Post by sarasvati on May 10, 2007 15:16:30 GMT -5
This is "The Ill-Fated-Princess's" latest reincarnation. And it has a good title! Yay! ANyway, I hope it's better than TIFP. Comments and critiques are welcomed ;D please ;D
This is part one of the first chapter. If people like it, I'll post more.
Chapter one
A girl was sitting cross-legged in a clearing in a rainforest by a stream, between a rock face and the impenetrable wall of deep jungle. A macaw crowed from a nearby branch and was answered by a tanager while a small lion monkey investigated the human in its home.
Stassiel was an odd bird in the bright flock of the islands. Her skin was curiously pale for one who had grown up in the tropics; the hair plaited neatly into two braids down her back was blue-black. Her breeches were a dull mud-stained tan and her undershirt (without an overshirt) was navy blue. A quick-eyed white-and-brown terrier was standing guard beside her. She whistled a quick tune and muttered some words and all of a sudden a ghost-Stassiel was standing by her meditating solid self. The ghost looked around the clearing and walked towards a spot on the forest fringe where the boughs of two trees formed a doorway into the green gloom, closed its eyes, and vanished.
When she opened her eyes again she had come out by the stream bordering the First Gate. It was a pleasantly sunny day in Death, but no birds sang the air hung dull and motionless. The only sound was the burble of the stream echoing the brook she had just left. She splashed barefoot through the stream, apologizing to the stream spirits just as one always had to do in Death, where things tended to take on the lives the travelers through their realm lost.
The First Gate had been standing in the middle of the First Wood since the first Old One had shed his body to explore the realm where the dead were laid to rest. The queen of death, the goddess Chali, was afraid that too many would follow his example and erected seven gates as obstacles into her eternal palace. The first one was of basalt, carved with runes and figures that had long been worn away by the millennia and by the ivy that now choked the stone. Stassiel could see the flickering magical remains of the runes in the corners of her eyes. Some eroded lumps that were once gargoyles stirred slightly, sensing her heartbeat.
“Hello goyles,” she said cheerfully. “How are you today?”
They shed their basalt confines and fluttered as spirits around the tops of the arch. Hello princess. They had always said this. It was more like a term of affection than an actual title- the goyles lacked enough respect to be polite even to the Lady Goddess herself. Same as we’ve been since Our Lady bound us. If you unbound us…
She grinned; they asked her this every time, and she always gave the same answer. “No.” She took some mica pebbles from her pocket and tossed them up in the air, where they hung and glittered in the bright sun. “Take these, and go back to sleep.” She took a breath and spoke the words that opened the arch as the goyles raced, clamoring, to collect the pebbles which shone like stars among the foliage. If she had failed to say these words, she would have gone through the arch to find only more woods; as she did, she emerged into the Second Plain. The Second Gate, of granite, was a few hundred yards away. It was in slightly better condition than the first, and two huge rattlesnakes twined around the carven pillars. They hissed greetings as she went through the gate. She came out on the shore of the Third Sea, where a small rowboat, neatly painted white with green trim, waited for her off a crumbling quay. Dropping her pack down before her, she jumped into the boat and took up the oars. The Third Gate was on an island about a quarter of a mile offshore.
Every time Stassiel came here she found the lack of seagulls unnerving. On the islands, back in Life, they were a constant noise in the background that her brain had learned to tune out, and the lack of them was like a hole in her consciousness. She tried her best to ignore it and focused on the feel of the salty breeze on her skin and the lap of waves against the boat as she pulled at the oars. It took about fifteen minutes to reach the island where the Chalk Gate rose up out of the sandy islet- somehow the simple arch of the soft rock had been preserved through the ages, the edges still as crisp as they were when Chali’s stonemasons carved them. She had come to Death today on a double mission; the first half would be accomplished here. She took four jam jars out of her pack, the ones with clasps on each side to hold the lid down, as well as a tin of bait, and found her fishing rod where she had left it last time in the shadow of the arch. She wanted to catch some oddfish.
