Would You Like A Jelly Baby?

For Laura, who has never eaten a jelly baby. Yes, m'dear, you are missing out ;)

Literary Quote #6--'The Brothers Karamazov'

'Once upon a time there lived a very nasty, horrible old woman. When she died, she didn't leave behind her one single good deed. So the devils got hold of her and tossed her into the flaming lake. Meantime, her guardian angel stood there, trying hard to think of one good deed of hers that he could mention to God in order to save her. Then he remembered and said to God: "Once," he said, "She pulled up an onion in her garden and gave it to a beggar woman." So God said to him: "Take that onion, hold it out to her over the lake, let her hold onto it, and try to pull herself out. If she does, let her enter heaven; if the onion breaks, the old woman will just have to stay where she is." So the angel hurried to the woman, held out the onion to her, and told her to take hold of it and pull. Then he himself began to pull her out very carefully and she was almost entirely out of the lake when the other sinners saw that she was being pulled out and grabbed on to her so that they'd be pulled out of the flames too. But when she saw them, that wicked, horrible woman started kicking them, saying: "I'm being pulled out, not you, for it's my onion, not yours!" As soon as she said that, then onion snapped and the woman fell back into the flaming lake, where she's still burning to this day. And her guardian angel wept and walked away.'


What a story! And yet it is a moment in the book which stood out to me very clearly. I enjoyed it. Is this truly a Russian folk tale, does anyone know, or did Dostoevsky make it up?

One Can Never Have Too Much Pachelbel . . .

Do you guys remember the Pachelbel Rant video? Laura, I believe you sent it to everyone . . . well anyways, I was looking it up today, and came across this. And it's impressive (to me anyway) musically, but it's also pretty hilarious.

'The Nighthawk's Candle' --Part IV

IV.

A boy was running through the trees, gasping and terrified, and he kept glancing behind himself, as though to try and get a glimpse of that which he was fleeing from. The rain was so strong now it penetrated even here, and rain ran from his face, his bare arms, his fine clothing--the dye had begun to run from his garments, streaking his skin with green and blue and red, and the cloth would surely be ruined by the wet, which was a shame. It was masterfully made, and fine as though the last stitch had been sewn only that day.

He tripped and fell, but caught himself on his hands and knees and scrambled upright again, rushing onward, ever onward. His knees and hands were red, and it was not from the dye of his clothes. His thick black hair whipped in wet swirls against his face, and the brambles and stones he stumbled past tore at his skin.

He was a very little boy, only a child, no more than eight years old from the look of his face and his thin limbs. A child: tiny and white and sobbing, running through the vast forest, tripping and staggering, trembling in the rain. There was a terror, a blind, hungry terror pursuing him, and he was lost, running through the trees that leered at him with their long black faces.

At last he fell and did not get up, but sprawled painfully on the moldy ground, drenched and cold and alone. Slowly, he raised his head, and pulled himself into sitting position, staring with frightened eyes at the blood on his hands. He tried to wipe them clean on his shins, then pulled them back with a yelp of pain. He clawed frantically at the fine clothes he wore, and they tore a little, but not much. They were very well-sewn.

Trembling and rocking slightly, he gazed up around himself at the tall black trees, the hammering rain, hte tall black night. The Candle he had left far behind.

And with a despairing wail he covered his face with his hands, and cried, soaking wet, cold, and shivering like a child--which was only to be expected, since he was a child . . .

"Mother," he cried, "What has she done to me? What has she done to me?"

How Time Flies!

There I was intending to post something last week, and suddenly it's the end of this week. Wow.

I have been very busy with school recently. Finals are swiftly and cruelly approaching, and while I am not stressed yet, I will be soon. I have also had to start looking up spring classes to register for, and that's been agonizing as well because many classes I want to take--like the honors creative writing class and Russian 102--are in the same time slots. It's not fair :(

Supposedly tomorrow we'll be having thunderstorms here in HI. In some ways I'm looking forward to it, because I love rain, and a thunderstorm sounds quite exciting, but in other ways I'm not--namely, tomorrow is my library day, and I don't relish the idea of walking to the library down the usual dirt road, trying to shield the books I'm returning from lashing rain.

I'll probably bring my umbrella and stick the books in a plastic shopping bag; that should work. Oh, and Kat, I'll probably call you on my way to the library. Depends on how loud the weather is.

My family back home are currently driving to Arizona for the Oireachtas. I'm rather despondent about not going too, but I hope my little sister does well, anyway.

