Saturday, November 5, 2016

NaNoWriMo 2016 ~ Day Five

Entering the house through an unprepossessing side-door into a maze of tiny interconnected rooms that had been part of the kitchen offices until Robin's Georgian ancestors had moved the kitchens into their own wing across the moat; they were too small to be of any modern use, and the space they occupied too narrow to turn into a larger room, so the rooms just sat empty to confuse visitors.

Robin's grandparents had moved the working kitchens back into the main house after the first War, as modern servants didn't care to take a thousand steps from the kitchen to the dining room weighted down with heavy silver platters; the huge original kitchen, which had been turned into a smoking and billiards room in the interim, was revived and lined with cupboards and appliances in the height of 1920s efficiency.  Robin's mother had turned the place into more of a family kitchen as was popular in the 70s, putting couches and a television in the area beside the ancient fireplace and disguising the cabinets and new appliances behind worn wooden facades to make it look more medieval.

Now the kitchen was the domain of Mr. and Mrs. Ricks, a married couple who had been taking care of the house since shortly after Robin's father died; they made the kitchen their headquarters and did all of their maintenance and repairs from there, cooking and cleaning for anyone who came down to stay, but mostly just keeping a spark of life inside the house so it didn't get stale and creepy.

The Rickses were typical country people, in Robin's estimation, rather taciturn and melancholy; they were both tall and very thin, dark but somehow colorless, with long faces and skins weathered beyond their years, enough alike to be cousins (which Robin assumed they were).  Ricks never spoke unless forced to, and answered in monosyllables; Mrs. Ricks was more voluble, but only just.

"Good, you're back" Mrs. Ricks said, looking up from some work she was doing at the ancient scrubbed oak kitchen table "I was wondering if I should send Ricks out to fetch you."

"Would you believe, I got lost in the woods?" Robin laughed ruefully at himself, perching on one of the high stools lined up on one side of the old table to form a breakfast bar.

"It's not called the Wanderwood for nothing," she said, unimpressed, pushing a plate of bread and cheese across, "Eat this, tide you over 'til you can have the lunch I'm packing for the train."

"Oh, thank you," Robin sighed with relief, taking up one of the simple canapes (rather than a hunk of bread and a hunk of cheese with some pickle in the middle, Mrs. Ricks knew her employer liked the bread cut into pieces with a little square of cheese and a dab of relish on each one), "I'm starving, all I've had since breakfast was a chocolate bar."

"Mmm," the lady murmured neutrally, though managed to convey her belief that Robin shouldn't eat so many sweets, while she placed the components of Robin's now-cold lunch into plastic tubs which, with some flatware and a glass wrapped in a cloth napkin and the half-bottle of Moselle in a Thermos flask to keep cool, went into a thermal-lined nylon satchel for travel.

*****

554 Words
1943 Words Total

Thursday, November 3, 2016

NaNoWriMo 2016 - Day Three

Wanderwood is a moated stone manor house, of chiefly Tudor vintage, built around a Norman tower standing on the foundations of a Saxon tower, which in turn covered the remains of a Roman outpost on the River Wylye.  The Norman tower forms the entrance to the quadrangular mansion, and features a working drawbridge, sturdy enough to drive lorries across, which Robin crossed gratefully; slamming the small door in the larger double-doors filling the arch and leaning against it as if he were being pursued, he closed his eyes and tried laughing himself out of the strange fear he still felt.

"Moron, getting lost in your own woods," he chuckled aloud, resorting to the old schoolboy trick of shaming the fear out, "You'll be wetting the bed next."

The minor shame covered the fear rather than dispelling it, but it was an infinitely more comfortable emotion, so Robin enlarged on it as he crossed the courtyard to the east wing: worrying over how much time he'd wasted being lost, he wouldn't be able to sit down and eat his lunch in comfort before the minicab came to take him to Salisbury; alternatives spun around in his mind, grabbing some bread and cheese and eating it on the way, or getting something from the snack bar in the station or on the train, none of which would be as satisfying as the chop and salad with a nice glass of white he'd intended.
a
"There you are, my lord," Mrs. Ricks looked up from the her worktable in the ancient

*****

258 Words

NaNoWriMo 2016 - Day Three

Wanderwood is a moated stone manor house, of chiefly Tudor vintage, built around a Norman tower standing on the foundations of a Saxon tower, which in turn covered the remains of a Roman outpost on the River Wylye.  The Norman tower forms the entrance to the quadrangular mansion, and features a working drawbridge, sturdy enough to drive lorries across, which Robin crossed gratefully; slamming the small door in the larger double-doors filling the arch and leaning against it as if he were being pursued, he closed his eyes and tried laughing himself out of the strange fear he still felt.

