Lara Lee's Blog, page 29

Puck’s Song

[image error]In my novel, Gryphendale, the scholarly satyr, Puck, teaches the human girl, Autumn, a song. This short song talks about the Gryphon who is the creator god in my story. For those familiar with medieval art would recognise this as a symbol of Christ. Annie Alder, who is narrating the novel for audible recorder the song and was kind enough to share it early as a sneak peek for the audiobook coming out in June. Enjoy the song by clicking the link below and let me know what you think in the commit section. May you be touched by the Gryphon’s wing!

Puck’s Song

 

Faith is the Author’s Trade

[image error]When I decided to become an author and actually claim that title as my new identity, I also took on a scope of challenges I never expected. Still, I wouldn’t turn back the clock for anything. Being an author is more who I am than any other professional job I have done. This doesn’t diminish the challenges.

Unlike most professions, authors can work for years with no visible reward for their efforts. Sometimes an author might get the validation of family and friends, but others are told they are just wasting their time or that the field is saturated. Writing a novel is by far the worst way to make an income. You are more likely to win the lottery than hit it big financially with writing. Still, thousands of people continue to write and call themselves writers.

As I write this blog, the discouragement is very real. I am not alone in writing agent after agent and hearing nothing back, or sending out short stories and novel manuscripts that disappear in a slush pile. Hundreds of talented writers hit brick walls towards getting published, so they seek self-publishing. Today, it is easy and cheap to get your novel out there, but it still doesn’t mean it will sell. You then must learn how to market your book, get reviews, and create a buzz. The quality of the novel does matter, but it is sometimes surprisingly hard to get a person to give your book a chance. The title and cover of the book carry more weight than I ever imagined.

And still, writers write.

Why is that? I write because I have a story to tell. It pours out of me, and I am obsessed with it. I really hope that others will like my story and benefit from it. Whether or not they do, I still feel the need to write at all cost. There is an unreasonable hope and faith that this story is of value that keeps me sending queries out over and over again. I read story after story of famous authors who walked the same journey of hope and faith. Novel after novel was only published after twenty inquires and piles of negative feedback. Insults and personal attacks are common even among the most celebrated classics.

So what keeps me going? Faith. I know I may work years before I reach the various goals I have set before myself, but I do believe I will get there. I have read enough biographies to know that the faith that produces action is the only secret to success. How long does it take to become a successful author? However long it takes.

No more Cliff-hangers!

[image error]I have been reading a large variety of books, and I find the most poignant difference between classics and self-published books is the use of cliff-hangers, open ending, and series hooks. I have read at least three of these kinds of endings this year alone. To be honest, I hate a book that doesn’t end. There was a time in my late teens that I even refused to read any book that was part of a series and mostly only read biographies. I know how a biography ends, the person dies.

It has become common advice online and even in some writing books for emerging writers that they should strive to never completely wrap up their story. Some even advocate cliff-hangers and open endings as a method to emotionally manipulate the reader to buy your next book. Never mind just proving yourself as a good writer with a loyal following, instead, you need to create dissonance in your reader’s emotions so they are clammoring for the next volume. For me personally, I might buy the next book to complete the story, but I will never buy another book from that author again. I read to relax, escape, and have fun. A book or series that causes me stress and manipulates my emotions in highly artificial ways is a betrayal of trust.

Perhaps, I am unusual, but I don’t think so. I have seen article after article of people wanting stand-alone books. The interest in short stories also ensures an ending to the story arc. Why is it that the vast majority of classic books are stand-alone? There are some famous series as well, but I would argue that the series ends and that each book has its own story arc that tends to end. With all generalities, there are exceptions, but I feel comfortable in saying that they are truly the exceptions.

Classic novels follow the main character into a major problem that spikes in a climax and wraps up in an ending. During the course of this dilemma, the character changes and the dilemma effects them in profound was. Anyone can create a problem or mystery to be solved, but a truly talented writer comes up with an amazing solution that makes the book satisfying to read.