She was sure that there was another name for the oddfish, but she had paid little attention to her studies of the natives of Death, preferring to find out herself. There were supposedly Dark spirits roaming around all the gates, especially the later ones, but she had only been bothered by one twice and both times she had been able to dispatch them back to the Palace (or Hypothetical House, as her father called it). In any case, the Oddfish were strange-looking, vaguely fishy things that possessed rare and unusual powers, ranging from gargling “The Three Fishwives” to bringing good fortune. She was hoping for the latter, though the former was amusing and never failed to make Cook scream. Mother Third, as Stassiel affectionately called the good-natured guardian of the third gate, had suggested a better kind of bait the previous time. Stassiel was eager to try it out. Baiting her hook, she dropped it into the deep sea off the sudden drop on the west edge of the Island and waited for a bite.
It took her an hour to catch four good-sized oddfish. One was lucky, one said it could heal, one said it always told the truth, and the fourth could gargle. She put them each in their own jars, sealed the clasps, and set a spell to stop any leaks. Mother Third had not yet come to see her; that was unusual, for Mother Third was a motherly if not pleasant-looking being who always said hello and scolded bird-like Stassiel for not eating enough before returning to her patrol duties. The Third Gate was the main bastion that kept the Dead out of Life; the Fourth through the Seventh were so close to Death that over time their proximity had tainted them and weakened their defenses. Gate Four was the most dangerous gate as there was a bottleneck of Dead things there which had made it through the Fifth Gate but could neither go back nor advance towards Life. If Mother Third was not there to hassle Stassiel, it meant she was battling something on the other side. That the attack was strong enough to keep her, one of the strongest remaining Old ones, occupied for an entire hour was not a good sign. Stassi put on her heavy canvas overshirt to ward off the cold at the Fourth gate, unwrapped her sword from its leather bindings, and passed through the Third Gate. To her surprise the wall between the Third Gate and the Fourth Mountains was nearly impassable where it was usually only a thin membrane, and she had to fight her way through it. There was neither a battle nor a Mother Third on the other side, but only the usual expanse of snowy mountain top. Across the ridge, on a second, higher peak, were the translucent icy pillars of the Fourth Gate. The bright sun warded off shadows but in the pockets of deep shade behind rocks and in caves further down the mountain lurked the slithering forms of corrupted dead spirits. In a lecture from her father she had learned that it was on the very sunny days in Death that one should most fear the shadows, for it was then that the shade was deepest. Shivering in the cold, her lungs straining and heavy in the thin air, she trudged across to the Fourth Gate. Focusing on breathing and staying warm, she failed to notice that her shadow was moving independently of herself. She only noticed the tendrils round her neck, preparing to squeeze, when she stopped to collect herself and remember the spell. Her scream alerted all the dead in the mountains of her presence, but since Dead things don’t enjoy loud noises the tendrils halted their advance for enough time that she could whistle the little dancing tune of the counterspell. The shadow shrieked and wriggled like a bug on a pin as it was forced back into the snow, where it regrouped into a little blot of darkness like black quicksilver and scurried out of the bright sunlight. Shaken, Stassiel continued the spell for the Fourth Gate.
The Fifth Gate of granite rock in a dank, shadow-infested cave was no worse or better than usual; her only perpetual problem with it was that she had to keep a light spell up while passing through the gate to prevent shadows from following her in. The Sixth Gate was in a strange rushing city, an antechamber to the House. The Seventh Gate was on a dark marshy plain, on which nothing grew but stunted trees and where there was never a break in the clouds which crowned the place in a gray and dreary mist. The Seventh Gate was easy to miss in the mire, being made of crystal, and it was even easier to miss one’s footing and get pulled down into the bog and get one’s heart ripped out by the Bogbeasties. Again, they had a proper name, but Stassiel didn’t care about names as long as she could rest assured she wouldn’t meet one. She had, for once, paid great attention to her father’s books on the path through the Seventh Marsh, and she knew to ignore the swamp-lights and not stray off the winding patches of solid earth.
Death liked Stassiel. She had never been violently cast out, as her father had been once (and he still had scars to prove it). The weather on the Third Ocean never tried to kill her or wreck the dear little rowboat. She usually went through Death efficiently and without side-effects. However, the one thing in the Gates that had never taken a shine to her, even as a precocious little girl with her hem trod out and her bow hanging limp and loose, was the Guardian of the Seventh Gate.