"Moron, getting lost in your own woods," he chuckled aloud, resorting to the old schoolboy trick of shaming the fear out, "You'll be wetting the bed next."

The minor shame covered the fear rather than dispelling it, but it was an infinitely more comfortable emotion, so Robin enlarged on it as he crossed the courtyard to the east wing: worrying over how much time he'd wasted being lost, he wouldn't be able to sit down and eat his lunch in comfort before the minicab came to take him to Salisbury; alternatives spun around in his mind, grabbing some bread and cheese and eating it on the way, or getting something from the snack bar in the station or on the train, none of which would be as satisfying as the chop and salad with a nice glass of white he'd intended.
a
"There you are, my lord," Mrs. Ricks looked up from the her worktable in the ancient

*****

258 Words

NaNoWriMo 2016 - Day Three

Wanderwood is a moated stone manor house, of chiefly Tudor vintage, built around a Norman tower standing on the foundations of a Saxon tower, which in turn covered the remains of a Roman outpost on the River Wylye.  The Norman tower forms the entrance to the quadrangular mansion, and features a working drawbridge, sturdy enough to drive lorries across, which Robin crossed gratefully; slamming the small door in the larger double-doors filling the arch and leaning against it as if he were being pursued, he closed his eyes and tried laughing himself out of the strange fear he still felt.

"Moron, getting lost in your own woods," he chuckled aloud, resorting to the old schoolboy trick of shaming the fear out, "You'll be wetting the bed next."

The minor shame covered the fear rather than dispelling it, but it was an infinitely more comfortable emotion, so Robin enlarged on it as he crossed the courtyard to the east wing: worrying over how much time he'd wasted being lost, he wouldn't be able to sit down and eat his lunch in comfort before the minicab came to take him to Salisbury; alternatives spun around in his mind, grabbing some bread and cheese and eating it on the way, or getting something from the snack bar in the station or on the train, none of which would be as satisfying as the chop and salad with a nice glass of white he'd intended.
a
"There you are, my lord," Mrs. Ricks looked up from the her worktable in the ancient

*****

258 Words

NaNoWriMo 2016 - Day Three

Wanderwood is a moated stone manor house, of chiefly Tudor vintage, built around a Norman tower standing on the foundations of a Saxon tower, which in turn covered the remains of a Roman outpost on the River Wylye.  The Norman tower forms the entrance to the quadrangular mansion, and features a working drawbridge, sturdy enough to drive lorries across, which Robin crossed gratefully; slamming the small door in the larger double-doors filling the arch and leaning against it as if he were being pursued, he closed his eyes and tried laughing himself out of the strange fear he still felt.

"Moron, getting lost in your own woods," he chuckled aloud, resorting to the old schoolboy trick of shaming the fear out, "You'll be wetting the bed next."

The minor shame covered the fear rather than dispelling it, but it was an infinitely more comfortable emotion, so Robin enlarged on it as he crossed the courtyard to the east wing: worrying over how much time he'd wasted being lost, he wouldn't be able to sit down and eat his lunch in comfort before the minicab came to take him to Salisbury; alternatives spun around in his mind, grabbing some bread and cheese and eating it on the way, or getting something from the snack bar in the station or on the train, none of which would be as satisfying as the chop and salad with a nice glass of white he'd intended.
a
"There you are, my lord," Mrs. Ricks looked up from the her worktable in the ancient

*****

258 Words

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

NaNoWriMo 2016 - Day Two

Robin breathed a sigh of relief when he caught sight of the familiar roofline of Wanderwood through the thinning trees; he'd been lost in the wood, something that had never happened in all his years of tramping about alone.  That wood was so familiar, Robin thought he could walk it blindfold.

But today he'd found himself in a part of the wood he'd never seen before, a very old part, full of wizened and incalculably ancient trees, carpeted in dense soft leaf-mould, with delicate ferns and rich wildflowers swaying under lazy beams of golden sunlight.  It was utterly beautiful, by far the most beautiful part of the wood he'd ever seen, but terrifyingly unfamiliar. Referring to the compass in the back of his pocket-watch, he found the needle swinging around lazily instead of pointing north.