The problem with a cliff-hanger ending is that many writers don’t deliver on what they promise. Either the next book isn’t written or the writer has left out everything that drew me to the next story. I also am repulsed by the complete lack of respect for the time and emotional energy it takes to read a novel. This complaint comes from a person who has read a 100,000-word novel in a single day many times. This is a full day that I have given to you as a writer that I will never get back.

So, as one who is happy to read your books and even review them, respect my time. Give me a story that you took the time to finish. I love a good story, but no more cliff-hanger, please!

What is fantasy fiction for me?

[image error]Fantasy fiction is a direct descendant of fairytales and myths. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, and George MacDonald were creators of some of the earliest fantasy fiction novels with the specific intention of creating modern fairytales and myths. Their tales existed in undefined far-off worlds with fuzzy boundaries. They had a somewhat medieval world in a vague time period. The magic had no rules or boundaries, and the heroes were ordinary with extraordinary virtue. Today’s fantasy fiction (post-1900s) looks quite different with the priority of “magic systems” and “world creation”. We have turned the intuitive world of the imagination into a scientific endeavor. For me, we are very much missing the point of the genre.

I am not making a sweeping statement that everyone must write the way I want them to, but I am making a statement about how I want to write. I am a huge fan of classic fairytales, folklore, and myths. I love them even more than modern fantasy fiction. I can read a collection of fairytales over and over again while I get frustrated with many modern books. The reason for this is that anything can happen in a fairytale. There are no rules. I happen to like that and want my writing to reflect those original ideas.

In today’s society, we believe we know what can or cannot happen in our world with precise mathematical accuracy. Our scientific approach to everything places all aspects of our lives in boxes and categories. Yes, this is an over-generalization reflecting my frustrations. Even our faith in God is dictated by artificial doctrines of what we think God’s boundaries are. The more I live and experience the world, the more I want to scream that this is all an illusion. Every day, I face events or circumstances I can’t explain. Why did this child get sick and that one stay well? Why do people fall in love? How did this disaster not get predicted? Where did this evil person come from and why do they want to harm/steal from me? Why do young healthy people die and old sick people live on and on? We cannot fathom all things or place life in a box. What makes us arrogant enough to know all facets of God’s mind or to try to control Him? Our tidy make-believe worlds reflect our attempt to make reality predictable and controllable. There is something frightening in the arbitrary events that hit us from every direction.

I argue that a magical world in which fairies and wizards can caste random spells, mythical creatures can just pop up out of nowhere, and our heroes are nothing special except for having a good heart is closer to reality than our controlled systems. I get tired of a hero or heroine whose only virtue is that they are a child of prophecy. The stories of children who are raised in some sort of unusual circumstance that makes them special are entertaining, but not inspiring. Most classic fairytales focus on ordinary characters who show some kind of virtue such as love, courage, honor, cleverness, or perseverance to overcome extraordinary odds.

I feel like part of the reason folklore or fairytales had non-magic using protagonists is so that we can feel like anything is possible for us as well. Life is often not about being more talented or special than everyone else. It tends to be about what we do with what we are given. Life is unfair. Even as Christians, the Bible shows that people are not given the same talents or gifts or blessings. Even reading history, those who changed the world usually were just in the right place at the right time and acted in the way that was needed. Anything CAN happen at any time. We can wake up to a windfall of money or get disabled in a car accident. The weather can change suddenly so that you end up in a hundred year flood or suddenly have a perfect day. We can randomly meet a long lost friend at the store or get a once in a lifetime opportunity. The adventure starts with how you respond to these events. No prophecy or fate has predetermined what you will do. We have a free will to choose. For me, that power to choose is what makes the world of fantasy suddenly make sense.

What is that you look for in fantasy fiction? Let me know in the commits below.

Writers Who Inspire Me

[image error]As I dive headlong into the field of writing, I often set before me amazing pillars of creativity as my role models. I am pretty sure every author does this. Why write if you don’t love to read? Even though I have a very long list of favorite writers, my inspiration usually returns to Jane Austin, C.S. Lewis, and J.R.R. Tolkien.

