windar
Teller of Tales
No, that would get me impaled, or boiled in oil.
Crucifixion is reserved for the best of us....
I go with walking the plank into shark-infested waters, myself. Much more environmentally friendly.
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The Firebird - A Crux Fairy Tale
- Thread starter Jollyrei
- Start date
I go with walking the plank into shark-infested waters, myself. Much more environmentally friendly.
Oh, come now. You got rescued, and now you can have a nice chapter or two of rest and some nice chocolate croissants at Wragg's palace and pastry parlour, while we go see what happened to Phlebas.It was not you, nailed to the cross !!!
I'm sure it is by now. I do hope he doesn't mind that I killed him off (sort of).
The pastries were just a guess really. Everyone thought you were evil, but while you are perfectly happy to feed people to the Goblins, you have this terrible hospitable streak as well.
Nobody is quite who they appear to be. Prince Jolly thinks he's heroic, but as Messaline noticed, he's a bit inept. Wragg is a great sorcerer, but he spends his time conjuring up faulty Goblins and pastry maids. The Firebird has mysterious powers, but she has no idea what they are. Rodentsov basically likes his squirrel knight and gray wolf forms, and he can eat a horse, but who knows what else. I like imperfect characters with their contradictions. Much more fun.
I should really put you into the story at some point. You've been a great support from the start. I'm really glad you like it.
I really want to thank everyone for being so enthusiastically supportive of a slightly "non-traditional" CF story. I am very much enjoying writing it, and it's great that people like reading it as well. I will try to keep up the fun for a few more chapters (thanks to Madiosi for his patience along those lines). I was hoping to have a new chapter up today or early tomorrow (Saturday, here in the Great White North), but unfortunately I seem to have developed a bit of a tooth issue, which is tedious. Sitting in a dentist's office most of the evening has not contributed to the writing. Now I have my antibiotics and I can try to have a new chapter before the end of the weekend.
messaline
Crucified Amazon
Is there a traditional CF story ? What is it ???
No, inventivity is always welcomed in my opinion !
Run, run, Jolly !!!
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Death from above!” The Firebird landed and Rodentsov leapt off.Jump and bite his ankles!
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windar
Teller of Tales
Good god! Can we not have even one story without Barb?
My sincerest sympathies, Jolly. There are tortures and then there are tortures.
Well said, Messa. The day that all stories here have to follow a formula would be a very sad dayIs there a traditional CF story ? What is it ???
No, inventivity is always welcomed in my opinion !
Run, run, Jolly !!!
Well, I don't know about you, Windar, but when I'm on a story I do try to pick up on those who are following it, hence Angus McWindar...Good god! Can we not have even one story without Barb?
My sincerest sympathies, Jolly. There are tortures and then there are tortures.
Well said, Messa. The day that all stories here have to follow a formula would be a very sad day
If you start a story thread, I guarantee that Barb will be right there, cheering you on, within the first few posts!
She deserves to be in a lot of stories. To be honest, I'd never have even written a story on here without her encouragement.
Incidentally, I know your comment was tongue in cheek, but I did think it was a good opportunity to let Barb know that, despite all the banter and the demerits, she's really very important to us.
windar
Teller of Tales
Well, I don't know about you, Windar, but when I'm on a story I do try to pick up on those who are following it, hence Angus McWindar...
If you start a story thread, I guarantee that Barb will be right there, cheering you on, within the first few posts!
She deserves to be in a lot of stories. To be honest, I'd never have even written a story on here without her encouragement.
Incidentally, I know your comment was tongue in cheek, but I did think it was a good opportunity to let Barb know that, despite all the banter and the demerits, she's really very important to us.
Of course my comment on Barb was tongue in cheek.
If it weren't I would get it from her no end (or actually in the end)
though I may anywayAs you know, Barb and I have collaborated on a story already (and intend a sequel) and she has graciously had me read "Berlin Diaries" and even contribute a couple of episodes. I suspect anything I write in the future I will want her to look at before I post it and even add a chapter or two. Why? Because she's a terrific writer.
And you are right that if she's in a story she participates actively from start to finish. But maybe she needs a rest from time to time?
No, she's indefatigable, near as I can tell.
She hasn't stopped since I got to CF. Wragg has a point though too. I like to put friends in some stories and reserve spots for those who express special interest. I wanted to write this one with Messaline in it, and Eul had given me a nice bit of encouragement to get started. Then I thought of Phlebas, because he says he's from Australia, however likely that is. Wragg popped up, because, as I was writing, my fingers typed the word Wragg when I wasn't paying attention. Things happen in the writing of a story. This one may look a bit odd, but I do have a plot idea and I know where it's going, so adding too many new characters may be tricky. I could...