Grabbing hold of a rising panic, Robin sat on the bole of a tree that had fallen down some hundreds of years ago but continued to grow horizontally, providing a sturdy bench in a tiny picturesque glade. Some deep breathing and concentrated positive thinking got the panic under control, and a bar of Belgian chocolate calmed him further; his mind back in order, he remembered that the late-morning sunbeams must be slanting east-to-west, he had only to follow them westward to get home.

It took a good long while to find familiar territory, stumbling onto a well-worn path wending among friendly trees after a half-hour's concentrated hiking; and even then it was another mile out of the wood, and a half-mile further across meadows to the house.  He made a note of where he'd regained the path so he could go back another day, with more provisions and perhaps a camera to capture the beauty of the place.  Nevertheless, the panic of getting lost did not quite leave him, he was unsettled and eager to reach the solid security of the house.

*****

317 Words
1131 Total Words

Tuesday, November 1, 2016

NaNoWriMo 2016 - Day One

The fae stirred from his deep dreamless sleep, stimulated by the rich pleasureful odor of chocolate.  Such an overwhelming smell, made up of so many smaller, tightly interlocking smells, some earthy and crude, others sweet and delicate, high notes and low notes, with that wandering firefly of bitterness lending contrast to it all.  Exquisite, tantalizing, the smell brought the fae up out of his mossy bed, leaning toward the low arch between the roots of his ancient oak tree, drawing more scent into himself.

Under the smell of chocolate came another smell, only slightly less pleasureful, the scent of a man. The fae was not surprised, as chocolate does not occur naturally in the wood; if there is chocolate, a human cannot be far behind.  The man-scent was slightly familiar, a waft of something known mingled with ordinary human smells--he couldn't quite place it, but it made him feel happy and angry at the same time, a nostalgic longing entwined with a fiery indignation.

The anger gave him pause, laying back down and rolling over to look at the tangle of roots above his bed.  There hadn't been a man in this wood for a very long time, at least not close enough for the fae to smell.  He didn't really know how long it had been since those soldiers had fallen from the sky, buoyed by great domes of fragile dark silk, barely visible against a cloudy sky rumbling with engines. The fae dimly understood that Britain was at war with Germany, and that other nations were involved as well, but such things could not be expected to affect him, happening far away from the Wanderwood.

But reading their thoughts, the fae discovered these soldiers had come into his wood not to do battle, but to find treasure, some powerful occult object to bring back to their masters across the water; these were special soldiers, carrying shovels as well as guns, chosen for their sensitivity to magic. The area around about was full of magical things, from the great standing stones of Salisbury Plain to the multitude of unnamed barrows under pastures and spinneys; in no other place did Faerie and the human world intersect so frequently.

He'd slaughtered those German boys as soon as they came near his tree on its hill, drawn by the magic emanating from the two standing stones that marked his own gateway to Faerie; it had been distasteful, the killing, he always hated killing young men, and some of these had been beautiful.  But they could not be allowed to take the stones away, nor to tell anyone of their location.  He tracked their scent up into the air, flying after the aeroplane that had vomited them out above the Wanderwood, and forced the machine to fly straight at the ground where it erupted in a terrifying pillar of flame.

Returning from the foul-smelling wreckage, the fae flew low over the many-roomed house around the high tower where the Avery Men lived.  The house and tower were empty, and the village nearby was almost devoid of men and women, only a handful of old people and small children were living there. If the Avery Men had gone extinct, he was sure he would have felt it; if the village had been struck by some decimating plague or bloody raid, he would have heard it: no, they must be involved in this new war, a great and terrible war being fought all over the globe.

Exhausted and furious, the fae had crawled under his tree and curled up to sleep.  Killing those handsome boys, leaving the wood to make the machine explode, it was all so ugly, so much iron and fire and pain; he should never have had to turn his hand to such filthy work: it was the Avery Man's duty to defend the Wanderwood, a compact made hundreds of years ago, writ with human blood on fae skins, for which the fae had paid with blessings beyond count.

Remembering his anger, the fae turned back to the arch to look out into the wood--that was the familiar scent on the man with the chocolate: he was an Avery Man.  Not much of one, the bloodline must have weakened in recent generations, there was too much other blood overpowering the Avery scent he so loved.  He could see the man's back as he walked slowly and apparently aimlessly in the direction of the house and the village, skirting the perimeter of the clearing in which the fae's tree and gate stood.

"He will be made to see the folly of neglecting his duty," the fae snarled, stretching luxuriously in his bed of moss and silt and powdered leaves, "Next time he comes near, I will put fear and awe into his heart.  He will pay for making me defend the Wanderwood myself like a common drow."

*****
814 Words