It would probably show my cultured literary prowess if I could name more obscure authors as my inspiration, but somehow I don’t think obscurity recommends itself as a sign of quality. These three authors have been read by millions of people, and I personally can read their books over and over again.

Jane Austin was criticized in her own lifetime for writing merely novels. During this time, intellectuals read non-fiction, and novels were seen as a waste of time. Jane Austin defied this norm and was secretly read by those who made these statements. She observed common everyday humanity and found something humorous and exciting to write about. Her stories are optimistic at the same time it makes fun of foolishness. How does she keep me so engrossed in a story which has no action, violence, mystery, or world ending threats? Her characters are just that fascinating!

C.S. Lewis wrote both fiction and nonfiction with so much creativity and imagination that no one has been able to match it. He created worlds in which anything could happen and taught us spiritual truths. He used his Christian faith not to limit his writing, but to expand it beyond mere physicality. Children can read his Chronicles of Narnia and grasp the development of the characters, while adults can read the same books and learn about their lack of faith and trust.

J.R.R. Tolkien is practically the father of the modern fantasy fiction novel[image error]. I have hardly heard of a fan of the genre who has not placed him rightfully on a pedestal. Yet, the field of fantasy fiction has moved away from the very sources he studied and wrote from. Today’s fantasy writers are obsessed with magic systems, a systematic set of rules for how the magic in their world works. It turns the chaotic and unknowable into a pseudo-scientific law of nature. Fantasy was born from fairytales and myths of which Tolkien was an expert. Fairytales and myths, if studied in depth, are far from consistent. Magic is random and ever-changing is these stories. Often the main characters are not wizards and must survive in an unpredictable world by some sort of virtue or skill. Tolkien took these elements and created a massive world that one can continue to explore forever. We never know everything about his world and that is part of what makes it so epic.

If I could accomplish just part of what these writers achieved, I would consider myself successful. What are your favorite writers? Let me know in the commits below.

Phantasies: a faerie romance for men and women by George MacDonald

I started reading Phantasies by George MacDonald because I had heard a lot about it. I can’t really remember if what I had heard was good or bad now that I think about it. I had started reading George MacDonald’s writing because C.S. Lewis loved it so much and I love C.S. Lewis’ writing. When I sat down to read this book I expected it to be light and easy like The Princess and the Goblin. Boy, was I surprised!

This book is a fairytale in the fact that it has all the fairy creatures and takes place mostly in fairy land, but it is not for children. There is nothing gruesome or dark, but the emotions are so complicated and intense that I can’t image a child understanding it. The main character, Anodos, journeys through fairy land right after his 21st birthday. That is the plot. That’s it. He meets all sorts of creatures and adventures, but his greatest enemy is his own shadow. It is a heartbreaking tale about loving without being loved in return.

As I read this book, all I saw was my four years in Scotland and my heart ached in ways that happen when a dear loved one passes away. I saw the friends I loved and the heartbreaks of intense loss. I saw the castles, cottages, and country lanes that I enjoyed walking on. I saw adventures and survival. When I was done with the book, I felt like I wept through the whole thing even though I never cried. The highs and lows of the emotions of the main character seemed extreme in some ways, but I still felt it deeply. I understood the shadow for what it was. We are often our own enemy to destroy the very things that would help us the most and to steal the joys that would make life more bearable. I guess my fairy land maybe a real place and time even though for many people, it may be just an emotional or spiritual journey. I also understand the ending and the continual expectation that fairy land will intrude on reality, but finding that it never does. There is a mix of relief and despair in that.

I appreciate this book deeply, but there are few people who I would recommend it to. It does not have a happily ever after ending. I typically would never pick up a book that ends like this, but the poetry and ideas of this story has made me a better person. It is full of adventures and battles. It has trials and mysterious places. It does have love as well. It is not an allegory and it doesn’t speak about God. It is more about our humanity with the birth and death of dreams. It is about living life for some purpose greater than ourselves. It is about the death of our selfish pride and arrogant self-importance. I still feel like I am grieving.