Oh gods! Thanks chaps. This talking through just gave me a splendid idea (I think).
messaline
Crucified Amazon
It does exist you know, and I do live here.
But I don't stand on my head!
Waiting patiently and with curiosity to see where on earth my story has got to off stage.
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Thank you all for your patience. Are you sitting comfortably? Then we can continue our story.
Chapter 5:
You may recall, way back at the beginning of this tale, Prince Phlebas chose the left-hand road from the signpost. He turned his horse and started to canter along the road, turning once to look back to see what Prince Jollyrei was doing. He saw his brother’s horse beginning to descend into the forested valley without a glance back. Just like him, thought Phlebas. Always focused on what he was doing, without a thought about what was going on around him. Like that large wolf, jogging easily along behind his horse. Well, Jollyrei would just have to deal with wolves and other dangers.
Phlebas shrugged and urged his horse forward, and soon was entering a rocky canyon. It was also getting distinctly colder. He remembered what the engraving on the stone had said about one road leading to cold and hunger.
Not to worry, he told himself. He had plenty of food in his saddlebags. He could last for days before he had to turn back. He pulled his cloak around himself and went on. A few miles further and it started to snow. Well, this was Russia, one of the Russias anyway, he figured, and likely White Russia, from the look of it. It was getting quite white, in fact. It was getting quite hard to see very far. A bit of a blizzard. Inexplicably, he passed an iron lamp post.
This is getting damned uncomfortable, he thought to himself. He couldn’t imagine a firebird that liked gardens frequenting a place like this. The afternoon wore away, as did his patience. He kept his morale up by thinking about what he would do when he was Tsar of all the Russias. “For one,” he thought, “I’ll make sure there are regular inns and rest stops along this road, wherever it leads. A map of all these bloody Russias wouldn’t hurt either.”
He decided to stop and have a bite to eat. Dismounting, he tethered his horse to a nearby rock. The horse found a small bush that seemed good to eat, and Phlebas got a sandwich out of his saddlebag. He was just about to eat it, when he was attacked by a large group of crows. Phlebas found that fighting off crows with a sword is a bit of a tricky enterprise. You always have more crows behind you. He realized that a few crows were trying to draw his attack, and this allowed the others to make off with his saddlebags and his food. Then they all flew off.
So now he was cold and hungry. That sorted out which road he was on. He wondered if this happened all the time, or just when you were caught up in a fairy tale. The sign on the stone at the crossroads was pretty definite, but it did not suggest which road might lead to the Firebird. Do you get cold and hungry and then you win through, or do you just stay cold and hungry?
Phlebas was not one to give up. He mounted his horse, and spurred on through the blizzard. Keep moving, he thought. It’s a road, so it must go somewhere. The blizzard lasted through the night, but stopped in the gray light of dawn. He came to a small hut. From inside came the sound of grumbling. He dismounted, and pounded on the door.
“What do you want?” asked a surly peasant.
“I wondered if you could tell me where I am, and if you have any food to spare. All my provisions were stolen by ravens,” said Phlebas. “I am a prince from St. Petersburg, and I will ensure that you are rewarded for your hospitality.”
“Well,” said the peasant, who was joined by another surly peasant. “I’m Windarsky, and this is Repertorevitch. You are in the Great White Wastes, and no, we don’t have any food to spare. In fact, we might just want to eat your horse. There ain’t no food anywhere around.”
“You cannot have my horse,” said Phlebas. “But tell me, where is there a place I can get food and lodging.”
“There ain’t no place except HER place,” said Windarsky. “And you don’t want to be going there.”
“She? Who is “she”?”
“The White Witch of the Wastes, isn’t she,” said Repertorevitch. “She’s the one enchanting this country. Always winter.”
“And never Christmas,” said Windarsky gloomily.
“That makes no sense,” said Phlebas. “Christmas comes when we say it comes. Most pagans and Christians celebrated it around the winter solstice, but we Russian Orthodox types celebrate it when the rest of the world is having Epiphany. Christmas just happens. It doesn’t depend on witches.”
“What’s an Epiphany,” asked Repertorevitch.
“I think it’s when you realize something suddenly and clearly,” said Phlebas.
"No," said Repertorevitch. "That's a Eureka."
"Can you get it for Christmas?" asked Windarsky.
"No," said Phlebas. "I"m sure it's when you realize something."
“Like you shouldn’t have come up this road, eh?” said Windarsky, grinning mirthlessly. “Well, around here there ain’t no solstice. The days are all short, and the snow just keeps coming, but Repertorevitch and me, we’re almost out. We might have to eat our boots to survive, but we’ll be back in Russia soon, and then we’ll never leave our farms again. If you’re smart, you’ll eat yer horse and come with us.”
“No,” said Phlebas, proudly. “I must move forward and find the Firebird.”
