Steve Shilstone's Blog, page 35

THE CHRONICLERS – 2

The second chronicler was a roamer maiden, Fuzzybug Lacejacket, Lace for short.

She was sent by the lavender witch to Harpo's home by the Well of Shells to be his scribe after he had gone blind. Harpo dictated four chronicles to her, and she could not keep herself from adding little comments of her own. She questioned some of Harpo's constant angling for a joke. For instance, throughout his stories Harpo always called the lavender witch Babbling Jam Hatrack. Lace, knowing the witch was in plain fact Babba Ja Harick, didn't refrain from commenting. Though she didn't change Harpo's words, she added her own as footnotes of a sort. Lace's voice is more straightforward and less playful than Harpo's. Three of her five chronicles are personal memoirs, much like Bekka's. Lace was the first chronicler to travel a portal to Earth and return to Boad. Will Bekka be the second to do so?

THE CHRONICLERS – 2

The second chronicler was a roamer maiden, Fuzzybug Lacejacket, Lace for short.

She was sent by the lavender witch to Harpo's home there by the Well of Shells to be his scribe after he had gone blind. Harpo dictated four chronicles to her, and she could not keep from adding little comments of her own. She questioned some of Harpo's constant angling for a joke. For instance, throughout his stories Harpo always called the lavender witch Babbling Jam Hatrack. Lace, knowing the witch was in plain fact Babba Ja Harick, didn't refrain from commenting. Though she didn't change Harpo's words, she added her own as footnotes of a sort. Lace's voice is more straightforward and less playful than Harpo's. Three of her five chronicles are personal memoirs, much like Bekka's. She is the first chronicler to travel a portal to Earth and return to Boad. Will Bekka be the second to do so?

THE CHRONICLERS – 1

I'm going to undertake a series of posts describing the different personalities of the four (so far!) Boadlian chroniclers – Harpo, Lace, Bekka, and Plumly. Here is a thumbnail sketch of Harpsandichord Lambsbottler, Harpo for short. Yes, he was the first chronicler chosen by the lavender witch to tell stories of Boad.

He was a roamer, a so-called wandering tailor. He introduced himself to me in the very first story, FAN WA. I didn't realize he was the narrator until I began to write the third tale. I had written FAN WA and BABBLING JAM HATRACK, the first two stories, in my own voice. Well, when Harpo finally insisted on elbowing me aside, I went willingly, and the first two stories were rewritten. I let him prattle on in any old way he wanted, and he did show some peculiarities. First, it seems he always looked for a laugh. Fair enough. Second, he tended to stretch the truth all the way into fiction if it suited him. Well, okay. Third, he experimented quite a lot with style and form. That is, he was playful. Fine. When, after completing 7 chronicles, his eyesight began to fail, he wrote three shorter tales so that he could get them recorded before he went completely blind. Happily, the lavender witch sent Lace, who was to become the second chronicler, to be his scribe. Harpo finished four more stories, dictating them to Lace. His final story before he died was an autobiography, HARPSANDICHORD LAMBSBOTTLER. He was quite beloved and famous far beyond his own time, even 1000 years into the future where Bekka of Thorns knew and revered his tales.

RUTH PLUMLY THOMPSON

Following Bekka, the fourth chronicler of Boad will be Plumly, so named by me in honor of Ruth Plumly Thompson, who continued writing the Oz books after L. Frank Baum's death. I received The Gnome King of Oz as a birthday present in 1955. Imagine how thrilled I was to rip off the wrapping paper and see that great cover. I treasured my Oz books and still have quite a few of them. Ruth Plumly Thompson certainly proved to be a worthy successor to L. Frank Baum. Scraps, the Patchwork Girl, becomes the not so happy Queen of the Quilties in The Gnome King of Oz. Read it and hear the voice of Oz stories in the 1920s. Thank you, Ruth. I hope my character of Plumly would have met with your approval.