To be continued…
This is part one of the first chapter. If people like it, I'll post more.
Chapter one
A girl was sitting cross-legged in a clearing in a rainforest by a stream, between a rock face and the impenetrable wall of deep jungle. A macaw crowed from a nearby branch and was answered by a tanager while a small lion monkey investigated the human in its home.
Stassiel was an odd bird in the bright flock of the islands. Her skin was curiously pale for one who had grown up in the tropics; the hair plaited neatly into two braids down her back was blue-black. Her breeches were a dull mud-stained tan and her undershirt (without an overshirt) was navy blue. A quick-eyed white-and-brown terrier was standing guard beside her. She whistled a quick tune and muttered some words and all of a sudden a ghost-Stassiel was standing by her meditating solid self. The ghost looked around the clearing and walked towards a spot on the forest fringe where the boughs of two trees formed a doorway into the green gloom, closed its eyes, and vanished.
When she opened her eyes again she had come out by the stream bordering the First Gate. It was a pleasantly sunny day in Death, but no birds sang the air hung dull and motionless. The only sound was the burble of the stream echoing the brook she had just left. She splashed barefoot through the stream, apologizing to the stream spirits just as one always had to do in Death, where things tended to take on the lives the travelers through their realm lost.
The First Gate had been standing in the middle of the First Wood since the first Old One had shed his body to explore the realm where the dead were laid to rest. The queen of death, the goddess Chali, was afraid that too many would follow his example and erected seven gates as obstacles into her eternal palace. The first one was of basalt, carved with runes and figures that had long been worn away by the millennia and by the ivy that now choked the stone. Stassiel could see the flickering magical remains of the runes in the corners of her eyes. Some eroded lumps that were once gargoyles stirred slightly, sensing her heartbeat.
“Hello goyles,” she said cheerfully. “How are you today?”
They shed their basalt confines and fluttered as spirits around the tops of the arch. Hello princess. They had always said this. It was more like a term of affection than an actual title- the goyles lacked enough respect to be polite even to the Lady Goddess herself. Same as we’ve been since Our Lady bound us. If you unbound us…
She grinned; they asked her this every time, and she always gave the same answer. “No.” She took some mica pebbles from her pocket and tossed them up in the air, where they hung and glittered in the bright sun. “Take these, and go back to sleep.” She took a breath and spoke the words that opened the arch as the goyles raced, clamoring, to collect the pebbles which shone like stars among the foliage. If she had failed to say these words, she would have gone through the arch to find only more woods; as she did, she emerged into the Second Plain. The Second Gate, of granite, was a few hundred yards away. It was in slightly better condition than the first, and two huge rattlesnakes twined around the carven pillars. They hissed greetings as she went through the gate. She came out on the shore of the Third Sea, where a small rowboat, neatly painted white with green trim, waited for her off a crumbling quay. Dropping her pack down before her, she jumped into the boat and took up the oars. The Third Gate was on an island about a quarter of a mile offshore.
Every time Stassiel came here she found the lack of seagulls unnerving. On the islands, back in Life, they were a constant noise in the background that her brain had learned to tune out, and the lack of them was like a hole in her consciousness. She tried her best to ignore it and focused on the feel of the salty breeze on her skin and the lap of waves against the boat as she pulled at the oars. It took about fifteen minutes to reach the island where the Chalk Gate rose up out of the sandy islet- somehow the simple arch of the soft rock had been preserved through the ages, the edges still as crisp as they were when Chali’s stonemasons carved them. She had come to Death today on a double mission; the first half would be accomplished here. She took four jam jars out of her pack, the ones with clasps on each side to hold the lid down, as well as a tin of bait, and found her fishing rod where she had left it last time in the shadow of the arch. She wanted to catch some oddfish.