“Ah,” said Repertorevitch, “so you’ve become tangled in a fairy tale. I was a wizard once, before I came to this country. I tried to break the power of the Witch through my craft, but the power of the story is just too great. Listen, you can only defeat the Witch if you do it within the narrative structure of the plot. Make sure you know what story you’re in before you strike, otherwise, well, it would be bad.”
“Hey, Rep,” called Windarsky, from inside, “come on and eat. Your boots are getting cold.”
“Fare well,” said Repertorevitch, and went into the hut, slamming the door.
A moment later, the hut was gone, and it seemed that where it had stood was only a snowbank. Oddly, it still smelled like boiled boots.
He wasn’t sure he could feel his fingers, which were curled around the reins, when he came to a crossroads and heard the sound of harness bells. The sound was coming from his left where he noticed a the road wound into a forest. Out of this forest, emerged a brightly painted sleigh, pulled by two reindeer. Driving the sleigh was a slim woman in a white fur mantle, and a white fur hat. She was brown haired and had mischievious eyes. Other than that, she was not particularly white. Her skin was a healthy tanned colour and she was angry. Suddenly she saw Phlebas sitting on his charger, and she pulled her sleigh to a stop.
“Well, well, well,” she purred. “Who and what do we have here?”
“Good lady,” said Phlebas, “I am Prince Phlebas of Russia, and I am in this country seeking a most woundrous thing, a Firebird.”
At the word “fire”, the witch trembled – Phlebas couldn’t tell whether it was from desire or fear.
“A Firebird,” murmered the woman. “Have you seen it here?” she asked somewhat anxiously.
“Well, no,” said Phlebas. “But I am seeking it, and now I am terribly cold and hungry.”
“Yeah,” said the Witch. “The cold is a bitch, but we can’t do anything about that. Gotta have cold, and snow.”
“Why?”
“Well,” said the Witch, “because I’m an ice witch, aren’t I? Can’t be an ice witch if you let the whole place bloom into spring.”
“Sounds terrible,” said Phlebas.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” said the Witch. “I’m Barbaria. Barb to my friends, so you know, Barbaria. I got the stupid job from my mother. She was a real “white witch” with platinum hair and pale skin, but she fell in love with a brown haired merchant from Italy, and I came along. She retired to Sardinia with my dad, leaving me to run this place. “Keep the home fires from burning,” she said as they left. She never even visits, and I’m stuck here, until a prince… Oh my gods!” she exclaimed, “you said you were a prince!”
“Yes,” said Phlebas, “but what does this have to do with anything.”
“Never mind,” said Barbaria coyly. “We must get you out of this cold and somewhere slightly less cold, but obviously still bloody cold. You must be hungry. Here,” she pulled a box out from the fur robes in her sleigh and handed it up to Phlebas. “You must eat.”
He opened the box gratefully. He frowned. “Turkish Delight?” he asked dubiously.
“I’m a White Witch,” she said. “We do Turkish Delight.”
At that moment, a band of beavers burst through the trees and swarmed toward the sleigh. “Down with the evil Queen Barbaria!” they shouted. They were intercepted by a troop of well armed Fauns and Dryads who swarmed out of the rocks on the other side of the road. The beaver insurrection was hacked into small furry pieces. One was captured alive, but Phlebas could see he was not long for the world.
“The Great Lion will come, and you reign will end!” said the wounded beaver, and died.
“The Lion?” asked Phlebas, still stunned by the speed of the battle. It all seemed a bit surreal. He ate some Turkish Delight. It wasn’t bad.
“A local superstition,” said Barbaria. “The beavers are fundamentalists in the Evangelical Church of the Lion. They believe that snow is bad, I’m bad, and some great big lion will come and destroy me. Total nonsense of course.”
“You believe you have to make it snow forever because your mother says you’re an ice witch, and you think the beavers are superstitious?” asked Phlebas.
“Shut up,” said Barbaria. “It’s not the same. Now come on.”
“Oh, very well,” said Phlebas. “Anything is better than this cold.”
So Prince Phlebas followed the young not quite white witch, Barbaria to her castle. The gate was open and they rode through into a white courtyard. The place was filled with statues. Giants, beavers, wolves, fauns, deer, moose, bears, rabbits, and a few people.
“Oh my God!” said Phlebas. “Did you turn all these…”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Barb. “It’s boring here, so dad used to sculpt stuff. There’s loads of stone around, you might have noticed. Doesn’t hurt to spread the story that I can turn you to stone, when you have superstitious subjects.” She grinned. “Let’s go in and you can tell me about yourself.”
Inside was not much warmer than out, but at least the wind was blocked and there were furs to huddle in. Phlebas huddled under a buffalo robe while Barbaria, er Barb, sat on a green ice throne, and he told her about the Tsar, the Firebird, and his quest.
