Prince Lonago went east until the road became a pier, and stepped onto the ship at its end. He sang down the wind to set them sailing sunward, and they came to an ancient city, peopled with soft accents and clever lies.
Lonago learned there to sing other things: riddles and flattery, counterpoint and intrigue. His voice cracked and warbled, then settled again into subtler tones. But there were only so many homes in the city. None of them were for him.
The wind that took him west was fitful and hesitant, like a lover with a catch in her throat.
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Prince Inigo rode south to the mountains, where giants bellowed challenge at his standard. When they fell the rocks boomed like kettle drums; his blade was white with their blood.
Those fled who would not battle, and by spring their savagery was gone from the land. The people of the kingdom came bustling behind him and settled in to iron out the hills.
Inigo found himself lord of a castle in a peaceful and prosperous land. But for his absent brothers, it was quite like home.
He took up his standard and rode south yet deeper, and was not seen again.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Imago ran west with the wolves, upriver, farther than any man had been able to row.
The river became white water; white water split to a thousand streams. Imago and his pack followed the largest each time until they came to a spring as clear as grief, and beyond it waited the end of the world.
Imago sniffed nervously, then peered at the border. It took him some time to remember his voice.
“Is it,” he cleared his throat, “a long way to fall?”
“Only if you look down,” said the end of the world, and drew him over the edge.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
Gad sent letters south, but those people claimed no king and knew no Inigo. He sent letters west, but their carriers vanished. Lonago had come home, of course; but he spoke to no one who could not sing.
Gad buried their father in silica and state. Heavy was his head at the coronation, but that was just the ceremonial headpiece. He had a lighter one for everyday use.
He abdicated at the age of forty-seven and retired to a hillside summer home. The Council barely noticed. They were trying to decide how many sides should be on the new coins.
Appleseed Johnny meets Jack Frost meets Jack the Man with the Lantern.
“Harvest is over,” says Frost, and the lips of his smile are tattooed.
“They’ll slaughter the winter cows soon enough,” says Johnny, peeling a Gala with a paring knife. He tosses the long red ribbon over his shoulder. “Let them have their bonfire first.”
“I love bonfires,” protests Frost. “I love it when they gutter.”
“Not all fires die,” says Jack the Man with the Lantern. In his hand a pumpkin glows, its heart a hellborn ember.
“To the harvest, anyway,” sighs Appleseed, and pours three shots of cider.
During the Decline everybody gets bored with gladiation, so the organizers flail for new stunts to lure back audiences. Men fighting women! Men fighting lions! Every spectator gets a free pair of sandals! Women fighting lions! Men fighting with potatoes! Men fighting a fire! Every spectator fighting a fire! That one is sort of a retroactive promotion and they promise to build better exits.
Then there’s the sack, of course, and they try out a new promotion: men fighting the organizers! Also lions! And a fire! But the Vandals don’t make any money off it (they are total crap at marketing).
Alcina leaps the widening crack down Radia Street and leans to sprint in a circle through the big public archway, trailing a rope as thick as lightning. She ties it (ground-line hitch) and tugs twice; it goes instantly taut, and she catches another and sprints away.
Above, the great zeppelin trembles, tethered by a hundred more hawsers to the tired and lopsided structures of the city. The cracks are accelerating, but Alcina is too: an overpass, a plaza, and the last one tied around her wrist.
The island falls into the ocean. Atlantis rises, on lines as tight as hope.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008