(c) Nin Harris 2009 – . All Rights Reserved. Left of the Librarium, and slanting somewhat northwards the corridor swerves. The floor is covered with a threadbare carpet of maroon with beige swirls, intricate details lost under years of wear and dust. She pays attention to each dip and swerve in the floor as she … Continue reading House Slippers and a Swerving Corridor
(c) Nin Harris. All Rights Reserved.
In Memory of Janet Yanosko Elkins, one of the first and earliest readers of this frenetic, hypertextual web and all souls, friends and loved ones lost along the way, somewhere in the Great Dreaming.
Ackbroll squatted beneath the shadow of a teak tree, watching The Wild Maiden of The Trees as she circled the gradon that dreamt within states. All around them, Nemorosum Somnium moved and rustled. It was a feral force that troubled even the Maiden in all her wildness. It troubled Ackbroll even more so, for he was significantly less untamed. His patron, the antlered one, had warned him of this many moons ago. Now, as the Wild Maiden grew frenetic and urgent, he finally understood. The wind affected even him, the murmuring of the trees bending and shifting his own memories, despite the protection of the antlered one. Ackbroll had been named protector here, even if he could have left, his own sense of responsibility would not let him do so.
The susurration that was the conversation between twigs, the veins of corresponding leaves and the wind created an intricate weave that contained the consciousness of a thousand trees and more. It drowned out the thoughts of humans and animals alike. The susurration had the penunggu in the trees cackling and hooting, half-wild with starvation and a glee born of both deprivation and power. The madness of the forest had kept away the tourists who provided them with fresh blood, and fresher meat, but had given these malicious protectors of the trees something else. A new strength, a new dreaming. This could not bode well, Ackbroll thought. He sucked at his upper lip and made an irritated sound. There was no help for it, he had to act soon. Timing was everything. No time for elaborate plans here. He took his slingshot, and loaded it with a mangosteen fruit. It was firm, but soft. Firm enough to be used as a projectile. Soft enough not to hurt too much if used. He looked up at the elegant teak tree and patted its trunk in a familiar, affectionate gesture.
“This may hurt a little,” he said to both the tree and the forest.
He eyed the gradon, whom he knew to be the queen of dragons, as well as the source of the disturbance within the heart of the forest. He aimed his slingshot. He fired.
It would have been a loud shout of outrage, had it not hit something other than a very diminutive target. Ackbroll dropped his slingshot, squinted and then sighed.
“Broke my wing! My wing! Stupid spear-boy!”
Ackbroll dropped to his knees and peered at the Flitterer.
“Weren’t you banished from Nemus Animae?”
(c) Nin Harris 2009 — The Arbitrator is in a fuzzy, deep blue bathrobe today, his close-cropped red hair wet as if he has just come out of a bath. He invites me into his home in the South-Eastern Wing of Domus Exsulis, a sturdy retreat built of wood and set atop tall pillars of … Continue reading The Arbitrator Speaks of Story-Theft
(c) Nin Harris 2009– Somewhere on the grounds of Domus Exsulis, there is a real thicket of thorns and roses. The wild roses remember a tale; a long time ago, a winged One carried his bride to this isle on the back of Zephyr. The roses remember how a bright-browed One was transfigured by the … Continue reading In a Real Rose Garden, The Roses Dream
(c) Nin Harris 2009– You don’t always hear of trees that dream they were once dragons. Still, they may be more frequent in number than dragons that dream they were once trees. Our attention may now focus on a peculiar tree within this dreaming forest of peculiar trees. All trees dream; within a dreaming forest … Continue reading Of Dreaming Trees with Identity Crises
(c) Nin Harris 2009 — Ipede Dwinkum looked at his hat. It was a rather battered old thing, but Waterlily had gifted it to him. You do not throw away a faerie gift. You were permitted or sometimes, even encouraged, to forget it, but you do not throw it away. Not that Ipede would, or … Continue reading In which Ipede discovers a flaw in his geas
(c) Nin Harris 2009 Every now and then, some of the braver or naughtier children from Mykologosia break into the grounds of Domus Exsulis. Their city-state was set up, after all, in defiance of The Guardian’s rule. Now, with her retirement and with one of their own as the Caretaker of Yrejveree, how could they not … Continue reading The Kitchen Witch Grumbles
(c) Nin Harris 2009 Yildie liked to visit with the rivermaiden and the kitsune some evenings. There were times when the Caretaker’s morose moods and the continuous battles between the bogles and the domestic djinn in the hallways drove her out of her mind. Evenings like those were made for roaming, if not the vast … Continue reading Yildie and the Arbitrator
(c) Nin Harris 2009 — The rivermaiden had heard of others like her before. Those who were made, those who haunted the banks where they had flung themselves into the rivers. Others yet, daughters of whatever numen lay within the river. She had heard these tales but had never known for sure if she had … Continue reading The rivermaiden and the kitsune triad
(c) Nin Harris 2009– Every garden or grounds has a bottom. This remains true even if it is a postcard sized yard or if your space is cemented, or if everything is perfectly level, or circular or hexagonal. You do not need to know where the garden’s bottom is. The faeries do. We do. Wherever … Continue reading At The Garden’s Bottom