“Well,” said Barb, “I would like to help you in your quest, but I need a favour from you first.”
“You have been most kind,” said Phlebas. “I will do it if I can.”
“I am a white witch,” said Barb. “I will be destroyed if there is any warmth in this land. That is what mother said, and why I keep things so cold. But if a prince comes, I can give up the ice thing and we can go somewhere warm, like Moscow, or Minnesota. You must marry me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Phlebas. “I cannot.”
“What!?” exclaimed Barb. “Whyever not? I have nice eyes, good skin, and a really nice tight little…”
“Well, I’m not sure it’s part of my story,” said Phlebas. “I don’t see how that finds me the Firebird, for one. Also, while I like you well enough (and the author can also not believe the words coming out on the page now), I don’t really feel you’re the one for me.”
“You just met me,” said Barb. “I could be the one.”
“No,” said Phlebas, continuing down his reckless and irrational path. “I must continue my search for the Firebird. I thank you for your hospitality, but I must take my leave and seek my destiny.”
Barb’s eyes took on a bright icy blue light and seemed to bore into his soul. “If you will not free me from my life as a witch,” she growled, “then I will make sure you share it. Guards!”
Instantly, the room was filled with ice troll guards, carrying heavy chains and clubs. “Take this Prince to our dungeons and chain him there. He will learn hunger and cold, the way I have before he dies.”
Plebas warm cloak was taken, and he was soon chained in the dungeons under Barb’s castle. There he stayed for a week, living on meagre rations of bread and cold water. He was almost numb with cold, the termperature being kept only high enough that he did not freeze to death. He shivered constantly. He hallucinated about hot tea. Once he thought of hot mulled wine and had a bit of a psychotic episode.
It was this episode that, miles away, the Firebird felt. It was like a stab of cold into the core of her being. She knew she could help, so she flew across the wild country, over forests, rivers and small peasant villages. She was seen by some nomads on the steppes, a streak of fire headed north, and they knew in their hearts that their herds would do well. She was seen by the priests of the Cathedral of the Mother of the Saviour, and the priests knew that if they told a good enough story, the faithful would cough up enough money to build a new onion dome, and paint it eggshell blue. She passed over a small peasant village in which there had been sickness, and the village elders knew that the quiet shy girl who lived in the cottage at the end of the road should be burned at the stake as a witch to appease the spirits of the plague. The Firebird knew these things, but couldn’t do anything about them. She had to reach Phlebas on time.
Phlebas sat in the dungeon, freezing and starving slowly. Barb visited him every day. She tried sympathy, anger, logic, and just plain cajolery, but he remained stoically resolved not to marry her.
“Look,” he said to her one day, “that sign on the stone said I would experience hunger and cold. It was right.”
“That sign didn’t mean that you had to experience them,” shouted Barb. “Only if you were going to be stupid about things.”
“Oh, sure,” said Phlebas. “This from the witch girl who thinks that she’ll die if she eats grilled cheese.”
“I can’t have hot things,” said Barb. “My mother was adamant about it. It’s like an allergy.”
“Well, I have to remain true to my quest,” said Phlebas. “I will find the Firebird.”
“Not on my watch you won’t”, said Barb. She had him taken to the courtyard and put into a pillory.
“Now you can starve and freeze and you can be the first ice sculpture in my father’s collection of statuary,” she said. “Try not to die from the honour of that before you freeze to death.”
And so Phlebas stood, unable to move much except to stamp his feet occasionally, but he knew he wouldn’t last long. If he went to sleep, that was it. He began to wonder again if perhaps the Firebird was not in Barb’s country. Night was falling and Phlebas was feeling groggy when a fiery light fell on him. He looked up through his frozen eyelashes and took a sobbing breath of air through his icy beard. His eyes met the clear gaze of a girl dressed in fire. He knew he had found his Firebird.
The Firebird landed in the courtyard, seeing the man in the pillory. As she landed, she turned into her woman form, and Eulalia stepped toward him. “Oh no,” she thought, as he didn’t move. She was too late.
But then he gave a shudder, and looked up. He was a mess, she thought. Ice on his beard, dirt on his clothes, and he just looked cold and hungry. Not the most handsome of specimens right now. But then his bleary, tired, and bloodshot eyes met hers, and she knew.
“Oh!” she said in some surprise, realization, and a bit of consternation. “It’s you!” She didn’t quite know what to say. Jollyrei was easy. He wasn’t someone you felt you had to be too serious about. This Prince was different, for her at least. She opened her fiery dress and went to Phlebas, moving in behind him and leaning against his back, wrapping the flaming gown around them both. Phlebas began to warm up almost immediately as he sensed the lithe slim body of the girl and the warmth of her robe encircle him. His fingers and toes came back to life, tingling and burning. The pain was intense, even while he wondered why the fiery dress didn’t burn him to cinders.
