Hogwarts proved to be a moving mass of people in black robes trimmed with different colors, staircases that swung through the air as students climbed or descended, and an enormous hall with four great long tables laid out. The first years were lined up down the center path, which ended at the legendary Sorting Hat of Hogwarts.
It was as grimy and tattered as reputed, with a large rip near the brim, and a pointy tip that was as bent and crooked as an old tomcat's tail. She watched as one student after another was helped up onto the high stool, the Hat was laid on their brow, and seconds later, the name of a House was shouted into the hush, followed by an explosion from one table or another.
Spike remembered Durmstrang's Chalice, and shuddered. At least I don't have to drink from the Hat. Though Totenberg, Dmitri, and Sascha had amused themselves one night by breaking into the Headmaster's Quarters, stealing the Chalice, and drinking cheap wine from it. I wonder how Durmstrang's next Severing is going to go? The Chalice had been joining in the fun by the end, she had heard, singing bawdy songs, and as a drinking mug, it had an enormous repertoire. I wonder if it will be sober by then . . .
Suddenly they were calling her name, or at least a garbled version of it. She decided on the spot that she would use her old family nickname--there shouldn't be any other Spikes to get confused. Not like the reunion picnics, where it was often simpler to use birthplaces or residences to refer to someone. A prickly bunch, us. And then the Hat was over her eyes.
It chuckled gleefully to Itself. "This job hasn't been so easy and obvious since that Malfoy brat--wait. What did you say?"
Spike hadn't said anything, knotted with her worries that something would go wrong and this second chance would be taken away from her after all. The goblet at Durmstrang had hesitated like this, the steam rising turning from silver to green to red to black and then back again, wavering in the air. Looking for something. She felt a wrenching cold in her stomach. "Not again."
"What again?" Images flashed through her mind like cards being shuffled. "Interesting. I see why the Chalice had issues. Well. Mad scientist, or evil genius? Which path are you going to walk, Spike?"
"I'm sorry--"
"You have minions, indeed you do. Good start! And ambition. Plenty of that. You seem to know how to handle that; you'll do well wherever you're Sorted. But it’s a fine line where you walk between the green and the blue. Cunning and clever.” She had the creepy feeling that the toothless, fingerless Hat was tapping its fingers on its front teeth the way the head chef would when agonizing over a menu. Hibiscus or Royal Tokaj for the postprandial, she thought, and bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“Well!” the Hat remarked at last. “It’s a good thing we sort more than once, now. I told Dumbledore that the one and done was a mistake, I told him that people could change from what they were as children, even old children. Got to be . . . Slytherin!!!” Dimly, as the Hat was lifted off her head, Spike could hear cheering from one of the tables.
The Hat winked as she climbed off the stool. “Do me proud, girlie,” it said.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Sunday, March 18, 2012
A Turning Point, Part One
Back up in her rooms, Totenberg was holding his small mistress's hands, trying to warm them. She had gone through the full crash after the immense relief of opening the letter of acceptance to Hogwarts; the stoic mask shattering like porcelain when they returned upstairs to find her trunks deposited on the floor, her writing desk restocked with ink and papers.
He'd stopped her from diving into the trunks and pulling everything back out into it usual magpie's nest by reminding her that everything was packed and ready to travel. "Just a couple of days till term starts. Don' want to pull it all out just to have to put it away again, yah?" Reluctantly, she'd agreed to the wisdom of his proposal, and left most of it put away, although she'd pulled out her wand and slept with it in her hands that first night. He'd watched her breathe from his post by the door, remembering when she'd held a toy that way. Remembering her father and his first wand.
The next three days simultaneously dragged by and went far too quickly. When she woke up in the morning, Spike wondered how she was going to fill the long empty hours of the day, and when it was over and she was finally able to drop into bed, she had no idea where the time had gone. At last, the footmen were loading the last of her trunks onto the carriage of horn, and they were off to England.
The trip was uneventful--people took one look at her sideboys and got out of the way, but they did that everywhere. They had a compartment on the train to themselves, and she noticed some of the students, particularly those with green trim on their robes, seemed to be accompanied by escorts as well. Spike breathed a small sigh of relief. She had heard that Hogwarts wasn't like Durmstang, and had been concerned that she might be utterly separated from her batsmen, told to send them home for the duration, only to see them during term breaks.
When they left the train and found the famous horseless carriages, all three of her body servants stopped and looked long and hard at the front, where the empty harnesses and traces hung.
"That what I t'ink they is?"
"T'ink so. Closer look?"
"Yah." Totenberg stayed behind, at her side, while Sascha and Dmitri slowly approached from the side. Sascha took a lump of sugar out of his pocket -- he was fond of the stuff, and would hoard it given half a chance-- placed it on his open palm, and offered it to the nothing at the head of the carriage. Spike gaped as it suddenly vanished from his hand as if plucked up by soft mobile lips. There's no there there, she thought. How did --
But it was time to board the carriage and ride to the school, with the rest of the first years.
He'd stopped her from diving into the trunks and pulling everything back out into it usual magpie's nest by reminding her that everything was packed and ready to travel. "Just a couple of days till term starts. Don' want to pull it all out just to have to put it away again, yah?" Reluctantly, she'd agreed to the wisdom of his proposal, and left most of it put away, although she'd pulled out her wand and slept with it in her hands that first night. He'd watched her breathe from his post by the door, remembering when she'd held a toy that way. Remembering her father and his first wand.
The next three days simultaneously dragged by and went far too quickly. When she woke up in the morning, Spike wondered how she was going to fill the long empty hours of the day, and when it was over and she was finally able to drop into bed, she had no idea where the time had gone. At last, the footmen were loading the last of her trunks onto the carriage of horn, and they were off to England.
The trip was uneventful--people took one look at her sideboys and got out of the way, but they did that everywhere. They had a compartment on the train to themselves, and she noticed some of the students, particularly those with green trim on their robes, seemed to be accompanied by escorts as well. Spike breathed a small sigh of relief. She had heard that Hogwarts wasn't like Durmstang, and had been concerned that she might be utterly separated from her batsmen, told to send them home for the duration, only to see them during term breaks.
When they left the train and found the famous horseless carriages, all three of her body servants stopped and looked long and hard at the front, where the empty harnesses and traces hung.
"That what I t'ink they is?"
"T'ink so. Closer look?"
"Yah." Totenberg stayed behind, at her side, while Sascha and Dmitri slowly approached from the side. Sascha took a lump of sugar out of his pocket -- he was fond of the stuff, and would hoard it given half a chance-- placed it on his open palm, and offered it to the nothing at the head of the carriage. Spike gaped as it suddenly vanished from his hand as if plucked up by soft mobile lips. There's no there there, she thought. How did --
But it was time to board the carriage and ride to the school, with the rest of the first years.
A Turning Point, Part One
Back up in her rooms, Totenberg was holding his small mistress's hands, trying to warm them. She had gone through the full crash after the immense relief of opening the letter of acceptance to Hogwarts; the stoic mask shattering like porcelain when they returned upstairs to find her trunks deposited on the floor, her writing desk restocked with ink and papers.
He'd stopped her from diving into the trunks and pulling everything back out into it usual magpie's nest by reminding her that everything was packed and ready to travel. "Just a couple of days till term starts. Don' want to pull it all out just to have to put it away again, yah?" Reluctantly, she'd agreed to the wisdom of his proposal, and left most of it put away, although she'd pulled out her wand and slept with it in her hands that first night. He'd watched her breathe from his post by the door, remembering when she'd held a toy that way. Remembering her father and his first wand.
The next three days simultaneously dragged by and went far too quickly. When she woke up in the morning, Spike wondered how she was going to fill the long empty hours of the day, and when it was over and she was finally able to drop into bed, she had no idea where the time had gone. At last, the footmen were loading the last of her trunks onto the carriage of horn, and they were off to England.
The trip was uneventful--people took one look at her sideboys and got out of the way, but they did that everywhere. They had a compartment on the train to themselves, and she noticed some of the students, particularly those with green trim on their robes, seemed to be accompanied by escorts as well. Spike breathed a small sigh of relief. She had heard that Hogwarts wasn't like Durmstang, and had been concerned that she might be utterly separated from her batsmen, told to send them home for the duration, only to see them during term breaks.
When they left the train and found the famous horseless carriages, all three of her body servants stopped and looked long and hard at the front, where the empty harnesses and traces hung.
"That what I t'ink they is?"
"T'ink so. Closer look?"
"Yah." Totenberg stayed behind, at her side, while Sascha and Dmitri slowly approached from the side. Sascha took a lump of sugar out of his pocket -- he was fond of the stuff, and would hoard it given half a chance-- placed it on his open palm, and offered it to the nothing at the head of the carriage. Spike gaped as it suddenly vanished from his hand as if plucked up by soft mobile lips. There's no there there, she thought. How did --
But it was time to board the carriage and ride to the school, with the rest of the first years.
He'd stopped her from diving into the trunks and pulling everything back out into it usual magpie's nest by reminding her that everything was packed and ready to travel. "Just a couple of days till term starts. Don' want to pull it all out just to have to put it away again, yah?" Reluctantly, she'd agreed to the wisdom of his proposal, and left most of it put away, although she'd pulled out her wand and slept with it in her hands that first night. He'd watched her breathe from his post by the door, remembering when she'd held a toy that way. Remembering her father and his first wand.
The next three days simultaneously dragged by and went far too quickly. When she woke up in the morning, Spike wondered how she was going to fill the long empty hours of the day, and when it was over and she was finally able to drop into bed, she had no idea where the time had gone. At last, the footmen were loading the last of her trunks onto the carriage of horn, and they were off to England.
The trip was uneventful--people took one look at her sideboys and got out of the way, but they did that everywhere. They had a compartment on the train to themselves, and she noticed some of the students, particularly those with green trim on their robes, seemed to be accompanied by escorts as well. Spike breathed a small sigh of relief. She had heard that Hogwarts wasn't like Durmstang, and had been concerned that she might be utterly separated from her batsmen, told to send them home for the duration, only to see them during term breaks.
When they left the train and found the famous horseless carriages, all three of her body servants stopped and looked long and hard at the front, where the empty harnesses and traces hung.
"That what I t'ink they is?"
"T'ink so. Closer look?"
"Yah." Totenberg stayed behind, at her side, while Sascha and Dmitri slowly approached from the side. Sascha took a lump of sugar out of his pocket -- he was fond of the stuff, and would hoard it given half a chance-- placed it on his open palm, and offered it to the nothing at the head of the carriage. Spike gaped as it suddenly vanished from his hand as if plucked up by soft mobile lips. There's no there there, she thought. How did --
But it was time to board the carriage and ride to the school, with the rest of the first years.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
A Reluctant Conversation, Part Four
Finally, Spike’s father put a finger under her chin, lifting her face so her eyes met his. Was that a softening? A memory of when he was just learning his way around? "Nischka. Spike. You're a talented witch, and you have the potential to go far with this, even to join the ranks of the great ones someday. Maybe. But you have to be trained, like the hawks have to be trained, like the Hounds have to be trained. Otherwise, you are simply too dangerous--to yourself and to others." He had turned from anger to sorrow, and somehow his sadness was harder to bear than his fury. "And you know what happens when a dog runs mad, when a bear comes down from the woods to forage in the town."