If you can bear it, read it. If you can’t, then you won’t enjoy it. It is the kind of book that makes me want to write poetry or just stare at the ocean and contemplate the meaning of life. It is a book that deeply changed me, but I have run out of words to try an articulate how.

Vote for my Story!

Hi Everyone!

My writing is in a competition and you can vote for it! My 500-word flash fiction is about the merpeople of Gryphendale. I am entry number seven. Just click the link below and vote for a story you like. Happy Reading!

 

An Audiobook and a Forum…

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[image error]This week has been busy!

I just signed a contract for an audiobook of Gryphendale to be made by June 16th through ACX. The talented Annie Alder will be narrating my novel. When the project is completed, it will be available to purchase on Audible, iTunes, and Amazon. I am so excited about it! I love audiobooks! I will let everyone know when it comes out.

Also this week, I was voted into a moderator position in the GoodReads group called Christian Speculative Fiction. Stan and Steve are assisting me with the task and we have been busy adding pictures, organizing old posts, creating new discussion threads, and editing the group bookshelf. If you are in GoodReads, come check out the group!

I also created a Facebook author’s page this week. I discovered that as I promoted my book, I would get more people following my facebook page. Since I like to keep professional business and personal business separate, it was time to make an official page for the book. Thank you to everyone who has already followed it and have been so encouraging! There is still so much to learn about promoting a book and having a writing career, but everyone has been very supportive.

I am still writing like crazy in the middle of all this too! The rough draft of The Gryphon’s Handmaiden is almost done. I just discovered that I really needed an extra chapter in the middle to describe a very cool scene in which a spy and a would-be assassin are very cleverly caught. This is way too much fun to be legal!

Have a great week everyone!

 

Crosby has a coffee Shop!

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Since the time we moved to Crosby, Texas, I have complained and moaned over the fact that Crosby did not have a suitable coffee shop to just relax at. My husband and I dated by going to coffee shops in Tulsa, Oklahoma. We loved the Starbucks in Tyler, Texas when we lived in Gladewater. We kept our sanity far from home in the coffee shops of Scotland, England, France, and Germany for four years. Now, to be deprived of such a pleasure except by driving over thirty minutes to a place with the suitable sitting room is a travesty.

I have nothing against Starbucks. In fact, we have always enjoyed the company in the various places we lived, but the one in Crosby is hard to get to and only has a couple of tables that are usually filled.

This month, Connections Coffee Shop has opened on 2100 Road and it is exactly what I have been hoping for! Not only is their coffee good, but there is lots of comfortable sitting space to work, meet with friends, or host events. The atmosphere is friendly and inviting. I personally might be more inclined to talk too much than get any real work done, but that it a problem I would love to have!

Donna Weis, the owner of the shop, is extremely knowledgeable about her drinks and her daughters are wonderfully helpful. They carry games and books that make it a place to linger over your cup of coffee and de-stress. I honestly can’t recommend the place enough. If you are in Crosby, stop at Connections Coffee Shop for a pleasant experience. You can find their beautiful website at www. connectionscoffee.com I most certainly will be a regular there myself!

 

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Gryphendale: Chapter 1

“If there is a door it must have led to something,” thought the young woman as she examined the solitary structure in a small opening of the forest. The oak leaves on the forest floor crunched under her tennis shoes as she walked around the ancient stone platform upon which the large double doors stood. She searched the ground for a building foundation or path that gave the doors a purpose, but nothing else was there. She proceeded to examine the nine foot tall doors. The doors were held up by a green marble door frame engraved with patterns of blowing leaves, flying creatures, and fairies. The woman couldn’t find any indication that the marble door frame had been attached to any other structure.

“How strange!” she muttered to herself, “perhaps it’s a monument.” The doors themselves were a dark wood trimmed in gold. The panels were engraved with a medieval styled gryphon. The door handles were also gold and above the golden handles, the doors were barred with a heavy wooden beam. The woman struggled to remove the beam from the gold holders and tried to pull on the door handles. The doors were firmly locked.

