"FANTASY IS A NECESSARY INGREDIENT IN LIVING, IT'S A WAY OF LOOKING AT LIFE THROUGH THE WRONG END OF A TELESCOPE."~Dr. Seuss
Good grief, it actually wasn't that bad! It took about two hours, but to my utter amazement, I wrote 277 words over the daily wordcount. I'll haveta not be so long-winded or write faster, it took too long in my opinion. I feel optimistic about it, however, and hope you will like whatcha see. The genre is Christian fantasy/allegory, and it's based somewhat on Christ's birth (although that isn't revelent until later). I can't give you a nutshell summary cuz *whispers* I'm making it up as I go!!! So here's the labor of day 1:
The clouds were red. Red like blood. The mist arose from the river like some terrible apparition, seeking to strangle the spicy winter air. Ice-coated branches clacked together like morbid hands keeping time to a death-song. Far across the foggy heaths came the wailing, mournful cry of a wounded child. Then a horrible growl shook the snow lying on the forest floor, and all was silent. Silent save for the brush of the zephyrs in the frozen grass.
“All is lost!” shouted the sterling-eyed king. His long rich purple robes dragged along the cherry wood floor of his private chambers. “How will we gain salvation from our foes now? The heir to the Warwick throne is dead. Dead, I tell you!” The king stopped pacing to slam his fist on the small dragon-leg table, upsetting a silver goblet of rich red drink. His advisor, the tall, thin gray man with brilliant blue eyes, tapped his foot nervously in the shadowed corner where he stood. Long had he aided his king to rule Crescent and the surrounding kingdoms…but lately turmoil had erupted in the adjacent heath-province of Warwick, the kingdom of fierce warriors and brave women. Rumors of the Yule, the dreaded tree-beasts of some far northern mountain range, had spread like wildfire throughout the lands. Crescent’s king, good Wenceslas, had spent many a fitful night mulling over the fate of his dear people. The villagers, living scattered instead of companionably together, were forced to tear down their wattle and daub houses and move closer to each other, creating friction over farmland and field possession. The daily strife caused much pain to Wenceslas and already his smooth pale forehead was becoming creased. How long would these frightening rumors bring the Crescentfolk to his drawbridge, demanding restitution? The Yule had long since died out…had they not?
Wenceslas sighed and sat wearily down on his fur-covered bed. “Melchior…I am nearly spent of all my love for the Crescentfolk. How long will these tales persist to torment my once-peaceful mind?” Melchior, sitting down beside his king, rubbed his spindly hands together and enjoyed the rasping sound.
“Good majesty.” His voice was smooth and deep. “Why is it that you are troubled so by your people? Why not merely bar them from your presence and leave them to sort their own truth from the Yule rumors, hmm?” Wenceslas started and stared at his advisor.
“Melchior, are you suggesting that I abandon my people?” The king’s mighty voice shook with surprise. “I am pledged to love and serve the Crescentfolk like my father before me, and his father before him and all the way back to the Fairies who spawned us within their dew-laden cliff dwellings. To pay no heed to the cries of my suffering fellowmen would be an outrage not only to my ancestors…but also to the Fairies. We must not enrage them, must we?” Melchior sighed heavily; the gesture seemed almost forced.
“I suppose not, great one. Yet remember, to live a life of dull care and constant worry is not to live.”
Wenceslas gazed in confusion at the tall narrow shadow as his advisor walked from the chamber.
“She must be part Fairy. No other girl her age would care so for the well-being of her friends.” The warm, smoky voice came from a gossipy old woman sitting amid a voluminous dress of fine silk and furs upon a long red bench next to her friend. Cheerful music drifted across the shiny marble hallways and tickled the ears of rosy-cheeked children playing rambunctiously near the hearth. Murmured conversation reverberated through the big bright room and twisted around the columns to meet the two old biddies snickering over the guests.