I'm starting to get excited jitters about going home for Christmas! I've begun my Christmas shopping already, which is an adventure in itself, and my siblings have all told me that they want to help me cook up a Christmas feast when I get home. We're planning to do a Redwall-style feast, with breakfast scones, shrimp soup, mushroom pasties--the works. Hopefully it'll turn out well.

One last note: Lone Wolf, I told you I accepted your challenge to draw the 'Oath of Feanor' scene, remember? Well, I did it! But my broken camera is having issues with getting the picture in focus, so I might not be able to upload the artwork until I get home and can use my parents' scanner. But it was fun, thanks for the challenge :)

Literary Quote #5--Tarzan of the Apes

"You make me so irritable, sleeping there peacefully when you know perfectly well that the world is full of sorrow."


(I told you it was coming! This particular quote is from Jane, who wasn't nearly as interesting as Jane in the film, and she's speaking to her servant girl. Next up, a loooong quote from 'The Brothers Karamazov', and perhaps something from 'Mutiny on the Bounty' as well, we'll see . . .)

That's Better!

Aaah, here we go, this looks nice. I'll keep it like this.

I did finish 'Anne of Ingleside', and it was rather sweet. I somehow skipped it when I read the Anne series, I don't know how! So it was also sad, since I knew already what happens later in 'Rilla of Ingleside' . . . I do dearly love Walter. Oh well.

Yesterday I wrote much more of the 'Nighthawk' story, which I hope you enjoy when I post. I'm planning to post one new part every week, so sometime this week you'll get the next one . . . and I believe it's illustrated . . .

Also yesterday I watched 'Doctor Who', which was brilliant. I've seen some of the old episodes before (top-right Doctor. Very cool guy, not the least because he likes jelly babies. Ever had a jelly baby before? They're delish), but not the current ones; apparently it was my good fortune to start watching just as a new season started up. Anyway, it was really good, and quite funny. My dad has always liked 'Doctor Who', so I guess this is just another personality trait I inherit from him--along with my liking of writing, reading, drawing, telling stories, Great Britain, the Muppets, frisbee, British humor, and spicy foods.

Pic

Hmm . . .

Well, I love this new template except for the spots. So it might change, but it might not. I think I'll have to change my font size now, though . . .

I really should know better than to stay up late reading, but I couldn't resist last night. So now I'm exhausted, have a headache, and feel sick. But hey, at least I'm 100 pages further into 'Anne of Ingleside'! You gotta take the good with the bad.

When I go back to the apartment today, I think I'll finish reading, then do Russian homework, then cook myself a quesadilla (I make awesome quesadillas), then write more of my story. That is, if I don't fall asleep first.

And tomorrow I will walk to the library as usual, to return a few of the books I borrowed on Saturday. I think I'm returning 'The Brothers Karamazov' (I finished it at last, yay!), 'Mutiny on the Bounty' (I'll post a review and some quotes later), 'Pagan's Crusade' (a rather interesting medieval fiction, nothing special), and hopefully I'll have finished 'Anne of Ingleside' by then, and so then can return it.

I was walking from one of my classes yesterday, and there's this enormous tree that I always see--really huge, very green, very majestic and beautiful. It looks like a marvelous climbing tree, very wild. I see it every day, and always admire it, but yesterday was special I guess and for some reason the following dialogue called to me as I watched this tree. I'm not sure why.


"Now suppose I were to climb to the very top, and then--the very highest branch, you see, where all the leaves are like gold fringe against the sky? There, where the green is alive--If I were to then leap from my windy perch, leap into the sky, what would happen?"

"I would catch you," he said.

She smiled--a wild smile, a secret smile.

"You? No, you would not be swift enough. The west wind would seize me and bear me away, and I would fly away, dance with the wind . . . and I would never come back . . ."


I have crazy people living inside my head, I guess, wanting to jump off treetops. *sigh* You know, I wrote the beginning of a story three years ago all about climbing trees, and it had a lovely passage in it describing climbing a tree--I do miss tree-climbing, have you guessed?--, but I don't remember where I put it. It's on my computer somewhere. I'll find it and post it sometime, since I really liked it, and I'm never going to finish the story now. I lost my interest in it--don't you hate it when that happens?

. . . And this is officially my most unnecessary/least intersting post ever. Basically, I'm thinking out loud. And making you poor people listen. I'm sorry. I get rather random when I'm this sleepy.

Oh, wait, I'll give you some good news: I got A's on all my midterm exams! *happy dance* I found out yesterday. So now I can at least say that this post isn't completely worthless. It gave you some important tidings.