She knew. Was she a mad dog then, slavering at the mouth; a bear grown lazy with the easy pickings on the outskirts? First a dog, then a pig, then a child, they said. Was it first a wall, then a door, then a professor? This was bigger than her father being angry with her, bigger than the punishment he might mete out for disobedience. This was big enough to encompass the whole world. Tears formed in her eyes. "Papa?"
He took her hands in his then, crouching so their heads were even. "I can only protect you so far as my reach extends, my Hounds a little further, maybe. But the job of keeping you safe is going to pass, first and foremost, to you. You must learn how to get a hand on your wild magic, to bring it to heel. To hood and jess it, so when the time is right--and at no other!-- you can set it on its rightful prey, confident that it will return to your glove."
"I understand." And she did; she had liked Durmstrang. The people were challenging, but the work all flowed and made sense. She could feel the movements of the wand in her fingers, and all that she needed was someone to show her the patterns and channels for her magic to follow. Learning to dig ditches, she had called it once, and of course someone had misunderstood, thinking that she meant it was simple manual work, fit for Muggles and peasants. She'd set them straight, of course. Fortunately Durmstrang turned a blind eye to most students' escapades.
“So, with that in mind,” he handed her an envelope sealed with red wax, embossed with a florid capital H, “I think you should open this.”
She knew. Was she a mad dog then, slavering at the mouth; a bear grown lazy with the easy pickings on the outskirts? First a dog, then a pig, then a child, they said. Was it first a wall, then a door, then a professor? This was bigger than her father being angry with her, bigger than the punishment he might mete out for disobedience. This was big enough to encompass the whole world. Tears formed in her eyes. "Papa?"
He took her hands in his then, crouching so their heads were even. "I can only protect you so far as my reach extends, my Hounds a little further, maybe. But the job of keeping you safe is going to pass, first and foremost, to you. You must learn how to get a hand on your wild magic, to bring it to heel. To hood and jess it, so when the time is right--and at no other!-- you can set it on its rightful prey, confident that it will return to your glove."
"I understand." And she did; she had liked Durmstrang. The people were challenging, but the work all flowed and made sense. She could feel the movements of the wand in her fingers, and all that she needed was someone to show her the patterns and channels for her magic to follow. Learning to dig ditches, she had called it once, and of course someone had misunderstood, thinking that she meant it was simple manual work, fit for Muggles and peasants. She'd set them straight, of course. Fortunately Durmstrang turned a blind eye to most students' escapades.
“So, with that in mind,” he handed her an envelope sealed with red wax, embossed with a florid capital H, “I think you should open this.”
Sunday, March 04, 2012
A Reluctant Conversation, Part Three
He began to pace in the narrow chamber, back and forth down the long length of it. “You’re a lucky little witch,” he said, spinning and pointing at her as if cracking a whip. “Lucky that the damages could be restricted to only a few, lucky that Totenberg is insubordinate enough to have been there to help put the fire out. No, don’t start,” he said, as she opened her mouth to explain.
She nodded and hung her head. If he's scolding, then it's not so bad. No one ever died from a tongue-lashing. She braced for him to go on the way he did, pausing to probe for more, coming back to spit acid.
"Haven't you been taught better? Haven't you learned from the Hounds? When a door is shut, you have no way of knowing who's on the other side. That goes for all doors, physical and magical. Make sure you have an ally waiting. But no, the first chance you get, you fling openings to the bottom of the Mandelbrot set wide and shout 'Is there anybody out there?' " He stopped short of yelling the last sentence, but he had raised his voice for the third time in her memory. He stopped, grasping the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache.
"I didn't--"
"Quiet." They listened to the heavy brocaded silence in the chamber for a moment.
Outside in the hallway, Totenberg fished in the breast pocket of his tunic, finally coming out with his tobacco pouch and a sheaf of leathery leaves. He proceeded to roll a cigarillo there in the hallway, fingers surprisingly nimble at their task. The younger of the human guards stepped forward as if to stop him, but the other caught his sleeve and shook his head. Totenberg grinned as he caught a light off the torch in the hallway. Being a Hound had a few privileges.
Including the hearing. The old man had almost lost it for a moment there, but seemed to be regaining control. That's a good thing, he thought. He had served Spike's father, and his father before that, and his father before that, and confidently expected to serve Spike's children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren before he retired. Spike was . . . interesting, though. Interesting in a way that might cut his plans short. We never know, do we?
Sascha watched the operation closely. “You ain’t done that since . . . that night at Durmstrang.”
“Yah.”
“Think it gonna be that bad?”
Totenberg blew a long blue breath at the ceiling, ignoring the pointed glares of the guards nearby. “Dunno. We—“ he motioned to himself and Dmitri, “We can always go back to the hussars. You?” He tapped under his left eye, two quick pecks on the cheekbone. “On horseback? With a projectile or a ray? You almost as dangerous to our side as you are to the enemy.”
Sascha pulled himself up straight, out of the typical Hound’s crouch dictated by anatomy. “Can still fight!”
“Didn’t say you couldn’. Just said you couldn’ ride with us no more.”
Sascha had angled himself to be able to keep watch on both the door and his captain. Now he turned his full attention to the door. Totenberg put a hand on his shoulder.
“We wait.”
She nodded and hung her head. If he's scolding, then it's not so bad. No one ever died from a tongue-lashing. She braced for him to go on the way he did, pausing to probe for more, coming back to spit acid.
"Haven't you been taught better? Haven't you learned from the Hounds? When a door is shut, you have no way of knowing who's on the other side. That goes for all doors, physical and magical. Make sure you have an ally waiting. But no, the first chance you get, you fling openings to the bottom of the Mandelbrot set wide and shout 'Is there anybody out there?' " He stopped short of yelling the last sentence, but he had raised his voice for the third time in her memory. He stopped, grasping the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache.
"I didn't--"
"Quiet." They listened to the heavy brocaded silence in the chamber for a moment.
Outside in the hallway, Totenberg fished in the breast pocket of his tunic, finally coming out with his tobacco pouch and a sheaf of leathery leaves. He proceeded to roll a cigarillo there in the hallway, fingers surprisingly nimble at their task. The younger of the human guards stepped forward as if to stop him, but the other caught his sleeve and shook his head. Totenberg grinned as he caught a light off the torch in the hallway. Being a Hound had a few privileges.
Including the hearing. The old man had almost lost it for a moment there, but seemed to be regaining control. That's a good thing, he thought. He had served Spike's father, and his father before that, and his father before that, and confidently expected to serve Spike's children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren before he retired. Spike was . . . interesting, though. Interesting in a way that might cut his plans short. We never know, do we?
Sascha watched the operation closely. “You ain’t done that since . . . that night at Durmstrang.”
“Yah.”
“Think it gonna be that bad?”
Totenberg blew a long blue breath at the ceiling, ignoring the pointed glares of the guards nearby. “Dunno. We—“ he motioned to himself and Dmitri, “We can always go back to the hussars. You?” He tapped under his left eye, two quick pecks on the cheekbone. “On horseback? With a projectile or a ray? You almost as dangerous to our side as you are to the enemy.”
Sascha pulled himself up straight, out of the typical Hound’s crouch dictated by anatomy. “Can still fight!”
“Didn’t say you couldn’. Just said you couldn’ ride with us no more.”
Sascha had angled himself to be able to keep watch on both the door and his captain. Now he turned his full attention to the door. Totenberg put a hand on his shoulder.
“We wait.”
Sunday, February 26, 2012
A Reluctant Conversation, Part Two
Outside the door to the audience chamber, Spike stood with one hand on the handle. It was harder to be fierce here, with the doors that towered over her and not knowing what was waiting on the other side. The guardsmen had frowned at the Hounds, lowering their polearms. She’d wanted to hug them goodbye, but they’d stepped well back and saluted her. Totenberg nodded once, briskly, as his hand dropped back to his side.
The throne of bones was empty. That could be a good sign, that maybe she’d beaten him here somehow. Or it could be bad, that he’d become impatient with waiting for her and was now pacing the room. She closed the door behind her with a hollow thud.
When she turned around, he was waiting for her there in the gloom. A tall, lean man, dressed all in tightly fitted black from his doublet to hose and boots, with a sleeveless robe trimmed in bearskin that glinted with silver. His head was shaved. He was a man of all or nothing; no half-measures. When his hair had begun to fade and fall, he has simply gotten rid of it all. Even though he was her father, he was mostly a stranger to Spike, like a dour god.
He looked down at Spike with eyes as hard and grey as February. "Nikolevnischka von Schaedelthron," he started, and Spike winced. It was never good when they used your full name. His voice was soft and his cadence slow, like water dripping from an icicle.
"Atyets--Papa! I can explain . . ." She trailed off as he shook his head.
"I'm sure you can. And I'm sure it's a good explanation, and it wasn't your fault." She nodded, mouth dry. "But there comes a time when explanations must end." He held up a slender, pointed hand to stop her from going on in the pause. "And that time, Nischka, is now."
The throne of bones was empty. That could be a good sign, that maybe she’d beaten him here somehow. Or it could be bad, that he’d become impatient with waiting for her and was now pacing the room. She closed the door behind her with a hollow thud.
When she turned around, he was waiting for her there in the gloom. A tall, lean man, dressed all in tightly fitted black from his doublet to hose and boots, with a sleeveless robe trimmed in bearskin that glinted with silver. His head was shaved. He was a man of all or nothing; no half-measures. When his hair had begun to fade and fall, he has simply gotten rid of it all. Even though he was her father, he was mostly a stranger to Spike, like a dour god.
He looked down at Spike with eyes as hard and grey as February. "Nikolevnischka von Schaedelthron," he started, and Spike winced. It was never good when they used your full name. His voice was soft and his cadence slow, like water dripping from an icicle.
"Atyets--Papa! I can explain . . ." She trailed off as he shook his head.
"I'm sure you can. And I'm sure it's a good explanation, and it wasn't your fault." She nodded, mouth dry. "But there comes a time when explanations must end." He held up a slender, pointed hand to stop her from going on in the pause. "And that time, Nischka, is now."
Sunday, February 19, 2012
A Reluctant Conversation, Part One
She walked down the halls and through the corridors flanked by her batmen -- Dmitri to the left, Sascha to the right, and Totenberg behind her. Always, always this arrangement when they walk together so Sascha could keep his blind side to Spike. She could see the melted flesh where it twisted around the silver, mostly hidden by the eyepatch. Hounds were notoriously difficult to kill, so much so that outsiders—those not of the family -- mistook them for werewolves or demons. Sascha had been captured once, years before she was born—before Great-Grandfather was born—and after taking his left eye, they had cauterized the wound with molten silver. It hadn’t worked. Sascha was still walking the earth, and the dagger in his boot had handles of yellowed bone, smooth and cool.
She didn't really see the corridors and the doorways as they walked past. Her mind was utterly consumed by thoughts of the upcoming meeting with her father. Would the headsman be waiting there in the audience chamber, to take her back up the stairs to Nyebaveeshka, the great tower set with the sky? Where she'd be interred in one of the open cells, with three walls and no ceiling, open to the elements on two sides, with a sheer drop across from a barred door. Where she'd have the choice of flying lessons or waiting on her father's pleasure.