He yelled in pain as his toes started to lose their numb frostbite.
Barb came running, and her eyes flashed with rage when she saw the Firebird’s embrace of the imprisoned prince.
“Oh no you don’t,” Barb shouted, grabbing her ice wand. “He wouldn’t leave with me, and break my enchantment, so he’s not going to go with anyone.”
“He’s mine,” said the Firebird simply.
“No,” said Barb. “He’s not yours. You are mine. If I don’t get to leave here, nobody does! Wyngardia Leviosa!” she shouted as she waved the wand. The pillory, Phlebas and the Firebird all levitated and hovered about 3 feet in the air.
“Dammit!” shouted Barb, now in a total rage. “Wrong damn spell!” Blue fire leapt from her eyes.
"Don't, Barb!" said Phlebas.
"I have to," said Barb. "I can't just let a prince walk out of here. That's kind of revenge. But I also can't have a Firebird in my castle. That's just a safety precaution for an ice witch. So as touching as this all is..." She smiled and raised her wand again.
To be continued…
Chapter 5:
You may recall, way back at the beginning of this tale, Prince Phlebas chose the left-hand road from the signpost. He turned his horse and started to canter along the road, turning once to look back to see what Prince Jollyrei was doing. He saw his brother’s horse beginning to descend into the forested valley without a glance back. Just like him, thought Phlebas. Always focused on what he was doing, without a thought about what was going on around him. Like that large wolf, jogging easily along behind his horse. Well, Jollyrei would just have to deal with wolves and other dangers.
Phlebas shrugged and urged his horse forward, and soon was entering a rocky canyon. It was also getting distinctly colder. He remembered what the engraving on the stone had said about one road leading to cold and hunger.
Not to worry, he told himself. He had plenty of food in his saddlebags. He could last for days before he had to turn back. He pulled his cloak around himself and went on. A few miles further and it started to snow. Well, this was Russia, one of the Russias anyway, he figured, and likely White Russia, from the look of it. It was getting quite white, in fact. It was getting quite hard to see very far. A bit of a blizzard. Inexplicably, he passed an iron lamp post.
This is getting damned uncomfortable, he thought to himself. He couldn’t imagine a firebird that liked gardens frequenting a place like this. The afternoon wore away, as did his patience. He kept his morale up by thinking about what he would do when he was Tsar of all the Russias. “For one,” he thought, “I’ll make sure there are regular inns and rest stops along this road, wherever it leads. A map of all these bloody Russias wouldn’t hurt either.”
He decided to stop and have a bite to eat. Dismounting, he tethered his horse to a nearby rock. The horse found a small bush that seemed good to eat, and Phlebas got a sandwich out of his saddlebag. He was just about to eat it, when he was attacked by a large group of crows. Phlebas found that fighting off crows with a sword is a bit of a tricky enterprise. You always have more crows behind you. He realized that a few crows were trying to draw his attack, and this allowed the others to make off with his saddlebags and his food. Then they all flew off.
So now he was cold and hungry. That sorted out which road he was on. He wondered if this happened all the time, or just when you were caught up in a fairy tale. The sign on the stone at the crossroads was pretty definite, but it did not suggest which road might lead to the Firebird. Do you get cold and hungry and then you win through, or do you just stay cold and hungry?
Phlebas was not one to give up. He mounted his horse, and spurred on through the blizzard. Keep moving, he thought. It’s a road, so it must go somewhere. The blizzard lasted through the night, but stopped in the gray light of dawn. He came to a small hut. From inside came the sound of grumbling. He dismounted, and pounded on the door.
“What do you want?” asked a surly peasant.
“I wondered if you could tell me where I am, and if you have any food to spare. All my provisions were stolen by ravens,” said Phlebas. “I am a prince from St. Petersburg, and I will ensure that you are rewarded for your hospitality.”
“Well,” said the peasant, who was joined by another surly peasant. “I’m Windarsky, and this is Repertorevitch. You are in the Great White Wastes, and no, we don’t have any food to spare. In fact, we might just want to eat your horse. There ain’t no food anywhere around.”
“You cannot have my horse,” said Phlebas. “But tell me, where is there a place I can get food and lodging.”
“There ain’t no place except HER place,” said Windarsky. “And you don’t want to be going there.”
“She? Who is “she”?”
“The White Witch of the Wastes, isn’t she,” said Repertorevitch. “She’s the one enchanting this country. Always winter.”
“And never Christmas,” said Windarsky gloomily.
“That makes no sense,” said Phlebas. “Christmas comes when we say it comes. Most pagans and Christians celebrated it around the winter solstice, but we Russian Orthodox types celebrate it when the rest of the world is having Epiphany. Christmas just happens. It doesn’t depend on witches.”