BEDTIME STORY

At http://www.youtube.com/user/SteveShil... you will find a complete Boad tale told by me. It's called 'Little Hutter' (That's her pictured below), and I tell it in five segments, each one just the right length for a bedtime story.

FLECKRUNNER

Fleckrunners appear as supporting characters in tales told by all the chroniclers – Harpo, Lace, Bekka and Plumly. They are Blossom Castle dwellers and tend the gate. Their general disposition is described below by Lace in her chronicle, O'TAN'S GATE. A certain mystery about them is revealed much later in the same story.

The Quing, all magnificence in her battered gold array, high on the topmost terrace, stood on the loftiest stone step in front of the Goldsilver Door of the Gem Studded Pod. The Quang, a Royal sight in his pummeled silver garb, was beside her. They were posed to wait for the Concert. Zhodor the crump, head spinning, face and face, arms waving and pointing, conducted the preparations from the third terrace Carven Dragon Fountain, the one planted next to the path twining up and up the terraces. The Royal shout of the Quing doubled the bustle frenzy. Tripled it! Stonejagglers, leaftrimmers, soilsweeps, waterdrippers, weeders and tenders by the bevy boiled over the terraces, polishing, snipping, dripping, sweeping. Fair and true, it must be noted as boldest contrast that fleckrunners yawned and leaned against convenient walls. One of them leaning against the whitest door behind us idly examined the back of her ash green hand. Her eyes were half closed, a picture of boredom made complete when she yawned, something fleckrunners did far more than often. Didn't they get enough sleep? Dosh, beside me, appeared to be whelmed by the crash of activity, noise and color. The riots of flowers flooding the terraces and the thick tangles of rainbow ivy climbing the Blossom Castle walls and towers were enough to whelm any creature.

 

ESKAR SHARD

Pictured there is the ranger of travel known as Eskar Shard. He played a pivotal role in the Lace chronicle, O'TAN'S GATE. Dosh, the hutkeeper questing to solve random rain riddles, introduces Eskar Shard as she begins to tell her story to Lace and to Frad, the nester musician.

"It all began on a cloudless day," said Dosh, turning her back to us and directing her speech out the window and into the sky above the Woods Beyond the Wood. "It was a day like this one. My pleasure imagined, I was in the process of completing my morning kneebends by the side of my own precious honeyhut on the Road to Dragon's Deep Pool. My happiness was honey pure. A newness of life had begun for me, a new chapter. It was my first day alone with my very own precious honeyhut … Precious honeyhut … It was stocked with pots of Clover honey and casks of honeymead. I was prepared to refresh all wanderers that might appear and to engage them in friendly conversation. Such was the so of my hutkeeper heritage. I had chosen the path of honeytender. A truth, I never wanted another. Service to Royalty was the passion of my ancestry, not mine. Dripping honey from pots and pouring honeymead from casks was my heart's safety. And so there I was on my first full day alone with my own newly thatched hut filled with pots and casks to be tended by me.