When they reached the third floor, Spike glanced out over the balustrade into the small conservatory. The glass ceiling was misty with warmth and humidity from the hot springs. It would smell of roses and summer—it was always summer in there. The glass inner doors were closed to keep the heat in. She stopped for a moment near them, started to reach for the handle.
Sascha stopped her. “No,” was all he said.
“Just for a moment.”
“No. Your atyets, he expect us.”
“But--"
Sascha cocked his head, looking down at her, the silver in his scars winking in the torchlight. "Need to be carried?" They'd done that before, when she was younger and had done something or another to make trouble. Trouble had a way of finding her, no matter how well she tried to hide from it.
"No, but--wait a minute!" Sascha was reaching for her, but he stopped and listened. "Please. Just one minute. Atyets can wait just one minute for us." Her eyes itched with tears, but she swallowed hard to keep them down. "I may never see the gardens again."
Sascha tilted his head towards his captain, standing behind their charge. One minute?
Totenberg frowned, then shrugged. "One minute." He'd take whatever fall came.
Sascha held the door for Spike. "Go--and breathe deep."
She did, head swimming with the perfumes. A hummingbird had found its way inside the gardens at some point that summer, and it flew about her head, scolding, an indignant jewel. She watched it flashing in emerald and ruby as it wheeled around, dive-bombing her. So little and fierce. She squared her shoulders. I can be fierce, too.
She didn't really see the corridors and the doorways as they walked past. Her mind was utterly consumed by thoughts of the upcoming meeting with her father. Would the headsman be waiting there in the audience chamber, to take her back up the stairs to Nyebaveeshka, the great tower set with the sky? Where she'd be interred in one of the open cells, with three walls and no ceiling, open to the elements on two sides, with a sheer drop across from a barred door. Where she'd have the choice of flying lessons or waiting on her father's pleasure.
When they reached the third floor, Spike glanced out over the balustrade into the small conservatory. The glass ceiling was misty with warmth and humidity from the hot springs. It would smell of roses and summer—it was always summer in there. The glass inner doors were closed to keep the heat in. She stopped for a moment near them, started to reach for the handle.
Sascha stopped her. “No,” was all he said.
“Just for a moment.”
“No. Your atyets, he expect us.”
“But--"
Sascha cocked his head, looking down at her, the silver in his scars winking in the torchlight. "Need to be carried?" They'd done that before, when she was younger and had done something or another to make trouble. Trouble had a way of finding her, no matter how well she tried to hide from it.
"No, but--wait a minute!" Sascha was reaching for her, but he stopped and listened. "Please. Just one minute. Atyets can wait just one minute for us." Her eyes itched with tears, but she swallowed hard to keep them down. "I may never see the gardens again."
Sascha tilted his head towards his captain, standing behind their charge. One minute?
Totenberg frowned, then shrugged. "One minute." He'd take whatever fall came.
Sascha held the door for Spike. "Go--and breathe deep."
She did, head swimming with the perfumes. A hummingbird had found its way inside the gardens at some point that summer, and it flew about her head, scolding, an indignant jewel. She watched it flashing in emerald and ruby as it wheeled around, dive-bombing her. So little and fierce. She squared her shoulders. I can be fierce, too.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
A Note Passed, Part Three
He’d saved lives that day, starting with his little mistress. They’d only lost one professor (but he was gone before I even entered the room. He was gone seconds after he traced the lines of the diagram Spike drew, gone even as he started to ask what this was. Turned into a living doorway for a gibbering squamous mass with rolling eyes and gaping maw. One professor, and the student next to him.)
Aloud, he said, "There are other schools. Maybe Beauxbatons--"
Spike sneered. "Charms, Transfiguration, and Hairdressing. I'll blend into that batch of mirror-dazzled half-Veela about as well as black pepper in a cream sauce."
"Not so bad." His accent had thickened since returning home, back to its half-drawling growl. Vowels drawn out and bent sideways, consonants like stones dropped down a well. No one else talked like that, no one but the Hounds. She'd wondered before if it was a result of their physiology, or if it was a matter of tribal identity. They had little else in common, those created monsters of her father's private army. "Power come from more than one source."
Spike sighed. He had a point. She hated it when he had a point. That point always seemed to be attached to the petard she was hoist upon. "And Hogwarts. Home to the Boys Who Were Over-Rated and the Girls Who Were Wallpaper."
He snorted derision at that. "Not so bad, I tell you." Hydellhyu, like the sound the wind made around the spires in the early spring. "Other schools, they founded by one witch or wizard, they focus on one thing. Monomaniacal, one could say. Hogwarts founded by four, who joined as a team. Reinforce each other's weaknesses, see different values. Diversity, yah?"
"I guess . . ." But did she really want to go to Hogwarts--assuming she was accepted, that was. There was always the Americas, much newer, much less well-known, making its name based on a heavily Muggle-influenced branch of magics. They use clockwork and steam there, she marveled, recalling what she had heard about the Iveagh League. Clockwork gears and boilers and fire and water harnessed to the will of the witch or wizard. There was diversity, calling on elementals to do your bidding.
But, on the other hand, so far away. It was a long flight from America by broom, and she wouldn't be able to Apparate for some time yet. Maybe she could take Muggle transportation--could one drive from America? Is a car waterproof? She would have to look that up. She started to go to the bookshelf to do some research, and then remembered for the hundredth time that day that she had no books. No philosophical engine, no connection at all to the world beyond her bedroom door.
"Would you ask Dmitri--" and then someone was clapping softly for entrance. Spike felt the pit of her stomach freeze over at the sound. The headsman. Had to be. She had been the heir, and had suddenly been demoted to the spare. No sense in keeping her around. Her hands were numb again, she felt the tingling in her lower back, adrenaline bee stings as she leaped to her feet, whirling and diving for cover under the bed. Totenberg was fast, but by the grace of the good Bear she was faster. His claws caught and ripped the leg of her pants just over her boot as he grabbed, but she was under the bed on her belly and scrabbling into a tight ball at the headboard by the time he caught back up to her.
"Vat de--"
"Headsman." She was panting, unable to catch her breath, shaking. "Atyets's sent the headsman for me and--" She couldn't finish. The block will be cold, this time of year, she thought, cold and frosted over like the boards of the stage. Or will Atyets have them use a sword instead, for a quicker, cleaner end? Will he convene the village as a public lesson, or keep it a private, family matter?
Totenberg arose from his crouch at the foot. "Don't be silly. Headsman wouldn't clap--he'd just order Dmitri and Sascha out of his way and come for you."
"And you'd--"
"I'd do what I had to do," he replied over his shoulder as he swung the door open. She could see Dmitri's boots in the corridor, and high up near the lintel, a slice of Sascha's red-gold hair. She couldn't hear what the one Hound said to the other, but Totenberg was nodding and coming back for her, all too soon, leaving the door ajar.
"Is time, little mistress. You papa, he say come now."
Aloud, he said, "There are other schools. Maybe Beauxbatons--"
Spike sneered. "Charms, Transfiguration, and Hairdressing. I'll blend into that batch of mirror-dazzled half-Veela about as well as black pepper in a cream sauce."
"Not so bad." His accent had thickened since returning home, back to its half-drawling growl. Vowels drawn out and bent sideways, consonants like stones dropped down a well. No one else talked like that, no one but the Hounds. She'd wondered before if it was a result of their physiology, or if it was a matter of tribal identity. They had little else in common, those created monsters of her father's private army. "Power come from more than one source."
Spike sighed. He had a point. She hated it when he had a point. That point always seemed to be attached to the petard she was hoist upon. "And Hogwarts. Home to the Boys Who Were Over-Rated and the Girls Who Were Wallpaper."
He snorted derision at that. "Not so bad, I tell you." Hydellhyu, like the sound the wind made around the spires in the early spring. "Other schools, they founded by one witch or wizard, they focus on one thing. Monomaniacal, one could say. Hogwarts founded by four, who joined as a team. Reinforce each other's weaknesses, see different values. Diversity, yah?"
"I guess . . ." But did she really want to go to Hogwarts--assuming she was accepted, that was. There was always the Americas, much newer, much less well-known, making its name based on a heavily Muggle-influenced branch of magics. They use clockwork and steam there, she marveled, recalling what she had heard about the Iveagh League. Clockwork gears and boilers and fire and water harnessed to the will of the witch or wizard. There was diversity, calling on elementals to do your bidding.
But, on the other hand, so far away. It was a long flight from America by broom, and she wouldn't be able to Apparate for some time yet. Maybe she could take Muggle transportation--could one drive from America? Is a car waterproof? She would have to look that up. She started to go to the bookshelf to do some research, and then remembered for the hundredth time that day that she had no books. No philosophical engine, no connection at all to the world beyond her bedroom door.
"Would you ask Dmitri--" and then someone was clapping softly for entrance. Spike felt the pit of her stomach freeze over at the sound. The headsman. Had to be. She had been the heir, and had suddenly been demoted to the spare. No sense in keeping her around. Her hands were numb again, she felt the tingling in her lower back, adrenaline bee stings as she leaped to her feet, whirling and diving for cover under the bed. Totenberg was fast, but by the grace of the good Bear she was faster. His claws caught and ripped the leg of her pants just over her boot as he grabbed, but she was under the bed on her belly and scrabbling into a tight ball at the headboard by the time he caught back up to her.
"Vat de--"
"Headsman." She was panting, unable to catch her breath, shaking. "Atyets's sent the headsman for me and--" She couldn't finish. The block will be cold, this time of year, she thought, cold and frosted over like the boards of the stage. Or will Atyets have them use a sword instead, for a quicker, cleaner end? Will he convene the village as a public lesson, or keep it a private, family matter?
Totenberg arose from his crouch at the foot. "Don't be silly. Headsman wouldn't clap--he'd just order Dmitri and Sascha out of his way and come for you."
"And you'd--"
"I'd do what I had to do," he replied over his shoulder as he swung the door open. She could see Dmitri's boots in the corridor, and high up near the lintel, a slice of Sascha's red-gold hair. She couldn't hear what the one Hound said to the other, but Totenberg was nodding and coming back for her, all too soon, leaving the door ajar.
"Is time, little mistress. You papa, he say come now."
Sunday, February 05, 2012
A Note Passed, Part Two
Her monstrous bodyguard, seven feet of lean muscle, pointed ears and sharp white teeth. He pulled his black and silver hair back in a braid that fell almost to his boot tops when it dangled free, pooled on the floor as he crouched beside her there by the fire. The light glinted off the sleek dark fur covering his face, long limbs coiled under him as he squatted. Longer fur peeked out from under the cuffs at his wrists. He looked like one of Atyets’s mastiffs given the ability to stand upright and the power of speech. Legs sleekly muscled, spatulate palms with long claw-tipped fingers. The better to chase you with, my dear, the better to catch you with.
Spike sighed. “It’s just not fair,” she mumbled. It was becoming her mantra, it seemed. He made some noise of encouragement, and she went on.
“It’s not fair. Worse than that happened, and they weren’t kicked out—“
“Was students to students. Survival of the fittest.”