“What’s an Epiphany,” asked Repertorevitch.
“I think it’s when you realize something suddenly and clearly,” said Phlebas.
"No," said Repertorevitch. "That's a Eureka."
"Can you get it for Christmas?" asked Windarsky.
"No," said Phlebas. "I"m sure it's when you realize something."
“Like you shouldn’t have come up this road, eh?” said Windarsky, grinning mirthlessly. “Well, around here there ain’t no solstice. The days are all short, and the snow just keeps coming, but Repertorevitch and me, we’re almost out. We might have to eat our boots to survive, but we’ll be back in Russia soon, and then we’ll never leave our farms again. If you’re smart, you’ll eat yer horse and come with us.”
“No,” said Phlebas, proudly. “I must move forward and find the Firebird.”
“Ah,” said Repertorevitch, “so you’ve become tangled in a fairy tale. I was a wizard once, before I came to this country. I tried to break the power of the Witch through my craft, but the power of the story is just too great. Listen, you can only defeat the Witch if you do it within the narrative structure of the plot. Make sure you know what story you’re in before you strike, otherwise, well, it would be bad.”
“Hey, Rep,” called Windarsky, from inside, “come on and eat. Your boots are getting cold.”
“Fare well,” said Repertorevitch, and went into the hut, slamming the door.
A moment later, the hut was gone, and it seemed that where it had stood was only a snowbank. Oddly, it still smelled like boiled boots.
He wasn’t sure he could feel his fingers, which were curled around the reins, when he came to a crossroads and heard the sound of harness bells. The sound was coming from his left where he noticed a the road wound into a forest. Out of this forest, emerged a brightly painted sleigh, pulled by two reindeer. Driving the sleigh was a slim woman in a white fur mantle, and a white fur hat. She was brown haired and had mischievious eyes. Other than that, she was not particularly white. Her skin was a healthy tanned colour and she was angry. Suddenly she saw Phlebas sitting on his charger, and she pulled her sleigh to a stop.
“Well, well, well,” she purred. “Who and what do we have here?”
“Good lady,” said Phlebas, “I am Prince Phlebas of Russia, and I am in this country seeking a most woundrous thing, a Firebird.”
At the word “fire”, the witch trembled – Phlebas couldn’t tell whether it was from desire or fear.
“A Firebird,” murmered the woman. “Have you seen it here?” she asked somewhat anxiously.
“Well, no,” said Phlebas. “But I am seeking it, and now I am terribly cold and hungry.”
“Yeah,” said the Witch. “The cold is a bitch, but we can’t do anything about that. Gotta have cold, and snow.”
“Why?”
“Well,” said the Witch, “because I’m an ice witch, aren’t I? Can’t be an ice witch if you let the whole place bloom into spring.”
“Sounds terrible,” said Phlebas.
“You wouldn’t believe it,” said the Witch. “I’m Barbaria. Barb to my friends, so you know, Barbaria. I got the stupid job from my mother. She was a real “white witch” with platinum hair and pale skin, but she fell in love with a brown haired merchant from Italy, and I came along. She retired to Sardinia with my dad, leaving me to run this place. “Keep the home fires from burning,” she said as they left. She never even visits, and I’m stuck here, until a prince… Oh my gods!” she exclaimed, “you said you were a prince!”
“Yes,” said Phlebas, “but what does this have to do with anything.”
“Never mind,” said Barbaria coyly. “We must get you out of this cold and somewhere slightly less cold, but obviously still bloody cold. You must be hungry. Here,” she pulled a box out from the fur robes in her sleigh and handed it up to Phlebas. “You must eat.”
He opened the box gratefully. He frowned. “Turkish Delight?” he asked dubiously.
“I’m a White Witch,” she said. “We do Turkish Delight.”
At that moment, a band of beavers burst through the trees and swarmed toward the sleigh. “Down with the evil Queen Barbaria!” they shouted. They were intercepted by a troop of well armed Fauns and Dryads who swarmed out of the rocks on the other side of the road. The beaver insurrection was hacked into small furry pieces. One was captured alive, but Phlebas could see he was not long for the world.
“The Great Lion will come, and you reign will end!” said the wounded beaver, and died.
“The Lion?” asked Phlebas, still stunned by the speed of the battle. It all seemed a bit surreal. He ate some Turkish Delight. It wasn’t bad.
“A local superstition,” said Barbaria. “The beavers are fundamentalists in the Evangelical Church of the Lion. They believe that snow is bad, I’m bad, and some great big lion will come and destroy me. Total nonsense of course.”
“You believe you have to make it snow forever because your mother says you’re an ice witch, and you think the beavers are superstitious?” asked Phlebas.
“Shut up,” said Barbaria. “It’s not the same. Now come on.”
“Oh, very well,” said Phlebas. “Anything is better than this cold.”