The woman walked around to the opposite side of the doors. The back of the doors had no handles. Instead, a colorful mural depicting an epic battle filled the smooth surface of both doors. The warriors in the battle consisted of a variety of mythological creatures and humans. In the foreground, almost life-sized were depicted two men face-to-face in combat. One was a human male with dark hair and a sword. The other was a moth-winged man with light hair, pointed ears, and fire coming from his hands. Diagonally at their feet lay a dark-haired woman with pointed ears and a mortal wound to her abdomen. Her face looked peaceful as though she had been sleeping. Above all this chaos, was painted a flying blue gryphon staring straight at the viewer.

The woman was studying this art piece when the doors began to rattle and creak. Just as she looked around the corner of the door frame to see who might be playing with the handles on the front side, the doors flew open inches from her face, forcing her to jump back. She rushed around the open doors to the front to see who opened them, but she only caught a glimpse of a blue tail and back foot of a large feline disappearing through the doorway. The woman darted around the structure back to where she had been before the rattling and was shocked to find that the doors with the mural on them were still closed.

“Are there two sets of doors?” she asked herself. She returned to the front with the open doors and looked directly in. She could see through the doorway to the trees on the other side. The woman then walked around again to the back. The smoothly painted doors were still closed with the same mural she had observed before. She continued around. The front of the doors were open so she could see through. After completing this circle a third time, she stopped and stared through the opening.

“It must be an optical illusion,” she thought to herself. She reached out her right hand and walked towards the opening to touch it. Her hand went through as though nothing was there. Suddenly, a force shoved her from behind, and she stumbled through the doorway landing on her knees. The sting of the fall on her hands reverberated through her like the hollow sound of wind through an empty cave, sweeping away her memories. For an instant, she started to look back, but the sight of the blue feline tail disappearing into the brush took hold of her attention.

“Hey wait!” she shouted. She decided to go after it and see what it was, forgetting anything about the doors she had just gone through.

She took off in a sprint toward the forest edge where the creature had entered the brush. The sun sat low in the sky causing visibility to rapidly diminish. She ran wildly to keep up with the sound of the creature somewhere close in front of her. The woods were increasingly dense and dark as she followed the sound. After some time of fighting through the brush, she found herself drained of energy and short of breath.

“Stop! I can’t keep up. Who are you?” she gasped. The closing branches around her entangled her reddish hair as she rushed by. Her clothes felt heavier as she tired. She tripped over her own feet and splashed into the muddy ground. “Dadgummit!” she shouted in anger. Now she was lost, too. There was no way she would be able to catch up to noise, now distant in the far brush. She pushed herself up and wiped the mud off herself trousers. Her clothes had become much too big, and her shoes had grown three sizes too large. She looked down at her hands. They had transformed into soft, round, child-like hands. The girl felt panic welling up inside of her. How did she get here? She could not remember. Who was she chasing? She did not know. Why was she chasing it? Who was she? Where did she come from? She could not remember anything at all from before running into the forest. Tears welled up in her eyes.

“If anyone is out there, I give up. I’m ready to go home.”

No one responded.

She walked over to a nearby oak and plopped down under it. Then she wept, feeling helpless and alone. She could do nothing to fix her situation. Even if she could get out of this forest, she didn’t know where to go.

The girl stopped crying as she got an idea. She searched her pockets. She found a set of keys, some gum, a pocket knife, a cell phone with a dead battery, and a little money. She also discovered a picture, and in the darkness, she was still able to see the person in it. The black and white photo was a beautiful light-haired lady with rich, dark eyes. Her thin face was perfectly framed by her long hair and she was laughing cheerfully.

The girl studied the picture closely in the darkness. No writing was on it, and there was nothing to indicate the identity of the lady in the picture or when it was taken. She carefully folded it back up and placed it in her jean jacket pocket with the rest of her stuff.

Just at that moment, the girl heard the rustling again. The wind then blew through the branches as though following the creature in the brush. A voice on the wind spoke, “Don’t be afraid. I am with you.” The voice faded away as the wind died down. The girl heard the creature begin moving through the forest, once again just out of sight.