“But still! It wasn't my fault." She looked up at him now. How could she tell it in a way that he'd understand, would intercede with Atyets on her behalf. "I'd had an Idea in Arithmancy, one of those that I get sometimes--"
He knew about his mistress's Ideas; they all did. Often diving for cover when she started with the quill and parchment, scribbling away, fire in her eyes and ink in her hair. They'd taken turns spoon feeding her while she was in the middle of inspiration, keeping a careful watch over her, waiting for the moment when it was wiser to take the implements of creation out of her hands and quickly distract her. They'd gone through most of the barracks card games by now, time to teach her Arimaa.
And he'd missed this one. Minions weren't allowed in classes. He'd had a quiet word with the headmaster, explaining that Spike wasn't quite like the other students; that her talents were . . . a little wild sometimes. His eyes flicked to the tapestry that covered the north wall and the scars still in the stone from that incident what Spike was two and just getting a handle on speech. She'd gotten frustrated, grabbed a length of wood, swish and flick, and--sometimes he could still hear the voices humming and whispering, muffled only slightly by the tapestry.
For his efforts, all Totenberg had received was a patronizing lecture on how all of Durmstrang's students were among the exceptionally gifted, of course, and that the staff had plenty of experience handling all the situations that might arise. He should go and wait in the dormitory with the other minions; everything was going to be just fine.
He wondered how the headmaster had explained--call a spade a spade--covered up the incident in Arithmancy.
"So I was writing a note -- to myself! For later! And when I was done with the diagram, I was folding it up, and suddenly he was there by my elbow, demanding I give him that piece of parchment. He was going to read it out loud to the class."
Totenberg could see it now, the vulturous Arithmancy professor, with his long neck hunched into his narrow shoulders looming up behind Spike as she sketched and labeled her Idea. How he’d looked down his nose and cawed a demand that she hand it over, this tiny new Idea that she was hammering down to explore further. How she’d have looked up, blinking and returning to the world outside her head. Corbidius would have taken that for guilt, most likely.
Then the blood on the walls and the screaming. He’d not confined himself to the dormitory, despite the headmaster’s demands, nor had he insisted that Sascha and Dmitri do the same. So after the professor had been forcibly evicted from his body by the being that he had unwittingly opened a gateway to, Totenberg had been waiting in the hallway, where he could kick the door in and go help, rather than a solid klick away, behind many sets of doors and stairs.
Spike sighed. “It’s just not fair,” she mumbled. It was becoming her mantra, it seemed. He made some noise of encouragement, and she went on.
“It’s not fair. Worse than that happened, and they weren’t kicked out—“
“Was students to students. Survival of the fittest.”
“But still! It wasn't my fault." She looked up at him now. How could she tell it in a way that he'd understand, would intercede with Atyets on her behalf. "I'd had an Idea in Arithmancy, one of those that I get sometimes--"
He knew about his mistress's Ideas; they all did. Often diving for cover when she started with the quill and parchment, scribbling away, fire in her eyes and ink in her hair. They'd taken turns spoon feeding her while she was in the middle of inspiration, keeping a careful watch over her, waiting for the moment when it was wiser to take the implements of creation out of her hands and quickly distract her. They'd gone through most of the barracks card games by now, time to teach her Arimaa.
And he'd missed this one. Minions weren't allowed in classes. He'd had a quiet word with the headmaster, explaining that Spike wasn't quite like the other students; that her talents were . . . a little wild sometimes. His eyes flicked to the tapestry that covered the north wall and the scars still in the stone from that incident what Spike was two and just getting a handle on speech. She'd gotten frustrated, grabbed a length of wood, swish and flick, and--sometimes he could still hear the voices humming and whispering, muffled only slightly by the tapestry.
For his efforts, all Totenberg had received was a patronizing lecture on how all of Durmstrang's students were among the exceptionally gifted, of course, and that the staff had plenty of experience handling all the situations that might arise. He should go and wait in the dormitory with the other minions; everything was going to be just fine.
He wondered how the headmaster had explained--call a spade a spade--covered up the incident in Arithmancy.
"So I was writing a note -- to myself! For later! And when I was done with the diagram, I was folding it up, and suddenly he was there by my elbow, demanding I give him that piece of parchment. He was going to read it out loud to the class."
Totenberg could see it now, the vulturous Arithmancy professor, with his long neck hunched into his narrow shoulders looming up behind Spike as she sketched and labeled her Idea. How he’d looked down his nose and cawed a demand that she hand it over, this tiny new Idea that she was hammering down to explore further. How she’d have looked up, blinking and returning to the world outside her head. Corbidius would have taken that for guilt, most likely.
Then the blood on the walls and the screaming. He’d not confined himself to the dormitory, despite the headmaster’s demands, nor had he insisted that Sascha and Dmitri do the same. So after the professor had been forcibly evicted from his body by the being that he had unwittingly opened a gateway to, Totenberg had been waiting in the hallway, where he could kick the door in and go help, rather than a solid klick away, behind many sets of doors and stairs.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
A Note Passed, Part One
The trip home had been a distinct and painful contrast to the trip away. Spike could see the carriage of horn in the embers, imagine it riding up the mountain on which Schadelthron perched, talons sunk deep into the rock. If I lean in and look closely enough, she wondered, will I see me in the carriage, Dmitri driving and Sascha next to him? Totenberg facing the rear with me, making sure I don't call for a stop and then run?
It had been a warm and sunny fall afternoon, riding out, the leaves crisp in the blue tinted air, the sun a lemon drop. Sweet with remembered summer, sour with the tang of winter to come. Everything new--new books, fresh parchment, ink stoppered in clean glass bottles like liquid jewels of crimson, sapphire, and jade. And black, lots of matte fuligin for the final drafts. Bone black. New made clothes with the family crest discreetly displayed on the left breast. A rainbow of new livery for her batsmen in brown and silver, purple and gold, black on black on black for best. All of it folded with thyme and rosemary to keep it fresh and sweet until it was worn.
She had been so excited. Accepted to Durmstrang, the school that swum, changing locations from day to day. Never rooted, unlike Schadelthron which had been carved out of the mountain's very bones, with its back against the river. Nunquam verto, the motto of her family. Hard to retreat with the cliff at your back and the river far below. Nunquam trado, it should have been. Except Great-great-great however many greats grandfather hadn't been much of a one for Latin. Just because he had a dim view of the Caesar clan.
And then the ride back. There hadn't actually been shouting peasants with torches and pitchforks, but she felt the ignominy of having to flee, and knowing that she was fleeing from one bad situation to the next. It didn't help that she was returning home; home wasn't any safer than the wide world. But where else could she have gone? An untrained witch was a danger to herself as much as to others, and even if she and her bodyguards had gone rogue and preyed off the land and the folk who scrabbled a hard living from it, they wouldn't have lasted long before being hunted back down.
That would have been something to see, the Hounds going from hunter to hunted. Preferably from far enough away that her own tender hide wasn't involved in the process. Totenberg laid one hand across her shoulders. "What you thinking?"
“What do you think?”
“Think you shouldn’t answer a question with a question.” Spike scowled at the fire, she could hear the grin in his voice. Her batman, her sideboy, one of the three who had watched over her since; well, since forever, as far as she was concerned. She had never been afraid of the dark because the worst possible thing, the boogeyman that other parents used to scare their children with was there in the dark with her, keeping watch as she slept.
It had been a warm and sunny fall afternoon, riding out, the leaves crisp in the blue tinted air, the sun a lemon drop. Sweet with remembered summer, sour with the tang of winter to come. Everything new--new books, fresh parchment, ink stoppered in clean glass bottles like liquid jewels of crimson, sapphire, and jade. And black, lots of matte fuligin for the final drafts. Bone black. New made clothes with the family crest discreetly displayed on the left breast. A rainbow of new livery for her batsmen in brown and silver, purple and gold, black on black on black for best. All of it folded with thyme and rosemary to keep it fresh and sweet until it was worn.
She had been so excited. Accepted to Durmstrang, the school that swum, changing locations from day to day. Never rooted, unlike Schadelthron which had been carved out of the mountain's very bones, with its back against the river. Nunquam verto, the motto of her family. Hard to retreat with the cliff at your back and the river far below. Nunquam trado, it should have been. Except Great-great-great however many greats grandfather hadn't been much of a one for Latin. Just because he had a dim view of the Caesar clan.
And then the ride back. There hadn't actually been shouting peasants with torches and pitchforks, but she felt the ignominy of having to flee, and knowing that she was fleeing from one bad situation to the next. It didn't help that she was returning home; home wasn't any safer than the wide world. But where else could she have gone? An untrained witch was a danger to herself as much as to others, and even if she and her bodyguards had gone rogue and preyed off the land and the folk who scrabbled a hard living from it, they wouldn't have lasted long before being hunted back down.
That would have been something to see, the Hounds going from hunter to hunted. Preferably from far enough away that her own tender hide wasn't involved in the process. Totenberg laid one hand across her shoulders. "What you thinking?"
“What do you think?”
“Think you shouldn’t answer a question with a question.” Spike scowled at the fire, she could hear the grin in his voice. Her batman, her sideboy, one of the three who had watched over her since; well, since forever, as far as she was concerned. She had never been afraid of the dark because the worst possible thing, the boogeyman that other parents used to scare their children with was there in the dark with her, keeping watch as she slept.
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Returning Home
The wind hissed through the teeth of the bars, promising sleet or snow in its whispers. Spike stood in front of the barred window, hair skirling in the breeze. Her fingers were numb and white on the ironwork. It was going to hurt when she finally closed the windows again, drew the shutters, and sat by the fire. She didn't care. It couldn't hurt worse than the heartbreak she felt right now.
She'd been contemplating the rocks down below, far down enough to look like nothing but crushed velvet texture. She'd hiked along them before in summer, with the spume from the ocean splashing up around her, foam flying off the jagged crags. No doubt, that's why they'd had the bars installed before she came home; in case she decided to try any flying lessons.
Not that she'd get far. She glanced over her shoulder. Her bodyguard, recently pressed into service as her jailer, lounged against the wall by the door. He looked relaxed, slouched easily and loosely, arms folded, one foot up against the wall, but his eyes missed nothing. When she'd opened the windows, he'd shivered to alertness, ears pricked forward, weight shifting forward, ready to tackle her and bring her to the floor--then he'd seen the frosty iron and relaxed again.
There was still rock dust in the craters holding the bars in place. They must have had them put in the moment they received word that she was coming home again in disgrace. She put her forehead against them, between them, as if measuring to see if her head will fit. Rule of the cat, if your head will fit, your body will fit. Totenberg must have had the same thought; she heard the sole of his boot scuff as he peeled off the wall and started across the room.
"I'm closing up," she said loudly, shutting the window and then barring the shutters back over it. She sat down by the fire, on the wooden stool with the one short leg, tucking her hands into her armpits to thaw slowly. They went from numb to tingling to burning and throbbing as she sat staring into the coals. Her whole world had been reduced to this. The fire, the window, and bed.
