Serial Saturday: "Cipherstalker," Part 11

Karthey threw on her jacket as she left the door of Fornberg House. She fairly ran down the hill, overjoyed at the sight of Derrik waiting for her at the gate.

            Brother and sister could not embrace because of the bars that separated them, but they clasped hands fervently.

            “How have you been, sister?” Derrik asked urgently, with much concern on his face. “I couldn’t believe it when Dad came home with a letter from you, saying that The Cram had brought them into town. How did you get him to do such a thing?”

            “Derrik!” Karthey chided her brother, “He was the one who made the offer; I merely accepted it. Didn’t you read what I wrote you?”

            “Yeah, about The Cram being a real control freak and forcing you out of his way—“

            “You don’t get it, do you?” Karthey interrupted. “I said that’s how he was at first, but…but maybe he’s changed—or maybe I’ve changed.”

            “Maybe we should get you examined by a doctor,” Derrik suggested teasingly, “because I saw him come into town today, and I followed him around, and there was nothing different about him whatsoever; and if you’ve changed, I have to wonder where all this is going. You’re not going to want to live here forever, are you?” His eyes communicated a deliberate challenge.

            Karthey felt her heart seize and her stomach turn at the thought. “Oh no!” she assured her brother emphatically, “No! Just as soon as this is over, I want to go straight home! This house is much too big, too scary—not so dark anymore, but it still creeps me out. Don’t worry, Derrik, I’ll come back to you. In fact, I’ve brought you something that I found that might help you on the case.”

            Derrik suddenly drew himself up and looked very much interested. “What is it?” he asked.

            Karthey showed him the paper she had been filling out of all the victims, and told him of the messages she found. “By the looks of it,” she explained as Derrik studied her paper, “Cramwell seems to have messages pertaining to all the disappearances. I only found three before I came out to meet you, though I don’t know what the third one said. I don’t even know where the messages came from, because it’s his handwriting on each one, and it’s always in code at the top of the page, and he writes it over and over again, and by the bottom of the page, he’s solved the message. I can’t tell whether he’s making this stuff up himself, or whether he’s gotten it from someone else—“

            “Wait, like the kidnapper will warn The Cram ahead of time, before each victim was kidnapped?” Derrik frowned incredulously, “Why didn’t he go to the police at the very beginning, then? This whole thing could have been over before he got it into his mixed-up brain to have Dad arrested, and you wouldn’t have felt the need to come up here!”

            “But what if Cramwell’s just making this stuff up? It wouldn’t make sense to go to the police then; and if he isn’t, and he had gone to the police, would they have believed it of someone like Cramwell? And if they hadn’t believed him, I would never had found the notes myself, and maybe you’ll accept them from me better than the police would have accepted them from Cramwell.”

            Derrik grudgingly acknowledged the truth in his sister’s words. “Well, all right,” he admitted, “Dad and I will take a look at them; but if he really did get the notes from somewhere else, you should probably find the original notes, so we can analyze the handwriting.”

            “But the fact that there are these messages means something in and of itself, right, Derrik?” Karthey sought to verify her assumption.

            Derrik nodded, “Oh, it definitely means something; we just haven’t figured out what it is yet.”

            Karthey glanced back at the house, “All right; the notes are probably somewhere in his study. He has tons of papers in there. I can check and see what I find.” She turned back to her brother, “Will I see you tomorrow?”

            Derrik winced, “Actually, I won’t be able to come tomorrow; Dad and I have a busy morning ahead of us. But I promise to come visit the next day. I love you, Karthey!”

            “I love you too, Derrik. See you the day after tomorrow, then!”

            “Goodbye!”

            Karthey trudged back up Fornberg Hill and entered the big, vacuous house. Tomorrow, she must spend the whole day in the house; how would she manage not seeing Derrik and hearing about the town?

            Karthey remembered what she had told Derrik about checking in Cramwell’s study for the notes. She went upstairs, grabbed a duster, some rags, and a trash bag, intending to do just that—plus perhaps a bit of cleaning and opening of windows on the side.

            The study was just down the hall from the library. The windows, she saw, looked out to a section of Fornberg Hill that was partitioned off by a short brick wall. Karthey saw a gravel path leading to it from the back patio. She wondered what could be out there. A garden? Maybe it was The Woman’s garden. Karthey glanced up to the large painting hanging on the wall over the fireplace. With a jolt she realized that the man standing next to The Woman in the picture must be Cramwell Fornberg himself! He was a good deal shorter than she’d pictured him, not much taller than the woman, by the looks of the painting, with sandy-brown hair and small, unassuming features. Of course the whole tone of the painting was very subdued and solemn, “A lot like the house,” Karthey muttered.

Cramwell and The Woman clasped hands at the center of the painting, and Karthey couldn’t help noticing that they probably had the portrait taken in the library, for she recognized some of the shelves, the green armchair stood off to the side behind Cramwell, and there was still a pile of books on the table behind The Woman and on the floor beside her.

            Karthey regarded the painting with a calculating air. “Well,” she mused aloud, “if he only looks like that, I don’t think I would be afraid of him, exactly—only very, very depressed!”

            She resumed cleaning the study, opening curtains, a window, straightening piles of papers, and dusting everything. She kept a wary eye out for anything that didn’t look like Cramwell’s handwriting (even though she could not identify the handwriting itself very well, but at least it helped that he always used the same kinds of pens, and most of the writing was his anyway), but the clock struck through the quarter-hours till it reached quarter-after-four before she could find anything in the piles on the wide, mahogany, pot-bellied desk.