So Prince Phlebas followed the young not quite white witch, Barbaria to her castle. The gate was open and they rode through into a white courtyard. The place was filled with statues. Giants, beavers, wolves, fauns, deer, moose, bears, rabbits, and a few people.
“Oh my God!” said Phlebas. “Did you turn all these…”
“Don’t be stupid,” said Barb. “It’s boring here, so dad used to sculpt stuff. There’s loads of stone around, you might have noticed. Doesn’t hurt to spread the story that I can turn you to stone, when you have superstitious subjects.” She grinned. “Let’s go in and you can tell me about yourself.”
Inside was not much warmer than out, but at least the wind was blocked and there were furs to huddle in. Phlebas huddled under a buffalo robe while Barbaria, er Barb, sat on a green ice throne, and he told her about the Tsar, the Firebird, and his quest.
“Well,” said Barb, “I would like to help you in your quest, but I need a favour from you first.”
“You have been most kind,” said Phlebas. “I will do it if I can.”
“I am a white witch,” said Barb. “I will be destroyed if there is any warmth in this land. That is what mother said, and why I keep things so cold. But if a prince comes, I can give up the ice thing and we can go somewhere warm, like Moscow, or Minnesota. You must marry me.”
“I’m sorry,” said Phlebas. “I cannot.”
“What!?” exclaimed Barb. “Whyever not? I have nice eyes, good skin, and a really nice tight little…”
“Well, I’m not sure it’s part of my story,” said Phlebas. “I don’t see how that finds me the Firebird, for one. Also, while I like you well enough (and the author can also not believe the words coming out on the page now), I don’t really feel you’re the one for me.”
“You just met me,” said Barb. “I could be the one.”
“No,” said Phlebas, continuing down his reckless and irrational path. “I must continue my search for the Firebird. I thank you for your hospitality, but I must take my leave and seek my destiny.”
Barb’s eyes took on a bright icy blue light and seemed to bore into his soul. “If you will not free me from my life as a witch,” she growled, “then I will make sure you share it. Guards!”
Instantly, the room was filled with ice troll guards, carrying heavy chains and clubs. “Take this Prince to our dungeons and chain him there. He will learn hunger and cold, the way I have before he dies.”
Plebas warm cloak was taken, and he was soon chained in the dungeons under Barb’s castle. There he stayed for a week, living on meagre rations of bread and cold water. He was almost numb with cold, the termperature being kept only high enough that he did not freeze to death. He shivered constantly. He hallucinated about hot tea. Once he thought of hot mulled wine and had a bit of a psychotic episode.
It was this episode that, miles away, the Firebird felt. It was like a stab of cold into the core of her being. She knew she could help, so she flew across the wild country, over forests, rivers and small peasant villages. She was seen by some nomads on the steppes, a streak of fire headed north, and they knew in their hearts that their herds would do well. She was seen by the priests of the Cathedral of the Mother of the Saviour, and the priests knew that if they told a good enough story, the faithful would cough up enough money to build a new onion dome, and paint it eggshell blue. She passed over a small peasant village in which there had been sickness, and the village elders knew that the quiet shy girl who lived in the cottage at the end of the road should be burned at the stake as a witch to appease the spirits of the plague. The Firebird knew these things, but couldn’t do anything about them. She had to reach Phlebas on time.
Phlebas sat in the dungeon, freezing and starving slowly. Barb visited him every day. She tried sympathy, anger, logic, and just plain cajolery, but he remained stoically resolved not to marry her.
“Look,” he said to her one day, “that sign on the stone said I would experience hunger and cold. It was right.”
“That sign didn’t mean that you had to experience them,” shouted Barb. “Only if you were going to be stupid about things.”
“Oh, sure,” said Phlebas. “This from the witch girl who thinks that she’ll die if she eats grilled cheese.”
“I can’t have hot things,” said Barb. “My mother was adamant about it. It’s like an allergy.”
“Well, I have to remain true to my quest,” said Phlebas. “I will find the Firebird.”
“Not on my watch you won’t”, said Barb. She had him taken to the courtyard and put into a pillory.
“Now you can starve and freeze and you can be the first ice sculpture in my father’s collection of statuary,” she said. “Try not to die from the honour of that before you freeze to death.”
And so Phlebas stood, unable to move much except to stamp his feet occasionally, but he knew he wouldn’t last long. If he went to sleep, that was it. He began to wonder again if perhaps the Firebird was not in Barb’s country. Night was falling and Phlebas was feeling groggy when a fiery light fell on him. He looked up through his frozen eyelashes and took a sobbing breath of air through his icy beard. His eyes met the clear gaze of a girl dressed in fire. He knew he had found his Firebird.