Her books were gone, her papers were gone. No ink, no parchment. They had even taken her wand. And she had no idea what was coming; whether she would be quietly moved off to another estate somewhere in the backwaters to learn another trade, whether she would be ensconced in the upper floors of the Tower, in one of the rooms without walls, or if all would be forgiven somehow.
She hoped it would be the last of the three options, slim though that hope was. She was only the first in line by an accident of birth, being the eldest--but a girl. The next child had been a starchild, never drawing breath, but then came her younger brother. Her grasp on the throne of bones had been tenuous but firm, and now it was all slipping away.
"It wasn't my fault," she protested out loud for what had to be the hundredth time that day. "I didn't do it on purpose, why can't they see that?" Totenberg didn't answer; he'd already said everything he had to say on that matter on the ride back to Schadelthron.
She'd been contemplating the rocks down below, far down enough to look like nothing but crushed velvet texture. She'd hiked along them before in summer, with the spume from the ocean splashing up around her, foam flying off the jagged crags. No doubt, that's why they'd had the bars installed before she came home; in case she decided to try any flying lessons.
Not that she'd get far. She glanced over her shoulder. Her bodyguard, recently pressed into service as her jailer, lounged against the wall by the door. He looked relaxed, slouched easily and loosely, arms folded, one foot up against the wall, but his eyes missed nothing. When she'd opened the windows, he'd shivered to alertness, ears pricked forward, weight shifting forward, ready to tackle her and bring her to the floor--then he'd seen the frosty iron and relaxed again.
There was still rock dust in the craters holding the bars in place. They must have had them put in the moment they received word that she was coming home again in disgrace. She put her forehead against them, between them, as if measuring to see if her head will fit. Rule of the cat, if your head will fit, your body will fit. Totenberg must have had the same thought; she heard the sole of his boot scuff as he peeled off the wall and started across the room.
"I'm closing up," she said loudly, shutting the window and then barring the shutters back over it. She sat down by the fire, on the wooden stool with the one short leg, tucking her hands into her armpits to thaw slowly. They went from numb to tingling to burning and throbbing as she sat staring into the coals. Her whole world had been reduced to this. The fire, the window, and bed.
Her books were gone, her papers were gone. No ink, no parchment. They had even taken her wand. And she had no idea what was coming; whether she would be quietly moved off to another estate somewhere in the backwaters to learn another trade, whether she would be ensconced in the upper floors of the Tower, in one of the rooms without walls, or if all would be forgiven somehow.
She hoped it would be the last of the three options, slim though that hope was. She was only the first in line by an accident of birth, being the eldest--but a girl. The next child had been a starchild, never drawing breath, but then came her younger brother. Her grasp on the throne of bones had been tenuous but firm, and now it was all slipping away.
"It wasn't my fault," she protested out loud for what had to be the hundredth time that day. "I didn't do it on purpose, why can't they see that?" Totenberg didn't answer; he'd already said everything he had to say on that matter on the ride back to Schadelthron.
Sunday, January 15, 2012
More Rice
Second part of the second part, now. With me so far?
On Ravelry, there are many groups who all share the commonality of fiber and crafting--specifically spinning, dyeing, knitting, crocheting, and weaving. Some are groups for fans of particular designers, some are groups based on location, and some are groups that focus on a particular type of craft. Lace knitting is fairly popular.
And then there are the crossover folks, the people who are fans of the Tour de France and knitting, the people who love beer and weaving, and yes, MMORPG1 fans who crochet while waiting for the browser to refresh already. As you may imagine, there are more than a few people who are science fiction and fantasy fans prowling around the board in places like the Ankh-Morpork Knitter's Guild.
Most of my knitting mojo has been directed at Ravelry, and one group in particular: the Harry Potter Knit and Crochet House Cup. As you may gather from the name of the group, the focus is on fans of Ms. Rowling’s seminal work.
I’ve described it to my Muggle friends as a group for competitive knitting or knitting as an extreme sport, but of course, there’s more to it than that. Given its composition of fiction fanatics, it has taken on a flavor of its own; more like a LARP2 played via text message, which actually results in projects being made in accordance with prompted guidelines.
Of course, me being me, I’ve worked out a whole character arc, including backstory nuggets that I stumble across every so often, and I know a large chunk of where this is going. So whenever I respond to a prompt with a picture of what I was inspired to create, I’ll add some flavor by building a story around it.
Which brings us down to the last few pairs of socks and underpants.
Most of my happyfunstuffs ends up on Ravelry. I’d invite you all to follow me over there, but I’m betting that those of you on the fiber spectrum are either (a) already there, or (b) not interested at all. Those of you who are not fiber geeks have no reason to be there.
So the mountain simply must come to Mohammed. Or, in other words, I’ll leverage my creative fun, and post photos and stories here, in the order they were created.
I’ll tag this series with HPKC, so those of you interested in following along can do so. After all, this was originally created as a place to share stories and projects, like a bento box of topics. We’re just adding some more rice. And a Hello Kitty with soybean eyes and a Spam hairbow.
There will still be big things, like death, disease, and loss, and they’ll make guest appearances here on the same arbitrary schedule you’ve come to know and love. Meanwhile, it makes me happy to know thatmy deathless prose Spike’s stories will all be sitting right here.
1. Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game
2. Live Action Roleplaying Game
On Ravelry, there are many groups who all share the commonality of fiber and crafting--specifically spinning, dyeing, knitting, crocheting, and weaving. Some are groups for fans of particular designers, some are groups based on location, and some are groups that focus on a particular type of craft. Lace knitting is fairly popular.
And then there are the crossover folks, the people who are fans of the Tour de France and knitting, the people who love beer and weaving, and yes, MMORPG1 fans who crochet while waiting for the browser to refresh already. As you may imagine, there are more than a few people who are science fiction and fantasy fans prowling around the board in places like the Ankh-Morpork Knitter's Guild.
Most of my knitting mojo has been directed at Ravelry, and one group in particular: the Harry Potter Knit and Crochet House Cup. As you may gather from the name of the group, the focus is on fans of Ms. Rowling’s seminal work.
I’ve described it to my Muggle friends as a group for competitive knitting or knitting as an extreme sport, but of course, there’s more to it than that. Given its composition of fiction fanatics, it has taken on a flavor of its own; more like a LARP2 played via text message, which actually results in projects being made in accordance with prompted guidelines.
Of course, me being me, I’ve worked out a whole character arc, including backstory nuggets that I stumble across every so often, and I know a large chunk of where this is going. So whenever I respond to a prompt with a picture of what I was inspired to create, I’ll add some flavor by building a story around it.
Which brings us down to the last few pairs of socks and underpants.
Most of my happyfunstuffs ends up on Ravelry. I’d invite you all to follow me over there, but I’m betting that those of you on the fiber spectrum are either (a) already there, or (b) not interested at all. Those of you who are not fiber geeks have no reason to be there.
So the mountain simply must come to Mohammed. Or, in other words, I’ll leverage my creative fun, and post photos and stories here, in the order they were created.
I’ll tag this series with HPKC, so those of you interested in following along can do so. After all, this was originally created as a place to share stories and projects, like a bento box of topics. We’re just adding some more rice. And a Hello Kitty with soybean eyes and a Spam hairbow.
There will still be big things, like death, disease, and loss, and they’ll make guest appearances here on the same arbitrary schedule you’ve come to know and love. Meanwhile, it makes me happy to know that
1. Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game
2. Live Action Roleplaying Game
Sunday, January 08, 2012
Socks and Underpants
I keep my promises, really I do. Here's the second part. Or rather, the first part of the second part. Trust me a little longer?
The Internet is primarily a place of gathering and tribes. It is a vast plain studded liberally with watering holes. Where there were once a few great lakes (and if you don't like the water, too bad) there are now thousands of ponds for people to gather at. It is no longer an issue of finding a few likeminded people in your hometown to discuss your shared tastes with; the Internet has a place for virtually everything.
Including knitters and fiber artists.
Enter Ravelry, a combination social media and database site. I know, it sounds like about as much fun as watching painted grass grow. But see, this is a place where I can crack the joke about the Dungeon Master who's knitting a stochastic cabled garment, and is putting the fear into her players by pointing at random someones down the table and asking them to roll. "Uh, twelve?" The DM consults the chart, makes a left twist cable, smiles, and says, "Thanks," while all the players do the "deer in the headlights" look. And by the time they bash the balrog, the DM has a nice new pair of wool socks to keep her toes cozy at the table.
And people get it. Get it because they are gamer geeks and fiber freaks, and one or two will drop a line back about how they are implementing this plan for next Saturday's game. (And a few more who post a picture of Beavis with the caption, "Heh-heh! You said 'stochastic!' Heh-heh-heh!!")
The Internet is primarily a place of gathering and tribes. It is a vast plain studded liberally with watering holes. Where there were once a few great lakes (and if you don't like the water, too bad) there are now thousands of ponds for people to gather at. It is no longer an issue of finding a few likeminded people in your hometown to discuss your shared tastes with; the Internet has a place for virtually everything.
Including knitters and fiber artists.
Enter Ravelry, a combination social media and database site. I know, it sounds like about as much fun as watching painted grass grow. But see, this is a place where I can crack the joke about the Dungeon Master who's knitting a stochastic cabled garment, and is putting the fear into her players by pointing at random someones down the table and asking them to roll. "Uh, twelve?" The DM consults the chart, makes a left twist cable, smiles, and says, "Thanks," while all the players do the "deer in the headlights" look. And by the time they bash the balrog, the DM has a nice new pair of wool socks to keep her toes cozy at the table.
And people get it. Get it because they are gamer geeks and fiber freaks, and one or two will drop a line back about how they are implementing this plan for next Saturday's game. (And a few more who post a picture of Beavis with the caption, "Heh-heh! You said 'stochastic!' Heh-heh-heh!!")
Sunday, January 01, 2012
Unpacking
I stole this metaphor from Lois McMaster Bujold and her Vorkorsigan series. If you're going to crib, crib from the best, yes? Her protagonist has a mind like a bag of cats--the strings loosen, and all the words rush out. He's so busy with getting everything out there where it can be seen that he often forgets the conventions of communication, i.e., that the receiver cannot always see the pattern that seems so very obvious to the speaker.
So often, several times per book often, Bujold will have him stop and mutter "Unpack." as a reminder to himself that the fractal he's developing may be intuitive, obvious, and painfully clear to him; but he lost the listener several iterations back. Why burlap? How can we obtain herring? And what does this have to do with a plan to wrest control of the space station back from the villains?
So. Unpack.
I've been dying to share some of this with my audience, but I need to take a deep breath and step back and, well, unpack so you can see the coolativity of what I've been up to while I've been away.
To begin with, this is all Xerhino's fault.
I have multiple blogs, this one here that anyone can find, another one tucked away that only gets updated under a full moon when I sacrifice a black goat over the keyboard, and a mindwipe journal on LiveJournal where I stick stuff I don't need now, but would like to have handy sometime. Think of it like a ten year old's pockets after walking on the beach, full of shells, pebbles that turn bright colors when wet, and bits of sea glass worn to frosty velvet drops.
And, see, Xerhino is on LiveJournal.
So every time I trot over there to deposit the latest bit of treasure, I'll get a note that he saw I'd updated, and hey howdy, what's going on, and will I post a picture of the driftwood Zozobra I'm building in his fair isle sweater? Xerhino has never seen a sweater for a fifty-foot flaming statue, and is curious.