'The Nighthawk's Candle' - Part II & III

As promised, here is the next installment. Some parts are illustrated, some are not. This, sorry to say, is not, though part IV is. But to cheer myself up after the horror of Obama being elected president, I have decided to post both part II and part III in this post. Yay!

To answer Readers' Questions/Critiques (Well, okay, just 'Reader' really, lol):

Q1. "In the part where you talk about his eyes, and then his hair, it was a little awkward"
A1. Guilty as charged. All of this story is really just written between classes or during History lecture *tsk tsk*, and so everything you read is literally first draft. And I was actually not pleased with that bit either, it feels too sketchy, doesn't it? I'll rewrite it.

Q2. "And I was curious, why don't they need wood any more?"
A2. I meant, they don't need lots of logs for building their houses anymore, as now they're a more stone-based city, lots of time has passed, and they aren't expanding much with wood any longer. Think medieval feudal town evolving into a Renaissance era town . . .

Q3. "And why would it be both silver and golden?"
A3. Intentional, I'm afraid--I'm thinking that sort of silver/gold light that's so bright you can't be sure which color it is . . . and since it changes color it is even more confusing . . . just bright, bright, bright. And it's kind of fun to throw mind-benders at readers every now and then, even if they're silly. The mind-benders, I mean, not the readers!

Okay, so here is the next part.

II.
There was a child
In the glade
And she was one child among many
Yet she was alone—
For never had anyone been
Like her
Before or After in this world
And never had anyone
Shone like her
In the Candlelight.
She was a child, and
She thought she was alone,
Yet she was not.
He watched her.
Silence, loneliness, and agelessness—
Unraveling like a river.
Softly, he called her name.

III.
"Listen.”

“Ssh!”

“Oh Anni, listen. Do you hear a voice?”

“What?”

“A voice.”

“No.”

Anni was the elder of the two children, and the flowers she had picked shone upon her lap. But then everything seemed to glow with its own light, here. She looked doubtfully at her younger sister.

“What kind of a voice?”

“I . . . don’t know.”

The little girl said, gazing around at the tall trees. They were lit with white-gold.

“It is not a voice, I suppose. It is like how eyes would speak, if they had voices. It isn’t a voice, it’s a thought, or a glance. I can hear it with my eyes and my mind. Not my ears.”

“You are crazy, Elaine.” But the older girl looked around uneasily, and her lips twisted uncertainly. “This place is not haunted. That’s only baby stories. We came here, didn’t we? We’ve plucked some of the Candle flowers, haven’t we?” She pointed at her collection of blossoms. “All these years we’ve been warned from coming here, and yet we have, and there’s no Nighthawk. So don’t go talking about—about voices in your head. Stop it.”

“These aren’t Candle flowers.” Elaine said slowly, looking at the flowers she held. “They are normal. We got it all wrong. And I tell you someone is watching me! Don’t you feel it, like light upon your face?”

“Crazy,” Anni retorted, clutching her own flowers in sweaty hands. “Not another word, Elaine. Not another word!”

And she scurried farther away, towards the cloudy sunlight where the other children played and searched for Candle flowers, away from the silent glade and the smaller girl.

But Elaine stayed.

She looked thoughtfully at the flowers she held in her hands, then with a sigh laid them softly upon the grass. They shone like jewels in the Candlelight, but she stood by and frowned, looking at them. These flowers were beautiful, but they were not Candle flowers. She had thought they were, before, but suddenly she was certain they were not. Somehow, she knew.

“Elaine.”

The voice returned again, very softly. The other children had moved away, and for a moment all was still and soft. She thought it was the wind’s breath in the treetops, or the fall of a leaf to the ground, a green whisper, and so was not afraid. This was the same voice, she knew—yet this time, she heard it with her ears.

“My name is Elaine. But where are you?”

For a long moment all was silence again, as she gazed into the Candlelight and listened. She was dreaming, she was dreaming . . . .

“Here,” the voice said softly. She turned around quickly, and for the first time a quiet something ran down her spine, like the shiver she always got when looking up for the first time after finishing a very good daydream. It was the tremor of reality and fantasy clashing.

She at first did not see anything, only blackness. Blackness and glittering blackness, leaves that never saw the sun, chittering eyes of forest creatures. But she did not fear. Instead, she softly stepped forward, towards where she heard the voice. The strange smooth yellow light danced in her eyes.

“I cannot see you,” she said. “If you are there, please, come where I can see you.”

There was a slow rustling, and then a shadowy figure detached itself from the black and took a step towards her. She stared.