“Yes indeed, she MUST be!” the other woman said. The two women watched the tall girl move gently through the crowd, her raven black hair catching the hearth firelight. “Can you see her ears? Maybe they are pointed!” The old lady gave a thrilled shiver and sipped her strong punch.
“Oh dear, her hair’s covering them. Well, if she is a Fairy’s child, we will hear about it soon enough.”
The girl did not hear their conversation. She was kneeling beside a little boy who had bruised his shin on a jagged corner. “There there,” she whispered as a tear rolled sparkling from the boy’s bright green eye. “It will not hurt for long.” The girl kissed his pink skin and took a damp cloth from her thick leather belt, and pressed it to the bruise. “Does that feel tingly?” The boy’s lips shaped an O and he laughed softly. “It feel like tasting peppermint!”
“Ah yes, peppermint, the herb of the winter,” the girl said. “That is good. You know, to feel something that has peppermint-taste is a very rare thing indeed.” The boy grew sober. “Really?”
“Oh yes! You must pay attention to that delicious cold feeling, for you never know when next you shall feel it.” The boy squinted up his eyes and held his breath. The girl laughed and stood up. “Thank you, Rhody,” the boy said in a pinched voice. Rhody ruffled his hair and moved silently around dancing couples. What a pleasant party! The duke had indeed outdone himself this Greenleaftime. Shrill bagpipes trilled and fiddles gave their high, swirling thrum. A young lad played with enthusiasm on a little drum and Rhody waved her hand to the beat. The boy nodded back and gave her a fond grin. Skerry was a nice brother, with his ruddy face and crooked smile. His thick thatch of hair was as black as hers and fell in his eyes as he bent once more over his drum. Rhody’s tan face darkened briefly as she recalled voices who said her and her brother were odd. Indeed, they were different, but not insane. Skerry had built their little home into the hollow trunk of a giant pine tree and kept the soup pot filled with good rabbit meat and pigeon. Rhody knew every plant and herb in the forest and on the heaths, and could sew masterfully. She ran a hand over her warm maroon cloak and smiled to herself as she sat down in a chilly window seat. Just because Skerry and she lived outside of the paranoid community of Crescentfolk, who had been pushed at each other by the Yule rumors, did not mean they were mentally ill or deliberately disobeyed the duke’s commands, which came directly from king Wenceslas. Crescentfolk, over the past several years, had learned to scorn those who did not conform to authoritative ruling. Rhody, in counter, scorned helpless fear that trained not the mind but the doubts. Skerry was a skilled swordsman, too young to be drafted in the duke’s regiment but a talented squire nonetheless. He taught Rhody the art of wielding the broadsword and Rhody in turn taught him to recognize vital herbs. Together they felt prepared to battle and aid as best they could should the Yule cross the eastern rapids.
Rhody leaned her head against the frosty windowpane as the music changed tunes and a clear pipe came into hearing. Her eyes slowly closed as the lilting sound carried her to sunny fields and cold streams, plump berries bursting with goodness and joyous laughter that floated on a slight breeze. Yes, this was where she’d come from. Long garments of materials she had never been able to find, graceful peace that evaded the most troubled soul and made it sleep. Thick, sweet water and bright dappled leaves whispering to each other. This was her home. Her real home…
You must pay the piper, two must dance along;
three should glean the grass and one will sing this song.
The merry tune was carried on the wind to the ears of several shepherds watching their sedate creatures.
“Ho, minstrel!” shouted one of them. The slender man carrying a gaily-painted lute strode over on long legs and sat before the shepherd’s small fire. “What will you have this cold noon?” he asked. His voice was happy and lazy. The cold seemed not to bother him. “Something suited to the day,” one shepherd grumbled. He pulled his fleece jacket closer about his sinewy shoulders and tore into his bread and cheese. The minstrel scratched his chin as the others nodded their agreement.
“A winter song, eh?” he said. “One would think you would wish a hot summer ditty to warm your stern bones!” One shepherd laughed mutedly but the leader turned austere blue eyes on him.