She was sure that there was another name for the oddfish, but she had paid little attention to her studies of the natives of Death, preferring to find out herself. There were supposedly Dark spirits roaming around all the gates, especially the later ones, but she had only been bothered by one twice and both times she had been able to dispatch them back to the Palace (or Hypothetical House, as her father called it). In any case, the Oddfish were strange-looking, vaguely fishy things that possessed rare and unusual powers, ranging from gargling “The Three Fishwives” to bringing good fortune. She was hoping for the latter, though the former was amusing and never failed to make Cook scream. Mother Third, as Stassiel affectionately called the good-natured guardian of the third gate, had suggested a better kind of bait the previous time. Stassiel was eager to try it out. Baiting her hook, she dropped it into the deep sea off the sudden drop on the west edge of the Island and waited for a bite.
It took her an hour to catch four good-sized oddfish. One was lucky, one said it could heal, one said it always told the truth, and the fourth could gargle. She put them each in their own jars, sealed the clasps, and set a spell to stop any leaks. Mother Third had not yet come to see her; that was unusual, for Mother Third was a motherly if not pleasant-looking being who always said hello and scolded bird-like Stassiel for not eating enough before returning to her patrol duties. The Third Gate was the main bastion that kept the Dead out of Life; the Fourth through the Seventh were so close to Death that over time their proximity had tainted them and weakened their defenses. Gate Four was the most dangerous gate as there was a bottleneck of Dead things there which had made it through the Fifth Gate but could neither go back nor advance towards Life. If Mother Third was not there to hassle Stassiel, it meant she was battling something on the other side. That the attack was strong enough to keep her, one of the strongest remaining Old ones, occupied for an entire hour was not a good sign. Stassi put on her heavy canvas overshirt to ward off the cold at the Fourth gate, unwrapped her sword from its leather bindings, and passed through the Third Gate. To her surprise the wall between the Third Gate and the Fourth Mountains was nearly impassable where it was usually only a thin membrane, and she had to fight her way through it. There was neither a battle nor a Mother Third on the other side, but only the usual expanse of snowy mountain top. Across the ridge, on a second, higher peak, were the translucent icy pillars of the Fourth Gate. The bright sun warded off shadows but in the pockets of deep shade behind rocks and in caves further down the mountain lurked the slithering forms of corrupted dead spirits. In a lecture from her father she had learned that it was on the very sunny days in Death that one should most fear the shadows, for it was then that the shade was deepest. Shivering in the cold, her lungs straining and heavy in the thin air, she trudged across to the Fourth Gate. Focusing on breathing and staying warm, she failed to notice that her shadow was moving independently of herself. She only noticed the tendrils round her neck, preparing to squeeze, when she stopped to collect herself and remember the spell. Her scream alerted all the dead in the mountains of her presence, but since Dead things don’t enjoy loud noises the tendrils halted their advance for enough time that she could whistle the little dancing tune of the counterspell. The shadow shrieked and wriggled like a bug on a pin as it was forced back into the snow, where it regrouped into a little blot of darkness like black quicksilver and scurried out of the bright sunlight. Shaken, Stassiel continued the spell for the Fourth Gate.
The Fifth Gate of granite rock in a dank, shadow-infested cave was no worse or better than usual; her only perpetual problem with it was that she had to keep a light spell up while passing through the gate to prevent shadows from following her in. The Sixth Gate was in a strange rushing city, an antechamber to the House. The Seventh Gate was on a dark marshy plain, on which nothing grew but stunted trees and where there was never a break in the clouds which crowned the place in a gray and dreary mist. The Seventh Gate was easy to miss in the mire, being made of crystal, and it was even easier to miss one’s footing and get pulled down into the bog and get one’s heart ripped out by the Bogbeasties. Again, they had a proper name, but Stassiel didn’t care about names as long as she could rest assured she wouldn’t meet one. She had, for once, paid great attention to her father’s books on the path through the Seventh Marsh, and she knew to ignore the swamp-lights and not stray off the winding patches of solid earth.
Death liked Stassiel. She had never been violently cast out, as her father had been once (and he still had scars to prove it). The weather on the Third Ocean never tried to kill her or wreck the dear little rowboat. She usually went through Death efficiently and without side-effects. However, the one thing in the Gates that had never taken a shine to her, even as a precocious little girl with her hem trod out and her bow hanging limp and loose, was the Guardian of the Seventh Gate.
To be continued…