So there's the first part, multiple blogs, and this is my project blog.
Which you'll probably note, has been awful empty of late.
It's not that I'm not knitting; it's that I've, er, been unfaithful. But I promise -- pinkyswear promise-- to mend my evil ways.
Next week.
So often, several times per book often, Bujold will have him stop and mutter "Unpack." as a reminder to himself that the fractal he's developing may be intuitive, obvious, and painfully clear to him; but he lost the listener several iterations back. Why burlap? How can we obtain herring? And what does this have to do with a plan to wrest control of the space station back from the villains?
So. Unpack.
I've been dying to share some of this with my audience, but I need to take a deep breath and step back and, well, unpack so you can see the coolativity of what I've been up to while I've been away.
To begin with, this is all Xerhino's fault.
I have multiple blogs, this one here that anyone can find, another one tucked away that only gets updated under a full moon when I sacrifice a black goat over the keyboard, and a mindwipe journal on LiveJournal where I stick stuff I don't need now, but would like to have handy sometime. Think of it like a ten year old's pockets after walking on the beach, full of shells, pebbles that turn bright colors when wet, and bits of sea glass worn to frosty velvet drops.
And, see, Xerhino is on LiveJournal.
So every time I trot over there to deposit the latest bit of treasure, I'll get a note that he saw I'd updated, and hey howdy, what's going on, and will I post a picture of the driftwood Zozobra I'm building in his fair isle sweater? Xerhino has never seen a sweater for a fifty-foot flaming statue, and is curious.
So there's the first part, multiple blogs, and this is my project blog.
Which you'll probably note, has been awful empty of late.
It's not that I'm not knitting; it's that I've, er, been unfaithful. But I promise -- pinkyswear promise-- to mend my evil ways.
Next week.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Proving a Negative
So a moment ago I'm thinking fine proud strong thoughts like "start over" and "you can't break me" and about discovery of self and shadow light and dark and woo and woo and woo. and then I log in here, and watch the pigeons fly, leaving the square totally empty except for a few feathers falling from the sky.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
It's the same thing driving to work, thinking about this and that and how these things would make an excellent piece for seven hundred and fifty words, how I could probably get a whole string out of this and then I park the car and log in and sign in and the lights go out as soon as the screen comes up.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
And when I lost a day here I started over, and heaven only knows how many times in my life I started over. During the great collapse of ought whenever it was, where I lost two novels and all my short fiction to date, when I moved to Arizona and abandoned everything on my folks' computer (yes, Virginia, there once was a time, long long ago, when we did not have thumb drives, when the best we could do was floppy discs, and no, I didn't manage to keep everything up because my output was on several floppies. Hell, one of the books was too big for one floppy at the time.) and so I called it abandoned, and started over. Picked up my metaphorical pen and started over.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
I broke down a hell of a barrier a couple of years ago, and took the NaNoWriMo challenge in January to prove I couldn't write fifty thousand words of coherent fiction in thirty days. I was right, it took twenty five days to hit that mark. In March, I realized I had more of a trilogy on my hands. And in April, I stopped.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
In November I took up the official NaNoWriMo challenge and made it through by the skin of my teeth, sweating blood and pushing hard. Most of the novel was plotted during a two-hour lunch break where I scribbled and scribbled and banged on the keys like a madwoman. Then I expanded on my notes, blowing up the scenes like a wading pool, huffing and puffing and blue in the face. Then I stopped in January.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
I've published short stories. I've published poetry. For actual money and copies of the book, not through Lulu, or by vanity press where you plunk down an "entry fee" of fifty bucks per poem or article and hope to get a copy of the magazine when you're done. The only rejection slips I have ever received were from the high school literary magazine, which was just as much popularity contest as anything else. Three-quarters of the one I submitted to concerned a girl in the second-tier clique who died in a car wreck. It was full of acrostics and haiku, brimming with images of flowers picked just as they came to blossom, and wilting in a glass vase unopened, and the ineffable sadness and grief that can only be explained in poorly rhymed iambic tetrameter.
See? Clearly, I'm not a writer.
I reach out to define what and who I think a writer is. If I can see more clearly what it is that I am not, then perhaps I can pick up the pieces and incorporate what I need to own this piece. But I feel like I'm stuck trying to prove a negative, which any elementary logician will advise against. It's catching soap bubbles, watching the rainbow spill over your outstretched hand. The easy part is getting to the rainbow, eh?
And if I were a writer, I might be able to find the language to make you understand that.
But no, I'm not a writer.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
It's the same thing driving to work, thinking about this and that and how these things would make an excellent piece for seven hundred and fifty words, how I could probably get a whole string out of this and then I park the car and log in and sign in and the lights go out as soon as the screen comes up.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
And when I lost a day here I started over, and heaven only knows how many times in my life I started over. During the great collapse of ought whenever it was, where I lost two novels and all my short fiction to date, when I moved to Arizona and abandoned everything on my folks' computer (yes, Virginia, there once was a time, long long ago, when we did not have thumb drives, when the best we could do was floppy discs, and no, I didn't manage to keep everything up because my output was on several floppies. Hell, one of the books was too big for one floppy at the time.) and so I called it abandoned, and started over. Picked up my metaphorical pen and started over.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
I broke down a hell of a barrier a couple of years ago, and took the NaNoWriMo challenge in January to prove I couldn't write fifty thousand words of coherent fiction in thirty days. I was right, it took twenty five days to hit that mark. In March, I realized I had more of a trilogy on my hands. And in April, I stopped.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
In November I took up the official NaNoWriMo challenge and made it through by the skin of my teeth, sweating blood and pushing hard. Most of the novel was plotted during a two-hour lunch break where I scribbled and scribbled and banged on the keys like a madwoman. Then I expanded on my notes, blowing up the scenes like a wading pool, huffing and puffing and blue in the face. Then I stopped in January.
Because no, I'm not a writer.
I've published short stories. I've published poetry. For actual money and copies of the book, not through Lulu, or by vanity press where you plunk down an "entry fee" of fifty bucks per poem or article and hope to get a copy of the magazine when you're done. The only rejection slips I have ever received were from the high school literary magazine, which was just as much popularity contest as anything else. Three-quarters of the one I submitted to concerned a girl in the second-tier clique who died in a car wreck. It was full of acrostics and haiku, brimming with images of flowers picked just as they came to blossom, and wilting in a glass vase unopened, and the ineffable sadness and grief that can only be explained in poorly rhymed iambic tetrameter.
See? Clearly, I'm not a writer.
I reach out to define what and who I think a writer is. If I can see more clearly what it is that I am not, then perhaps I can pick up the pieces and incorporate what I need to own this piece. But I feel like I'm stuck trying to prove a negative, which any elementary logician will advise against. It's catching soap bubbles, watching the rainbow spill over your outstretched hand. The easy part is getting to the rainbow, eh?
And if I were a writer, I might be able to find the language to make you understand that.
But no, I'm not a writer.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Me and Machines
Ok, let’s try this, then. It’s been a rough day for me and machines. It seems like everything is doing its level best to get in my way and prevent me from doing what’s important to me. I probably shouldn’t say that; next the car will die. On the freeway. On the overpass where it narrows to one lane.
It started this morning when I went to log into 750words.com so I could get that chore out of the way before I went over to Vinnie’s so I could work on the shrines and boxes project. Computer was running its little security check so it was slow. Ok, I get that. And 750words won’t load on the version of explorer we’re running; it has to be Firefox. Ok, I can manage that, too. So I open a window . . . tick, tick, tick . . . open a window . . . tick, tick, tick . . . ah. Firefox is running, yay. Uhm. Two windows are open and sucking up resources. Fine. Go to 750words, close one window . . . tick tick tick . . . 750words opens, and promptly shuts down again as I go to log in.
Grr. Fine. Just fine. I'll do it later. Hop in the shower, wash up, head out. Get to Vinnie's, get set up on the patio. Ahhhhh. Coffee and paper mache and a belt sander to work on the boxes I started yesterday which are dry and coming along nicely. Having fun.
Vinnie needs to make a quickie store run, will I be okay? Sure, no problem, what can go wrong go wrong go wrong.
Yeah, like that.
So I'm sanding away, finish one box and pick up the next. Right there in the groove. Then I get a skitch too close to the belt . . . and the damned thing sucks up a chunk of jacket. I smell the motor overheating, get my finger off the dead man's switch. Stand there thinking "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."A minute later, I have run my diagnostics and determined that I'm ok. No skin caught, no shirt caught. No bleeding nowhere. Ok. Now what?
First things first. I reach over and unplug the sander so nothing else bad can happen.
Stand there attached to the machine for a minute, then look down. The zipper isn't among the part that's been sucked in, so I unzip my jacket and step out of it for a better look. I've got folds of jacket sucked up into the belt, so if I could just wiggle a little bit loose, I'd have enough slack to get the rest out.
Now, it's not like this is a jacket inherited from my great-uncle Ernie that cannot be replaced, but I am rather fond of it. It's the grey fleece jacket upon which everything depends, William Carlos Williams style. I've had the thing for something like fifteen years now, and it's important to me. In part because I don't have anything else old and grungy enough to replace it with once it gets eaten/worn out. It's my slop around mixed media go to the gym jacket.
So I pull and yank, and nothing. No slack at all.
I turn the sander over and over looking for some way to remove the drive in order to get just a skosh of wiggle room, but nothing.
So I go to work on the stuff that doesn't need sanding--I make sleeves for the shrines, and then I'm stuck because one of the things Vinnie went to get was tissue paper for the paper mache. Fine. Just fine.
I go in to knit for a while. I am going to finish Yggdrasil on time if it kills me. Just like I'm going to finish this damned novel on time. (50,000 words, I will WRITE YOU!!!)
Vinnie gets home, and I ‘splain what happened, reassure her that I'm fine, just a little chilly and concerned about her sander. Bless her heart, she's more worried about me and my jacket ("your good jacket, not even your work shirt") than she is about the sander.
(This, of course has kicked in a running joke about "can I use your blender/laptop/chasing hammer, as long as I don't get my clothes caught in it?")
We dismantle the sander, taking off the engine cover to expose the motor, and then as we're trying to get the drive belt off, I notice that my jacket fabric is moving . . . so here I am, grabbing and pulling on the jacket, Vinnie is cranking on the nut and pulling on the sander. Between the two of us, we get the sander to let go. Finally.
So of course, my jacket is filthy. (But untorn. Yay!!!) Fortunately, Vinnie is doing laundry, so I'm able to toss the jacket into the wash with the next load. Keep this in mind; it becomes important again later.
Ok. I get a bunch done that does not require sanding, and I'm very pleased with how the shrines are moving along again (finally. Finally!!!) (I may actually finish them in this lifetime.) (Oh, and the sander still worked even after we re-mantled it. Bonus round!!!) I get all washed up, everything is clean, and I spend some time knitting.
Then Vinnie has to make another run to the store because the anchovies have vanished. Oh, great! I can get my words in while she's gone, and I won't have to worry about doing them before bed tonight!