“I did not call for a jester, I called for a song in keeping with my miserable life.”
Why would you not want a song about joy? thought the minstrel. Surely it would do you some good! He did not say this aloud but stood up, his height towering and blocking out the sick gray sun.
“I fear I do not know any songs of those sort. I can sing only cheery tunes this noon, for I am going to be minstrel to king Wenceslas himself!” The shepherds, though discontented, whistled and let him on his way.
The minstrel walked on along the rude muddy road. He swung his arms in a wide arc and did not heed the sudden freezing blast of wind that danced inside his clumsily-sewn tunic. Slinging his lute over his shoulder, the minstrel hummed a washerwoman’s lay as the heaths came into view. The forests were behind him now; Wenceslas’s castle must not be far away now. With good blessing he could make it by supper time if he pushed his long legs to cover the distance. His gentle mother’s words rang through his head once more: “Now, my dear Conan, you must bring honor to your poor dead father and play well for the king. Wenceslas has been very kind to us here in Kentle, you must strive to play your very best for him.” Conan had given his word but with tears he had parted with his little mother. He’d protected her many a stormy night from drunken men and savage beasts, and his heart had grown tender towards her. His mother did promise to travel to a nearby village and seek shelter with another old widow, so Conan’s heart could be put at ease.
Conan’s voice drove away the chilling fingers of heath-winter as he sang of brave warriors defeating dragons to save beautiful ladies locked in high towers overlooking magical ponds. For amusement he twisted one tale and made it the lay of a woman sword-wielder who saved a wounded knight during a bloody foxhunt. The new story pleased him and he wove it into a well-known song. Once he had the words right, Conan ran his fingers through his curly brown hair and felt content. The heaths were now upon him; his cloak was soon damp with the purple fog and his the laces on his leather boots dragged in the squelching mud. Conan sang his tale over and over, but eventually the sad cry of marsh birds and the wind whipping off the mountain peaks surrounding the heath muted his joy. He began to feel weary and his steps slowed.
“This truly is a downtrodden land, with the very essence of melancholy,” Conan muttered as a briar bush wrapped stickled arms around him. He tore free and looked about him. The trees were strung with moss like grim decorations and the frogs croaked softly. As the sky darkened, the minstrel began to feel a creeping panic. What if he broke right at the height of his journey? Wenceslas’s castle was surely just over those few ridges! Yet on and on he traveled and there was no sight of the sprawling stone dwelling. The heaths grew silent and the wind bit at Conan’s buckling lute until he covered it hastily inside his dirty cloak. The screams of angry memories seemed to haunt the heaths and hidden marshes. Conan felt his happiness slowly ebb away and his fingers froze stiff, curled around his belt. He wished the king had provided him with an escort. The most there was had been a summons from a pimple-faced page, excited with his first duty, telling him the king’s decision to make him minstrel. Conan recalled the years spent studying at Kentle’s art school, the bleeding fingers and aching head, the hours away from his mother as he grew up mastering the lute. Thankfully, Conan was a quick learner and was soon able to spend more time with his mother, playing for her instead of steel-eyed instructors who cared nothing for depth or beauty, but only the true ring of the lute strings and wail of the pipe. And then the blessed day, the summons day.
Conan tried to think on these things as a delicious warmth overcame his cold limbs. No, no, he mustn’t give up! Not so close, not so close…
The black rider, his cape sweeping the dusty stars, galloped upon his frothing steed across the greenish gray heath hills. His eyes smoldered. How dare that king tell him what he must and mustn’t do! The rider shouted again in rage as his horse slipped slightly and he nearly fell off.
“Stupid animal!” The man dug his sharp boots into the horse’s flank. “We must make it to the woods in whole pieces!”
As the moon rose pale and thin over the heathlands, it saw a strange sight. The black rider and his horse has stopped before a lanky shadow stretched out in a marsh. The man tipped his head back and laughed. The moon leaned closer and heard his evil voice say, “What have we here!” | 