The stranger was very pale, white as though light had never before touched his skin, as though he had lived all his life in an cave underground, a cavern filled with clear water, or as though he was the spirit of one of these trees, tangled and dreary and hidden. His face, upon closer inspection, was very fine, slender-boned but not weak, firm but not cruel. His hair was long, but not as long as hers, and it was very straight. It was black.

It was blacker than any black she had ever seen before, until she glanced into his eyes. And his eyes were so black she could not breathe until he blinked.

He rarely blinked.

“Why don’t you take them?”

His voice was very peculiar. She could not tell if it was fierce or gentle. To avoid her confusion—and the black, black eyes fixed upon her face—she looked down.

“Oh!”

In his outstretched hand he held two of the Candle flowers. She knew instantly what they were, though she could not have said why. Those other flowers were beautiful, but these were alive. She took them and held them in her hand, and they were heavy. “Thank you.”

She made a little courtesy.

Elaine did not know she was pretty. Young children never do—which is perhaps why they are all beautiful.

But the stranger, he who had given her the flower, watched her with fixed black eyes. Her face, which had blushed faintly as she curtsied, was a gentle, delicate oval, with a pert, confident chin; her brown eyes glowed brightly, and her whole pretty, girlish face was turned towards him. Her hair was such a deep brown it was almost black, and very fine, as though painted by a soft brush. She was too young to style her hair, so it was free to roll in light waves to slightly below her shoulder-blades. She was dressed all in white, her father’s finest white linen, and white slippers protected her dainty feet.

Her small, slender hand, graciously flourishing her simple skirt and then extending courteously to him, was watched in silence.

“Thank you,” she said again, more warmly.

He stared at her slim little fingers and said nothing, and then looked back into her face and said nothing.

Elaine dropped her hand back to her side, and wiped it on her skirt. Her gratitude faded as swiftly as it had come, and now she merely felt affronted. She looked up to see the black, black eyes still watching her, and discovered she was irritated by them.

“What are you staring at, anyway?” She demanded.

“You.” He did not sound embarrassed.

“Well—stop it.” She flushed. “Go away.”

A faint call from the world beyond the trees. A child’s voice? The black eyes did not flicker.

“Go away,” she repeated.

“Only if you come with me.”

She stepped back, then took two steps forward.

“Why would I come with you?”

He lifted his head in a strange blend of haughty pride and shyness.

“Because I am the Nighthawk, and I command it.”

They stood in the Candlelight, staring at each other, and for a moment there was a hush. But then--

“You? But you can’t be the Nighthawk. You’re just a boy!” And she burst out laughing, merry and surprised.

But the boy with the wide black eyes and the white face blinked, and looked down in frightened confusion, put his hands to his face. Perhaps her laughter had scared him. The little girl at first felt a vindictive sort of satisfaction in frightening the boy who had sought to frighten her. He was a child, no taller than herself; how could he even dream of pretending to be the dreaded Nighthawk?

He was a child, but he had given her flowers. Elaine stopped laughing, fearing that she had been unkind.

A faint call, and another, like echoes in the mist and ringing rain. Elaine listened, and the boy slowly lifted his eyes to stare at her again. His eyes were just level with her own, and they were horrified and entranced. In the yellow light gold seemed to be dripping from his face, his hair, his hands, pale gold.

“Never mind what I said,” she said kindly. “I did not mean to hurt your feelings. It was very nice of you to get the flowers for me. Do you live nearby?”

The child stumbled backward away from her, and as easily as that, he was gone. She heard a sliding rustle and then he had vanished as strangely as he had appeared, leaving her alone.

Her sister found her there less than a minute later, staring bewilderedly into the black foliage and clutching two strange flowers in her slender hands.

“Elaine!”She turned around, gasped, and the world was loud and alive again. Anni was stumping towards her, looking cross.

“Elaine, I have called you so many times. It’s raining. We must be getting back quick, before we are missed. It’s getting dark. And—Elaine, where on earth did you find those?”

She stared at the flowers in Elaine’s hands. The smaller girl blinked and stirred as though waking from a dream.

“I found them.”

“What?”

“I—no, Anni,” the girl said in sudden distress, “Wait, there is a boy, a boy who ran into the forest, and he will get wet in the rain too, won’t he, Anni? He was not the Nighthawk, because he was just my size—only think of that!—and he gave me the flowers. Anni,” she said worriedly as she drew the flowers close to her body and cradled them like butterflies, “I laughed at him. Was I unkind to laugh? But he was so strange!”

Anni only laughed.“You silly goose, you must have dozed off. You were dreaming. There was no boy. There is only Gerin, and he was with me the whole time.”