"As I stretched full stand from my hundredth kneebend, I spied a traveler cresting the hill. With a hoisted pack slung over his shoulder, he appeared to be a ranger of travel with a long orange beard, a brown crafted coat, and dusty black rim jangle tallboots. I heard the jingling of his boot jangles as he drew closer. 'What tell, imagine my pleasure! I am Dosh, hutkeeper on the Road to Dragon's Deep Pool,' I called. 'You are wingless, I see. You must be aware, I am certain, that you are walking the Road to Dragon's Deep Pool. No turning back without wings or magic. This, for you, is not news, I can see. Have some honey?' The stranger approached with a nod. He stopped and wiped a green hand across his brow. He took off his hat and fanned himself with its feathers. Glorious fat plunch feathers, I remember them. 'Hutkeeper, I thank ye, but no honey for me. I be Eskar Shard, a ranger of travel,' he said. 'I range on this path for to taste of the famous beet soup. Have ye heared of it? Have ye tasted it?' I, of course, had heard of the Dragon's borsht and told the ranger so. I had even seen the Dragon and sprite in flight, but had never tasted the famous soup. The ranger accepted the handled ladle of honeymead I offered as we traded words politely. Then he saluted me in the ranger manner, and I wished him fortune on his quest for soup. He started down the road, paused, and turned back. 'Hutkeeper,' he said, 'I like the likes of ye. Ever have I fairly been greeted by such as the likes of yourself. I be of a thought to give ye something.' He jangled slowly to my hut. He swung his red and yellow crosspatch pack from his shoulder. 'Imagine my pleasure to serve you, I mean ye, honeymead. I ask no payment,' I objected. 'Nonsense,' he said. 'Here. Ye keep this. A waterwizard gave it to me once upon a time. He said I would know when to give it away. Well, hutkeeper, I just now heard a blang of bells and chimes in my head telling me to give it to ye. Here again.' I took it. What else could I do? The ranger winked, shouldered his pack, and marched jangling away down the road.

"I need … I feel a nince overtired. Is there more of that water? A taste of that honey? A song from the musician – Frad, is it? – would be a welcomed thing."

I gave her water and another taste of the inferior Blossom honey. Frad sprang to his ziler and wove a beautiful morning song into the air. The smile on Dosh's face remained constant, but in her eyes I could see the madness beginning to flare.

"You need to rest longer before you continue," I said. "Slumber will refresh you. We will return later, and if you feel your strength growing, we eagerly will listen to all you have to tell."

Frad snatched his ziler from his lips and glared at me. I led Dosh to the sleepshelf and settled her under the rainbow puff quilt.

 

THE BEKKA CHRONICLES – A LIST

1. BEKKA OF THORNS – published

2. THE CARVEN FLUTE – published

3. RAKARA – published

4. THE WOODLOCK – comng soon

5. THE BLUE HILLS – a tale of retrieval

6. THE WAND – a tale of rests

7. QUEN NIM – a tale of the ridiculous

8. THE SNOWS OF THE CHARBORR FOREST – a test of reliability

9. DOWN THE WELL – a tale of rescue and removal

ARCH LION OF IBBLE

The Arch Lion of Ibble appears in an ancient Harpo chronicle, The Acrotwist Clown. He is, in fact, Harpo's brother, Pepperhead Beanpackage. His first appearance in the tale is posted below.

Out on to the swaying rope bridge, wind howling, huge galones Ohhhhhhhhhing, inched Prince Dale, Jemby and Malvina. Prince Dale tried to fall twice, as was his custom, but was caught and protected each time by the strong and forest green hand of Jemby the Goblin. Forward, eyes tight shut, teeth clenched, into the ever louder Ohhhhhhhh they went. Until. Until Prince Dale set his Royal Magenta boot on firm level rocky ground. Across. They were across. The wind seemed disappointed and stopped howling. The Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh dribbled away to nothing in the night. A torch. There was light from a flaming torch. The huge galones, monstrous boulders, moved no more. Torch light played on frozen sculpted granite heads, motionless stone grins.

"What do you think, brave travelers, of our work?" asked a voice which came from somewhere near the flaming torch.

Before Jemby or Dale or Malvina could think of anything to say, a white blur spun by them, flipping and twisting.

"These statues of yours certainly would frighten lesser creatures than I," said Nobb, who had skillfully acroed across the bridge after the moaning of wind and galones had ceased. "I am Nobb, Acrotwist Clown, leader of the Four of The Prophesy. We are on our way to Shangra Pass. Have you food? I need some. We wish to dine and spend the night."

More torches appeared. In the flicker flame glow, the four could see that the torches were held by bearded men in long hooded robes.

"We are the Ibblers of Kraan," said one. "We guard the way to Shangra Pass. Those who turn back frightened by our galones possess not the gimpus to survive the ice of Shangra Pass. You have gimpus. Welcome. We will feed you and give you shelter. I am Pepperhead Beanpackage, Arch Lion of Ibble."