So I go to log on to her laptop, and while it's booting I grab my jacket so I won't forget it. No internet. Noneya. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Fine. Just fine. I'll use the word-cruncher (and curse the tiny keyboard, where nothing is where it belongs to be) and at least get things going. Vinnie gets back shortly after things get going good, and re-hooks the cable in the bedroom that the dogs have ripped out, and then she goes out to the garage to get the laundry . . .
And comes in turning grey before my eyes.
"Spike? Uhm . . . your jacket's not in the dryer . . ."
"Oh. Yah, I went and grabbed it so I wouldn't forget it."
Vinnie sags against the doorpost with relief. "I was trying to figure out how to explain that the dryer ate it."
Yup. Is has done been a day for me and machines.
It started this morning when I went to log into 750words.com so I could get that chore out of the way before I went over to Vinnie’s so I could work on the shrines and boxes project. Computer was running its little security check so it was slow. Ok, I get that. And 750words won’t load on the version of explorer we’re running; it has to be Firefox. Ok, I can manage that, too. So I open a window . . . tick, tick, tick . . . open a window . . . tick, tick, tick . . . ah. Firefox is running, yay. Uhm. Two windows are open and sucking up resources. Fine. Go to 750words, close one window . . . tick tick tick . . . 750words opens, and promptly shuts down again as I go to log in.
Grr. Fine. Just fine. I'll do it later. Hop in the shower, wash up, head out. Get to Vinnie's, get set up on the patio. Ahhhhh. Coffee and paper mache and a belt sander to work on the boxes I started yesterday which are dry and coming along nicely. Having fun.
Vinnie needs to make a quickie store run, will I be okay? Sure, no problem, what can go wrong go wrong go wrong.
Yeah, like that.
So I'm sanding away, finish one box and pick up the next. Right there in the groove. Then I get a skitch too close to the belt . . . and the damned thing sucks up a chunk of jacket. I smell the motor overheating, get my finger off the dead man's switch. Stand there thinking "fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck."A minute later, I have run my diagnostics and determined that I'm ok. No skin caught, no shirt caught. No bleeding nowhere. Ok. Now what?
First things first. I reach over and unplug the sander so nothing else bad can happen.
Stand there attached to the machine for a minute, then look down. The zipper isn't among the part that's been sucked in, so I unzip my jacket and step out of it for a better look. I've got folds of jacket sucked up into the belt, so if I could just wiggle a little bit loose, I'd have enough slack to get the rest out.
Now, it's not like this is a jacket inherited from my great-uncle Ernie that cannot be replaced, but I am rather fond of it. It's the grey fleece jacket upon which everything depends, William Carlos Williams style. I've had the thing for something like fifteen years now, and it's important to me. In part because I don't have anything else old and grungy enough to replace it with once it gets eaten/worn out. It's my slop around mixed media go to the gym jacket.
So I pull and yank, and nothing. No slack at all.
I turn the sander over and over looking for some way to remove the drive in order to get just a skosh of wiggle room, but nothing.
So I go to work on the stuff that doesn't need sanding--I make sleeves for the shrines, and then I'm stuck because one of the things Vinnie went to get was tissue paper for the paper mache. Fine. Just fine.
I go in to knit for a while. I am going to finish Yggdrasil on time if it kills me. Just like I'm going to finish this damned novel on time. (50,000 words, I will WRITE YOU!!!)
Vinnie gets home, and I ‘splain what happened, reassure her that I'm fine, just a little chilly and concerned about her sander. Bless her heart, she's more worried about me and my jacket ("your good jacket, not even your work shirt") than she is about the sander.
(This, of course has kicked in a running joke about "can I use your blender/laptop/chasing hammer, as long as I don't get my clothes caught in it?")
We dismantle the sander, taking off the engine cover to expose the motor, and then as we're trying to get the drive belt off, I notice that my jacket fabric is moving . . . so here I am, grabbing and pulling on the jacket, Vinnie is cranking on the nut and pulling on the sander. Between the two of us, we get the sander to let go. Finally.
So of course, my jacket is filthy. (But untorn. Yay!!!) Fortunately, Vinnie is doing laundry, so I'm able to toss the jacket into the wash with the next load. Keep this in mind; it becomes important again later.
Ok. I get a bunch done that does not require sanding, and I'm very pleased with how the shrines are moving along again (finally. Finally!!!) (I may actually finish them in this lifetime.) (Oh, and the sander still worked even after we re-mantled it. Bonus round!!!) I get all washed up, everything is clean, and I spend some time knitting.
Then Vinnie has to make another run to the store because the anchovies have vanished. Oh, great! I can get my words in while she's gone, and I won't have to worry about doing them before bed tonight!
So I go to log on to her laptop, and while it's booting I grab my jacket so I won't forget it. No internet. Noneya. Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Fine. Just fine. I'll use the word-cruncher (and curse the tiny keyboard, where nothing is where it belongs to be) and at least get things going. Vinnie gets back shortly after things get going good, and re-hooks the cable in the bedroom that the dogs have ripped out, and then she goes out to the garage to get the laundry . . .
And comes in turning grey before my eyes.
"Spike? Uhm . . . your jacket's not in the dryer . . ."
"Oh. Yah, I went and grabbed it so I wouldn't forget it."
Vinnie sags against the doorpost with relief. "I was trying to figure out how to explain that the dryer ate it."
Yup. Is has done been a day for me and machines.
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Eating an Elephant
My friend Mischief is eating an elephant, and all I can do is stand by with napkins and hot sauce.
I just recently polished off one last bowl of elephant stew, thin and bitter. I was moving things around in the freezer, pondering what nourishes me, what was worth keeping and what I would discard, when someone made a comment. When I turned back to what I was doing, I had a Tupperware bowl dated from July 2009 in my hand.
So I warmed it up and ate it, every salty drop of broth. The meat is all gone, the vegetables reduced to mushy bits at the bottom of the bowl and lingering ghosts in the watery fluid.
There are books out there about eating elephants, ranging from the classic cookbook about the seven stages of steaks, roasts, chops, burgers, sausages, stews, and organ meats. There are professionals who will advise you to start at the tail, or at the trunk. There are others who will give you pills if you take "too long" to eat your elephant, or if you're eating too fast and might choke.
We all eat an elephant at least once in our lives. Any time we give our hearts, we buy a future in an elephant. And that call option will come due; no way to sell that back. But elephants come in different sizes, and you can't predict what the market will have on any given day.
Grandpa becoming old and tired one day may produce a sweet pink cherubic elephant that yields a roast, a couple of sandwiches, and some tetrazzini. A beloved pet crossing the Rainbow Bridge may create meals for months. No one can tell you what size your elephant is, or how long you should be there at the table.
I want to tell Mischief to ignore the quacking of the duck-billed platitudes. They mean well, they've eaten elephants before. I want to tell her that it's okay to leave the table to go have pizza and birthday cake with her friends. I want to tell her that chosing to do so does not mean she's giving up the project. That she doesn't need to listen to those who tell her she should march herself back into the kitchen and keep chewing on the rubbery bristly grey hide. That she doesn't have to ladle mignonette and salt onto the meat and sit there until she's totally done with the whole thing in one marathon sitting.
But that's just as much quackery as the rest of them--it's nothing more than my understanding of eating an elephant. Mischief has to eat her elephant on her own--I can't do it for her.
So I offer her napkins to wipe her face with, garlic wing sauce to make it taste a little better, and I replace her fork when she drops it or throws it in frustration. I do what I can to support her in this endeavor as she sits at the table.
Eating one bite at a time. Chewing, swallowing.
I just recently polished off one last bowl of elephant stew, thin and bitter. I was moving things around in the freezer, pondering what nourishes me, what was worth keeping and what I would discard, when someone made a comment. When I turned back to what I was doing, I had a Tupperware bowl dated from July 2009 in my hand.
So I warmed it up and ate it, every salty drop of broth. The meat is all gone, the vegetables reduced to mushy bits at the bottom of the bowl and lingering ghosts in the watery fluid.
There are books out there about eating elephants, ranging from the classic cookbook about the seven stages of steaks, roasts, chops, burgers, sausages, stews, and organ meats. There are professionals who will advise you to start at the tail, or at the trunk. There are others who will give you pills if you take "too long" to eat your elephant, or if you're eating too fast and might choke.
We all eat an elephant at least once in our lives. Any time we give our hearts, we buy a future in an elephant. And that call option will come due; no way to sell that back. But elephants come in different sizes, and you can't predict what the market will have on any given day.
Grandpa becoming old and tired one day may produce a sweet pink cherubic elephant that yields a roast, a couple of sandwiches, and some tetrazzini. A beloved pet crossing the Rainbow Bridge may create meals for months. No one can tell you what size your elephant is, or how long you should be there at the table.
I want to tell Mischief to ignore the quacking of the duck-billed platitudes. They mean well, they've eaten elephants before. I want to tell her that it's okay to leave the table to go have pizza and birthday cake with her friends. I want to tell her that chosing to do so does not mean she's giving up the project. That she doesn't need to listen to those who tell her she should march herself back into the kitchen and keep chewing on the rubbery bristly grey hide. That she doesn't have to ladle mignonette and salt onto the meat and sit there until she's totally done with the whole thing in one marathon sitting.
But that's just as much quackery as the rest of them--it's nothing more than my understanding of eating an elephant. Mischief has to eat her elephant on her own--I can't do it for her.
So I offer her napkins to wipe her face with, garlic wing sauce to make it taste a little better, and I replace her fork when she drops it or throws it in frustration. I do what I can to support her in this endeavor as she sits at the table.
Eating one bite at a time. Chewing, swallowing.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
One Last Day Together (In Memoriam)
We had a long time together, Rodentia and I. Nineteen years.
But everyone everywhere eventually ends.
The night before, Rodentia was agitated, going from corner to corner throughout the house peering intently into the space between. Gareth said he saw a young tuxedo Jellicle cat outside looking in with big yellow eyes. Sounds like Jamara, I thought, the first cat who owned me.
Jamara was a cat of between spaces, always looking for just the right spot--in the middle of a doorway, in transitional spaces between the house and the out--the garage, the attic. Jamara would be happy as a psychopomp, escorting the living to the land of the dead. Leading her afterlife in the Between.
Jamara had come for Rodentia, and Rodentia was ready to follow.
Rodentia joined me for breakfast on that last day together. We were in the kitchen, and she got stuck on the other side of the water bowl. She wanted some moist cat food, could see and smell it, but could not piece together the way around the obstacle.
It seemed selfish to put her down. Whose suffering was I really ending this way? It seemed selfish to demand that she continue on a journey of drudgery--she was having trouble lying down. She would circle and circle, doddering and hunched.
I told her I wished she'd tell me what she wanted after I hung up with the vet's office. I asked her to tell me if she was ready to go, but tethered to a heart that just. Would. Not. Stop. Or, if on the other paw, she wanted every last scrap of good day that was left to her, even if she had to dig through a dungheap for them.
So, for the first time in weeks, she came out of hiding to sleep in line of sight, just as she used to do as a young adult.
When she turned her face to the wall, the way cats do when completely overwhelmed, I knew.