“But how then did I get the flowers? Unless I dreamed that too . . . but there they are, in my hands.”

She shivered and rubbed her eyes. Anni shivered too, and tugged at the little girl’s frock.

“Do come, Elaine. Otherwise we will be missed, and there will be dreadful trouble.”

Obediently the little girl took her big sister’s hand, and allowed herself to be led out into the sparkling rain, away from the light. The rain seemed to wake her fully, and they ran through the darkness, laughing, ran home . . . .


Before she crawled into bed that night, Elaine carefully set a vase of clean water upon her bedside table. Beside it upon the tabletop rested the two flowers, fresh as though they had only just been picked. In the soft light cast from the lamp burning at the head of her bed, she examined them more closely.

The flowers were as red as wet blood, and their blooming petals spread in smooth ruffles until each flower was as large as her hand. Gently she picked them up to set them in the jar of water, and their petals slid against her skin as finely as the best satins did in her father’s workshop, when she would rub the beautiful fabrics against her face and hands when her father wasn’t looking. She gazed in wonder. Where could the child have found these? She eagerly pressed the beautiful things to her face and breathed in deeply, then turned away, coughing, as she set them in the water.

“Why,” she said in surprise, staring at them. “They smell like dust!”

Jhaniel's Book-Filled Weekend

Yes, I had a lovely book-filled weekend.

Friday night I read 'The Game' by Diana Wynne Jones--yes I'm hooked on her books right now--and it is by far my favorite of her books so far. I loved every moment of it. I was extremely sad to return it to the library the next day, and have made Lathspell swear to read it ASAP. I now believe in the mythosphere ;)

On Saturday I finally went to visit the big state library, which is two stories high and so large it looks like a museum from the outside. I borrowed six books, I believe. My grandmother and I walked all the way there, which took a while but was very fun, as the weather was very pleasant. You wouldn't believe the strange, enormous trees that grow out here. I desperately want to climb one.

Anyway, back to the library. Um, well, I spent about three hours there just browsing. I found a complete book of Sherlock Holmes stories (which I didn't borrow because I've already read them all), but spent about twenty minutes leafing through the pages looking at all the illustrations, because the book had all the original Strand magazine illustrations. They were all very, very good.

There were many fantasy books I had never heard of before, and I leafed through quite a few in the hopes of finding something interesting, but alas, my quest was in vain. My method of searching for good new fantasy is to

1) Read the first chapter. Usually it'll be so stylistically horrible that I put the book back on the shelf right then and there, but if it isn't, then

2) I flip quickly through the pages. Now, this may seem like cheating and reading ahead, but I only read a page every so often, and have found this wise. Because 9 times out of 10 I'll discover some immorality or other rottenness in the book hidden later on, which would have given me a nasty surprise later if I had read the book from front to back.

And all these books failed either at step 1 or step 2 of my searching process. Sad, isn't it?

But an enjoyable library trip nonetheless. And then I had to walk back to the apartment carrying all the books I borrowed.

Right now I'm reading 'Mutiny on the Bounty', and though I only just completed chapter 2, it's shaping up to be an excellent read. I'm already half in love with Fletcher Christian ;)

Oh, before I forget, I also finished 'Tarzan of the Apes'. And this may destroy my credibility as a literature reader forever, but I must say that prefer the Disney film! *cringe* It's sad, I know. But I just couldn't care much for Tarzan and his friends in the book, while I do in the film . . . I guess I feel the movie's more effective. Oh, well. Forgive me if you can.

I found a nifty quote in 'Tarzan' but I forgot to bring it with me to school today to type down. So I'll have to post it later.

Sunday: I just stayed at home and read. And at last, I finished 'The Brothers Karamazov'! A bewildering book, but with a rather lovely ending, I think. Lise seriously scared me. I am very happy I finished it at last, but I think that I still prefer 'Crime and Punishment' and 'The Idiot'.

And now, here I am at school, ready for another week of work. And I truly am ready, this week. My books rejuvenated me over the weekend, and now I'm ready for anything!

PS: Ah, I almost forgot. The next few installments of my new short story are ready, so next chance I have I will post the next one or two.

PPS: Yesterday I also was a hero and saved a baby gecko which had fallen into the bathtub. I coaxed him into my hands and carried him down to the bushes in the courtyard, where I released him. Hope the little guy survives out there, he was quite adorable. Inside the apartment his eyes were round black disks, but in the sunlight his pupil shrank so there was only a black slit, and the rest of his eye was golden. It was enchanting.