Stallworth, and we want to go into the mountains.’ ‘What!’ ‘What, are they dangerous?’ ‘No, but behind them is another realm’s territory.’ ‘I won’t go there, then.’ The guard moved. ‘See, I didn’t need you!’ Asky laughed. Asky felt Nepenthe leading him now, and a complete fearlessness. Asky and Acanthio met beside a light birch wood; the breeze was pleasantly cold and fresh. It brought Asky back many memories. ‘You have helped me a lot, Acanthio. You can return to Agricia now. We may now part. I am a bit reluctant, but

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the events here in detail may be of much significance where I am going. Goodbye.’ ‘Farewell, Asky.’ Acanthio said. ‘I will miss you.’ ‘Me too.’ With vague sorrow, Asky watched Acanthio leave. He turned and found himself in front of a tall mountain. He proceeded halfway to its top, when he heard a disembodied, familiar voice. It was Nepenthe. The last and greatest part of your sense of reasoning, and your reason itself, is in you. You just have to grasp it now. Asky suddenly started to put everything together. Emotions, seriousness, careful listening, it all went together. He was now a completely respectful, reasonable, noble, grown man. Well done, Asky. Now, we must part. Asky proceeded to the top of the mountain and found some of the tall grass bent down. There, you will sleep. Asky did not hesitate. He lay down on the grass that felt smoother and cleaner than any grass he’s ever lain on. Sleep, Asky. When you wake up, you will be home again. Home again. With these words, Asky fell asleep and suddenly there was a mess of senses around him. Clarence found himself in the bed of a boarding-school of his home world again. Electric light illuminated him as he opened his eyes. It was all a dream, though he could remember everything in detail. It felt important for some reason. He looked in the mirror. He looked much like Asky, and he was in his university pyjamas. He got up and donned his university’s uniform again. He was at Cambridge University again, and oh no! He was late. He ran to the study room where the classes were beginning; there was a student reading studies. It was Carolyn,

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his long-time love! She had exactly the same voice as Nepenthe ... what could this mean? ‘Oh, it seems Mr Montgomery is late again.’ ‘Carolyn, my nepenthe!’ ‘ ... are not synonymous to – hello, Clarence. Mad as usual?’ ‘The opposite. I’m a reasonable man now.’ The rest of his classes he passed in a grown-up, reasonable manner.

The End

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A Note About the Author Dimitrije Ignjatovic lives in Belgrade, Serbia where he was born in 1989. He writes and translates stories for children. By now he has translated many Serbian folklore tales, and stories and poems by Serbian authors into English, as well as written some stories of his own. Dimitrije Ignjatovic’s current address is: Dimitrije Ignjatovic Dr Ivana Ribara 13 11077 Beograd Republic of Serbia [email protected]