Welcomed with murmuring, Malvina, Jemby, Dale and Nobb were led through an ear door into a huge galone, which they soon discoverd was a hollowed out megaboulder filled with wheels, levers, pulleys, ropes and cranks, all dedicated to making the stony face move. There were tables, chairs, food, beds. Huge galones were huge. Prince Dale and Malvina stared wide-eyed at this, that, the other and the other other.

"How do you make the groan?" asked Malvina.

The bearded men gathered in rows. Pepperhead Beanpackage climbed up on a chair, raised his hand, and dropped it. The Ibblers of Kraan opened wide their mouths and filled the room with Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh until Pepperhead Beanpackage gave the stop sign. What was the stop sign? He knifed his hand through the air. The Ibblers shut down at once.

WEEDTHISTLE

One of Harpo's chronicles, much admired and often acted out by Bek and Kar, is The Great Green Va. In it, a young hutkeeper accompanies the Princess Ivah Skay on an adventure to the mountains of Skrabble and to the underground river, Sharumin, Coil of Gold, and to a final destination in the hills of Clover. The first meeting of the Princess and the young hutkeeper is posted below.

A sudden fluttering and flapping sounded from behind the hut at the crest of the hill. Around the hut came flying Aboth's hutkeeper Bolt, yellow kneesocks and pantaloons, yellow vest and yellow wings, yellow eyes in a smiling lavender lilac face. Bolt the hutkeeper, the hutkeeper Bolt, flew down to greet his Prince and, more than that, in addition, imagine his pleasure, the youngling Princess herself. He glided to a low landing bow and bent five kneebends in formal salute.

"Your Honeynesses, imagine my pleasure," said Bolt, and he folded his beautiful wings flat to the back of his yellow vest.

"Bolt, this is the Princess Ivah Skay. She is my own youngling sister, no doubt you have heard me say it," explained Prince Aboth.

"Imagine my pleasure again," said Bolt, easily flexing and bending his lavender lilac arms.

"The King has banished her here to think about following rules. Please clear a pot hut for her use," commanded Aboth.

"Imagine my pleasure," said Bolt, and he lifted from the path with a stretch and a sweep of his gorgeous yellow full feathered wings.

"Ivah Skay, you may follow Bolt," said the Prince, hurrying up to his hut and rushing inside, slamming the yellow door behind him.

Ivah Skay smiled and mumbled, "Lackwit, this will be one bar easy."

"What will be one bar easy?" said a small clear voice.

Ivah Skay spun around and saw a youngling of her very own measure peeking out from behind a rather bushy threadtree sprouting there in the smooth clover grass. The youngling stepped out to the path, revealing herself to be a miniature hutkeeper, yellow clad and lavender limbed.

"Who are you?" asked Ivah Skay.

"I am Wax. My father is who you just saw fly away to get the hut clear. Are you staying for real? What is it like to be a Princess? How old are you? Do you really have a cask of jewels? Do you like honey? I'll tell you a secret. I don't much at all except the kind I make in secret. Your clothes are roamer weave, aren't they? Mine are threadtree. Where do you keep your crown? How many jewels do you have? Do you play with them? Would you like to see where I hide?"

Ivah Skay carefully studied the youngling hutkeeper and was jar clean satisfied to let her fill the air with words. More and more she liked what she heard. She decided to interrupt.

"I don't like honey either. Yes, I would like to see where you hide," said Ivah Skay.

Wax opened her yellow eyes wide and said, "Really?"

"Really, really, really, really," replied Ivah Skay.

"We should be friends then," decided Wax. "I hate my name. Wax, Wax, Wax. What a nub of a name! I have a secret name I call myself. Will you call me by my secret name?"

"I would if I knew it," said Ivah Skay.

"Weedthistle," whispered Wax, blushing purple on her cheeks and forehead.