“Wait. I’m coming with you,” the girl shouted after it. She jumped up to follow it. This time her clothes were so baggy that she had to hold up her jeans so she could hobble forward. After a few yards, she stopped, took off her shoes, and rolled up her jeans before proceeding. The creature seemed to be barely moving forward as though it was waiting for her.

“Thank you. I’m ready to follow now,” she shouted to it. She progressed slowly through the dense brush. Even though she was certain that she was following the creature, she was astonished to notice that its passage through the brush left no bent branches or trampled ground. It did not struggle like she did.

She ducked under the last branch and emerged into a clearing. As she looked up, she gasped at the landscape before her. The clear night sky glittered with stars like diamonds on a black velvet gown. A huge moon the size of a giant porcelain plate barely touched the horizon. At the base of the moon, a hilly forest stretched into the distance. A misty lake which began a few yards in front of her mirrored the moon and night sky. Everything was an eerie pale green in the lake’s glassy surface.

A high pitched wail pierced the silent night revere. The girl shivered and turned to her right towards the sound. The wail repeated, this time lower, like a sob, followed quickly by a louder cry. The sounds appeared to be originating behind a group of large rocks on the lake’s edge. She cautiously crept around the rocks and saw an elegant woman sitting on a simple wooden chair with her back to the girl. Next to her, was a basket filled with white garments. The woman’s hands appeared greenish against the pale robe she was washing.

The greenish woman, sensing an observer behind her, turned her face towards the girl and the rocks. The girl gasped at her vividly red eyes. The greenish woman’s skin around her eyes was also red as if she had been crying for days. The strange woman rose to her feet, facing the girl and called out, “Child, are you lost?”

The girl started to slink away from view, but then gathering courage stepped forward and responded, “Yes, I ….” The girl faltered, unsure what to say. She considered asking for directions or information, but she blurted out, “Why are you crying?”

“I can see that you are not from here. You are a human child. Well, child, I am Mara of the Sorrowful Lake, Queen of the Banshee.” She paused, but seeing that the girl did not understand, she continued. “The Banshee are a people given to the task of mourning. We weep over every individual who dies. We also foretell the nearing demise of the noble preparing their burial clothes in advance for their coming doom. This night my sorrow is exceedingly bitter. The garments I have washed are for a very great hero deserving the attention only a queen could give. The robes puzzle me for it is rare to not know who the clothes might be for. These are perhaps the size of a small Sprite or a tall Brownie, but I know not of one who fits this description.” She sighed and dropped the garment she was holding into her basket next to the wooden chair. Then she looked up. “Now tell me about yourself. Who are you and how did you come here?”

The girl lowered her eyes from the majestic woman and began to dig in the dirt with her sock covered toe. “I don’t remember,” she mumbled. “I don’t know where I am, how I got here, or where I’m from.”

“Do not worry, child.” The queen reached out her hand with a kind smile. The girl stepped forward and took it. “I sense the good in you. I will help you. What is the last thing you do remember?” The queen sat in her chair to look into the girl’s eyes. “It might be very important.”

“Well, I remember running through the woods after something ….” As the girl started her story, a violent rustling came from a bush at the forest edge.

A voice cried out, “Off! You horrid arachnids! Die, I say!” The violent rustling continued.

The queen stood up and the girl hid behind her. “Whoever you are, show yourself immediately!” demanded the queen.

A bundle of fur leaped from the forest edge and rolled around, dropping a bright orange top hat and matching umbrella. Finally, it stood up, brushing itself off. He was a small satyr, about the girl’s height. He wore a white long-sleeve shirt, a fine patterned orange vest, with a chain coming from the pocket. He had a reddish goatee, sprinkled with streaks of gray hair, and a mop of the same red and gray curly hair on his head. He walked over and picked up his hat and umbrella.

The little satyr then gave a grand bow. “Your Highness,” he addressed formally.

“Puck!” the queen exclaimed, then sighed. “Why are you here? There is a price on your head.”