She slept the day away drowsing and nodding at my feet. She got up and drank copiously, but never left to use the litter box. It was clear what I was cutting short was not a matter of years, but of days, if that. And what I was cutting short was not long and lazy warm afternoons, but effortful existence--a burden on her narrow cat shoulders.
When I boxed her up to go to the vet, she complained about being lifted, but never said a word or tried to get out once inside. Usually I'm hearing threats to call an attorney before I've thrown the car in reverse. Not now.
The vet said that really, there was nothing to do for her--she was old, and what looked to be wrong was either kidneys, or thyroid, or both. While there are treatments, the question would be whether the few months we could buy her would be worth the discomfort. Whether we'd just be prolonging the inevitable, with the cost in pain.
We brought her home wrapped in a towel. I washed her feet and shaved the mats off her belly. Gareth walked in while I was handling her. His family does not handle physical death well1, and I come from a long line of country wimminfolk who would set the deceased's hair, clean and dress the body for the funeral at home. I've touched all my relatives goodbye at the viewing since I became old enough not to give a damn what anyone thought.
I said, "I bet this is creeping you out." I had a basin full of warm water, Rodentia laid out on two clean towels, and a washcloth I was using to soak the clumped litter from around her pads.
"No," he said, tears in his eyes, "I think that's really beautiful. You're so tender with her."
I buried her under the largest pine tree for a monument, her favorite three toys with her. A knitted catnip mouse between her forepaws, a catnip pillow my mother made her grandcat under her head, and a jingle ball by her ear. Very Egyptian.
One year ago today, I spent one last day with Rodentia. One last day to encompass nineteen years.
Sleep you sound, little cat.
1. At Gareth's grandfather's memorial service (just a photo and some memories) I was treated to three-four earfuls about the utter and unspeakable barbarity of a viewing with the corpse present in the closed casket. Never mind an open casket viewing.
But see, how do you know they're really dead until you can feel that they're cold, can touch their hard cheek, and really get that there's no one in there? Ho wcan you grieve an image, a suit of empty clothes until you can perceive on a gut level that the entity you knew is gone, and this shell is all that's left?
But everyone everywhere eventually ends.
The night before, Rodentia was agitated, going from corner to corner throughout the house peering intently into the space between. Gareth said he saw a young tuxedo Jellicle cat outside looking in with big yellow eyes. Sounds like Jamara, I thought, the first cat who owned me.
Jamara was a cat of between spaces, always looking for just the right spot--in the middle of a doorway, in transitional spaces between the house and the out--the garage, the attic. Jamara would be happy as a psychopomp, escorting the living to the land of the dead. Leading her afterlife in the Between.
Jamara had come for Rodentia, and Rodentia was ready to follow.
Rodentia joined me for breakfast on that last day together. We were in the kitchen, and she got stuck on the other side of the water bowl. She wanted some moist cat food, could see and smell it, but could not piece together the way around the obstacle.
It seemed selfish to put her down. Whose suffering was I really ending this way? It seemed selfish to demand that she continue on a journey of drudgery--she was having trouble lying down. She would circle and circle, doddering and hunched.
I told her I wished she'd tell me what she wanted after I hung up with the vet's office. I asked her to tell me if she was ready to go, but tethered to a heart that just. Would. Not. Stop. Or, if on the other paw, she wanted every last scrap of good day that was left to her, even if she had to dig through a dungheap for them.
So, for the first time in weeks, she came out of hiding to sleep in line of sight, just as she used to do as a young adult.
When she turned her face to the wall, the way cats do when completely overwhelmed, I knew.
She slept the day away drowsing and nodding at my feet. She got up and drank copiously, but never left to use the litter box. It was clear what I was cutting short was not a matter of years, but of days, if that. And what I was cutting short was not long and lazy warm afternoons, but effortful existence--a burden on her narrow cat shoulders.
When I boxed her up to go to the vet, she complained about being lifted, but never said a word or tried to get out once inside. Usually I'm hearing threats to call an attorney before I've thrown the car in reverse. Not now.
The vet said that really, there was nothing to do for her--she was old, and what looked to be wrong was either kidneys, or thyroid, or both. While there are treatments, the question would be whether the few months we could buy her would be worth the discomfort. Whether we'd just be prolonging the inevitable, with the cost in pain.
We brought her home wrapped in a towel. I washed her feet and shaved the mats off her belly. Gareth walked in while I was handling her. His family does not handle physical death well1, and I come from a long line of country wimminfolk who would set the deceased's hair, clean and dress the body for the funeral at home. I've touched all my relatives goodbye at the viewing since I became old enough not to give a damn what anyone thought.
I said, "I bet this is creeping you out." I had a basin full of warm water, Rodentia laid out on two clean towels, and a washcloth I was using to soak the clumped litter from around her pads.
"No," he said, tears in his eyes, "I think that's really beautiful. You're so tender with her."
I buried her under the largest pine tree for a monument, her favorite three toys with her. A knitted catnip mouse between her forepaws, a catnip pillow my mother made her grandcat under her head, and a jingle ball by her ear. Very Egyptian.
One year ago today, I spent one last day with Rodentia. One last day to encompass nineteen years.
Sleep you sound, little cat.
1. At Gareth's grandfather's memorial service (just a photo and some memories) I was treated to three-four earfuls about the utter and unspeakable barbarity of a viewing with the corpse present in the closed casket. Never mind an open casket viewing.
But see, how do you know they're really dead until you can feel that they're cold, can touch their hard cheek, and really get that there's no one in there? Ho wcan you grieve an image, a suit of empty clothes until you can perceive on a gut level that the entity you knew is gone, and this shell is all that's left?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
En Open Letter to My Gnomon1
Vy hyu run avay from me? Ve so close to finish vat ve schtart, und den hyu stop talkink to me for mont’s. Hyu esk me to help hyu out vit’ some odder monsters–und Hy heppy to help!–but dat’s all Hy ever hear from hyu lately; es vhen hyu need help dreggink sumvun out from behind de door. Ve so close to done Hy ken feel it in my hends–ten, feefteen peges, mebbe. Und den hyu runs avay, hides on de Internet or in a book. Hides in hyu knittink. Und den hyu blames me for de leck of peges, says Hy don’ talk to hyu nummore.
Sveet, Hy tells hyu, mebbe hyu don’ listen nummore.
Hy onderstend hyu needed to breathe efter February-Merch und de big project ve ondertook. Vas huge! Hyu hesn’t written like dot . . .vell, never, really. Over a hundred t’ousand vords in eight-ten weeks. Ve didn’ write like dot in college. Heh–dot may be MORE dan we wrote in all four years of college es a Creative Writink major end an honors student.
But Hy esk hyu–how long hes it been since hyu set down and wrote like hyu hair vas on fire? Vere hyu saw de arc of de story right dere end snetched it out of de air like a peedgeon on de vink, to volf eet down right dere–no fire, no salt, schtill varm und bloody?
Hev hyu missed dot? Chure hyu hev. Hev hyu missed seeink me here in de chair, boots on hyu desk. Yah. Yah hyu hev–ken see it in hyu eyes. Hyu heart remembers vat dis ride vas, how hyu tried to make hyu hends keep up vit vat hyu saw end heard. Ho hyu gev up and settled for block kepital notes so hyu could go back and fill it all in. Vat heppen?
Hyu know vat heppen. Hyu lost hyu vay in, schtarted dot dem Don Music t’ink again vere it hed to be perfect, hed to be right. Hyu refused to try taking the beck doors in–or if de doors don’ vork, try a vindow! Chust write vat hyu hear und see und vorry about sounding like a fever dream later. Dot’s vat Chanuary es for–a re-write and edit of vat hyu accomplished de previous year. (Hy gev hyu a schedule, sveethott. All hyu hes to do is follow de directions.)
Hyu found hyu vay beck a couple times right here, didn’ hyu? Don’ lie to me–Hy ken read hyu mind, hyu know. Don’ try to tell me it’s gone end hyu ken’t get dere from here. Alla dot–alla dot is chust excuses for not doink. Veak lies, akin to “Hy try.” Sveethott–dere is no such t’ink es tryink. Hyu do. Hyu may not get vat hyu vant from de doink–hyu may fail!–but den hyu pick hyuself up and do some more.
Dis right here–dis right here is 484 vords. In vat–five, ten minutes? Ef hyu put fingers to de keyboard, vords come out. Ef hyu pick up de schtory end write–chust like hyu did vit me here–hyu get de missink peges and be ready to edit come de new year.
Don’ let de odder monschters vin.
-–Totenberg
1. Uf course hyu all er edyooketed pipple vit impeccable teste und know dot a "gnomon" es de tink on a sundial vat cests de schadow. But, dere are sctill dose who do not hev Google es a friend, end so ve hev endnotes.
Sveet, Hy tells hyu, mebbe hyu don’ listen nummore.
Hy onderstend hyu needed to breathe efter February-Merch und de big project ve ondertook. Vas huge! Hyu hesn’t written like dot . . .vell, never, really. Over a hundred t’ousand vords in eight-ten weeks. Ve didn’ write like dot in college. Heh–dot may be MORE dan we wrote in all four years of college es a Creative Writink major end an honors student.
But Hy esk hyu–how long hes it been since hyu set down and wrote like hyu hair vas on fire? Vere hyu saw de arc of de story right dere end snetched it out of de air like a peedgeon on de vink, to volf eet down right dere–no fire, no salt, schtill varm und bloody?
Hev hyu missed dot? Chure hyu hev. Hev hyu missed seeink me here in de chair, boots on hyu desk. Yah. Yah hyu hev–ken see it in hyu eyes. Hyu heart remembers vat dis ride vas, how hyu tried to make hyu hends keep up vit vat hyu saw end heard. Ho hyu gev up and settled for block kepital notes so hyu could go back and fill it all in. Vat heppen?
Hyu know vat heppen. Hyu lost hyu vay in, schtarted dot dem Don Music t’ink again vere it hed to be perfect, hed to be right. Hyu refused to try taking the beck doors in–or if de doors don’ vork, try a vindow! Chust write vat hyu hear und see und vorry about sounding like a fever dream later. Dot’s vat Chanuary es for–a re-write and edit of vat hyu accomplished de previous year. (Hy gev hyu a schedule, sveethott. All hyu hes to do is follow de directions.)
Hyu found hyu vay beck a couple times right here, didn’ hyu? Don’ lie to me–Hy ken read hyu mind, hyu know. Don’ try to tell me it’s gone end hyu ken’t get dere from here. Alla dot–alla dot is chust excuses for not doink. Veak lies, akin to “Hy try.” Sveethott–dere is no such t’ink es tryink. Hyu do. Hyu may not get vat hyu vant from de doink–hyu may fail!–but den hyu pick hyuself up and do some more.
Dis right here–dis right here is 484 vords. In vat–five, ten minutes? Ef hyu put fingers to de keyboard, vords come out. Ef hyu pick up de schtory end write–chust like hyu did vit me here–hyu get de missink peges and be ready to edit come de new year.
Don’ let de odder monschters vin.
-–Totenberg
1. Uf course hyu all er edyooketed pipple vit impeccable teste und know dot a "gnomon" es de tink on a sundial vat cests de schadow. But, dere are sctill dose who do not hev Google es a friend, end so ve hev endnotes.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
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