The Firebird landed in the courtyard, seeing the man in the pillory. As she landed, she turned into her woman form, and Eulalia stepped toward him. “Oh no,” she thought, as he didn’t move. She was too late.
But then he gave a shudder, and looked up. He was a mess, she thought. Ice on his beard, dirt on his clothes, and he just looked cold and hungry. Not the most handsome of specimens right now. But then his bleary, tired, and bloodshot eyes met hers, and she knew.
“Oh!” she said in some surprise, realization, and a bit of consternation. “It’s you!” She didn’t quite know what to say. Jollyrei was easy. He wasn’t someone you felt you had to be too serious about. This Prince was different, for her at least. She opened her fiery dress and went to Phlebas, moving in behind him and leaning against his back, wrapping the flaming gown around them both. Phlebas began to warm up almost immediately as he sensed the lithe slim body of the girl and the warmth of her robe encircle him. His fingers and toes came back to life, tingling and burning. The pain was intense, even while he wondered why the fiery dress didn’t burn him to cinders.
He yelled in pain as his toes started to lose their numb frostbite.
Barb came running, and her eyes flashed with rage when she saw the Firebird’s embrace of the imprisoned prince.
“Oh no you don’t,” Barb shouted, grabbing her ice wand. “He wouldn’t leave with me, and break my enchantment, so he’s not going to go with anyone.”
“He’s mine,” said the Firebird simply.
“No,” said Barb. “He’s not yours. You are mine. If I don’t get to leave here, nobody does! Wyngardia Leviosa!” she shouted as she waved the wand. The pillory, Phlebas and the Firebird all levitated and hovered about 3 feet in the air.
“Dammit!” shouted Barb, now in a total rage. “Wrong damn spell!” Blue fire leapt from her eyes.
"Don't, Barb!" said Phlebas.
"I have to," said Barb. "I can't just let a prince walk out of here. That's kind of revenge. But I also can't have a Firebird in my castle. That's just a safety precaution for an ice witch. So as touching as this all is..." She smiled and raised her wand again.
To be continued…
Eureka! Smashing chapter Jolly!
First time I have ever had to think about what a very cold tight little might be like. I suppose it might have tumescent goose bumps all over it.
in any case hurry with the next installment, I can't hold this wand aloft forever!
First time I have ever had to think about what a very cold tight little might be like. I suppose it might have tumescent goose bumps all over it.
in any case hurry with the next installment, I can't hold this wand aloft forever!
Windarsky and Repertorevitch eh? And a lamp post? These two wouldn't have hairy legs and cloven feet, scarves, or big front teeth would they?
Ah, the beavers and fauns make a separate appearance.
Barb, appearing as a cold hearted villain for once, nice change of character.
And I am permitted to be steadfast and stoic within the narrative structure of the fairytale. Thank you Jolly
Now the firebird is here, she is so warm, so reassuring . . . . and what is this feeling between us? Could she be the one?
Ah, the beavers and fauns make a separate appearance.
Barb, appearing as a cold hearted villain for once, nice change of character.
And I am permitted to be steadfast and stoic within the narrative structure of the fairytale. Thank you Jolly
Now the firebird is here, she is so warm, so reassuring . . . . and what is this feeling between us? Could she be the one?
windar
Teller of Tales
Well it's just like this story to have the Aussie in the frozen wasteland and the Canuck in the nice warm garden. But you got the beavers in, so maybe there's a nice Tim Horton's somewhere in that frozen wasteland.
And to be reduced from a Governor with a nice plantation with cute slaves and a steady illegal income from piracy to a peasant eating boiled boots? How degrading.
And why can't Barb be the evil witch? After the contortions she is putting us through in Berlin, it seems fitting.
The fun just continues, doesn't it?
I hope all is well on the dental front (and the dental back too, for that matter).
And to be reduced from a Governor with a nice plantation with cute slaves and a steady illegal income from piracy to a peasant eating boiled boots? How degrading.
And why can't Barb be the evil witch? After the contortions she is putting us through in Berlin, it seems fitting.
The fun just continues, doesn't it?
I hope all is well on the dental front (and the dental back too, for that matter).
Windarsky and Repertorevitch may yet be back.
My tooth is fine now, thanks, what with the antibiotics. Hopefully that's all it needs.
Hondoboot2
QUAESTOR PULCHRITUDINIS
Sadly, I have to log off, and get ready for work, so I will save this to read tonight when I get home. I can then savor it, and give it the attention it deserves, because I bet it is going to be great!
See you guys, and gals later!
windar
Teller of Tales
I don't know if that's a promise or a threat.
Glad to hear that. Go easy on Tim's donuts for a while.
For those unfamiliar with Canadian culture, Canadians are the world's largest consumers of donuts per capita and the largest chain of donut shops is Tim Horton's, named after (it goes without saying) a hockey player.