“I had a vision about the wind portal and journeyed here to verify its security. I was resting nearby when I was awakened by this girl’s running through the woods. I pursued her until I was assailed by those terrible beasts,” he explained. “The girl arrived here on her own, but she will not be able to return. I do not know how, but the portals were unlocked without being opened.”

The queen gasped. “Unlocked?”

Suddenly, a huge crow began to fly straight for the girl. Puck stepped in the way and whacked him with his umbrella. He then waved his free hand creating a clear bubble around them.

“A spy,” said Queen Mara.

Puck nodded. “The shield will make us invisible for a little while,” he said to the girl.

After a moment of silent thinking, the queen said, “The girl is here now, and she must be kept safe from the eyes of Maldamien. I think she is under a curse. We are not safe here. Maldamien will know she has arrived. I cannot bring her to my court. There are spies everywhere, even in the Banshee palace.”

“Let me take the girl,” Puck volunteered. “I can both protect her and teach her how to survive. I also have to stay away from Maldamien’s eyes.”

“That would be best. Thank you, Puck.” The queen pushed the girl around in front of her and knelt to her eye level. “What is your name, child? Do you remember?”

The girl looked into the queen’s bright red eyes. “Yes. My name is Autumn.”

Queen Mara frowned and stood up, looking at Puck. “That is a portentous name.”

Puck shook his head and shrugged. “It is a lovely name,” he replied.

The queen’s frown softened. “Yes,” the queen agreed, a smile briefly touching the corners of her mouth. “Puck, we must hurry. Autumn is definitely under the curse of the portals. She has the smell of magic on her. She has no memory, and whatever her previous age, she has been transformed into a child. As her guardian, I would like to bind you two together.” Puck and the Queen seemed to have a quick exchange of expressions until a silent understanding passed between them in that momentarily pause.

She looked at Autumn. “This would magically help you both keep track of each other. If you are separated for any reason, you will always be able to be found by Puck. Also,” she turned to Puck, “I can give you papers to help you travel securely as master and slave. It would be less suspicious if she is disguised.” The queen smiled at Autumn. “This will only be a disguise for your safety. Trust Puck. He was once a school teacher and he will take care of you.”

“I am afraid that your plan would be best, but I detest slavery, even the image of it,” grumbled Puck. “At least the magic bond will be there in a worst case scenario, but the girl must be willing.”

Autumn looked at both adults. She had just met them. She felt like she could trust them but to be magically leashed to someone seemed drastic. Puck took the girl’s hands. “I know you must be confused and afraid, but I will try to help you get home ….”

Autumn jerked her head up and looked into Puck’s eyes. “I don’t want to go home.”

Puck looked at the queen, then back at the girl. “What?”

“We must hurry, child.” The Queen looked around. “I feel eyes upon us.” The queen waved her hand reinforcing the dome around them. “This will help for now.”

“I don’t know why, but I know that I have no home and that I am looking for something. I can’t do anything until I get my memories back. I will be bound if you will help me break this curse and help me find what I was searching for,” the girl stated more confidently than she felt. She didn’t feel like she had much choice. It was a choice to go with them or wander around alone.

Puck nodded.

“So be it,” said the Queen as she held out her hand. Puck placed his hand in hers. “Autumn, place your right hand over Puck’s.”

Autumn obeyed. As Autumn touched Puck’s hand, multicolored rays of light shot out of the Queen’s hand. A ring of some sort of writing appeared on Puck’s and Autumn’s wrists. The girl removed her hand from Puck’s, and Puck picked up three pieces of paper from the Queen’s hand. Autumn looked at the green symbols encircling her wrists. She felt anxious hoping she hadn’t just made a mistake.

The Queen tiredly addressed them. “I have helped you as much as I can, but now go. My magic will go with you for as long as possible, but it will fade soon. My hopes go with you as well.”

The Banshee Queen turn towards the lake, which moved out of her way revealing a hidden staircase. She walked down into the depths, the water closed over her, and she was gone.

 

If you like what you read, Gryphendale is available at Amazon:

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