            To the chimes of the clock, Karthey received a sudden burst of inspiration. She cautiously reached down and pulled open one of the drawers. Inside were many small notes, but none in code. Encouraged, Karthey moved to search the drawer below it. Still more notes presented themselves to her eye, yet none of them were the ones for which she searched. With every drawer, Karthey’s heart pounded harder. What if she made it through the entire desk without finding the notes? What if he didn’t keep them in his study at all, but in some deep, dark place, like his bedroom? These questions hounded her as she pulled open the third drawer, hoping against hope that it held what she sought. What if—

            At last! Karthey stopped to feast her eyes on the crumpled, dirty pieces of paper (and a napkin—plus one of the pieces of paper had tape around the edges) for which she had braved fifteen extra minutes in Cramwell’s study. But how would she get them to Derrik without Cramwell noticing?

            Karthey’s cell phone buzzed, alerting her that Cramwell was on his way home. It also put her in mind of something else. Basking in her own genius, Karthey pulled out her cell phone, quickly snapped pictures of each note, and closed the drawer again. Everything was as she found it; the only thing she took from the room was years of dust, and four pictures, safe on her cell phone.

            Karthey left the east hallway and made it across the entryway to the door leading into the dining room when she heard Cramwell enter the front door just behind her. The left-hand stairwell obscured her from his view, but by leaning very carefully around the door, Karthey found she could get a clear view of Cramwell Fornberg, in person—her first since coming to the house.

            She was stunned by what she saw: he was exactly like the painting: Mild, brooding, very solemn—and completely unapproachable. She watched him leave the basket of letters by the front door where he’d placed the basket that morning, and then he moved straightaway for the east hallway. Karthey, in her turn, made for the basket. She found replies to all her notes, plus a few other people who wanted to express their sympathies, with whom she had not communicated of late. Karthey frowned mildly when she noticed that all the cards were open; Cramwell could have read them all if he were the nosy type. Was he the nosy type? Karthey finally shrugged it off; who cared if Cramwell read the mail he had brought himself? She brought the letters upstairs, returned downstairs quickly when summoned for her supper, and spent the rest of the evening reading the wonderful epistles from the friends and family who had felt so far away for the almost interminable time of four whole days now.

            That night—in her imagination, at least—Karthey Hendra Mavis was home.

<<<>>>

 

            Cramwell Fornberg opened his eyes at half-past-seven the next morning. His mind was spinning like a top that would not fall. Most of the previous day had been a blur. As his mind climbed wearily out of the whirlwind of thoughts that had prevented a peaceful slumber, he remembered the events slowly.

            First had been that awkward text to Miss Mavis. (No, Cramwell reminded himself, she has a name; he’d seen it on the cards he brought to town; her name was Karthey). He remembered typing and sending it, but he could not exactly remember why it had sounded so reasonable. He had never wished her a good morning before; whyever was he doing it now?

            He had immediately regretted it, but as it was sent, there was not much he could do about it beyond ignoring that it had ever happened. But then—still in the wake of the newfound goodwill—he had the audacity to make the offer to be her courier. Two regrettable texts, in the same morning! Why, oh why was Mavis the girl here instead of Mavis the journalist? She absolutely confused him; one minute she was darting out of the room and scared speechless at the thought of him, the next, she was sneaking around, cleaning his house and conducting an investigation as calmly as if she didn’t give a care what he thought of her!

            It was the whole idea of Karthey Mavis being just as good an investigator as her father that intrigued Cramwell the most. He could not see exactly everything she did, because generally the cameras were just far enough away that he could watch her, but could not make out minute details. Reviewing the footage every night before he went to bed, he saw her pulling out the newspapers and writing furiously, flipping through his notebooks to find the messages he’d solved (he was outraged at the sight of this when he first saw it, but as he continued to watch, the sight of her carefully replacing the notebook exactly as he had left it mollified him), and even rooting through his study—for what? She sifted through the papers, she peeked in almost every drawer—what could she be looking for there? But she did everything with admirable tact and thoroughness—almost like a true detective. Somehow Karthey Mavis had the wherewithal to come up with methods of solving the case that Cramwell himself wished he had thought of; but more than her tact or her thoroughness, Karthey had something fully in her grasp that Cramwell was only beginning to understand: she knew the ways of the Precinct townsfolk.

            He had, of course, read all her notes on the way to town. They mentioned movements and interactions that Cramwell had not even begun to realize. Names that he had separated completely from each other were penned in the same sentence. Not just that, but when—after he had delivered the notes to Mr. Mavis—word got around that Cramwell was carrying notes between Precinct and Fornberg Hill to and from Karthey, Cramwell found his old comfortable, lonely places now frequented by people desiring to pass on messages to Karthey. They understood that he did not wish to socialize or speak, but they meekly approached him and dropped a caring message for Karthey in his basket. He read these, too, before he reached his house again in the evening. Once again, he saw names and associations he never dreamed could be. This very thing had troubled Cramwell’s sleep the previous night. He knew now, because of Karthey’s letters and the responses from the people, that Precinct had a network beyond similar employment, which he had been emphasizing so far. Cramwell knew, at seven-thirty the next morning, he probably ought to find out more about this network if he was going to be able to find either the kidnapper, or possibly the next victim. Perhaps a certain connection somewhere got the first victim into trouble, and that same connection meant the disappearance of a lot of people. Perhaps all the victims had a connection, and if Cramwell could figure out what—or who, or where—that connection was, he would also be able to ascertain potential victims. But he could not do all of this alone, not with the limited information or means he had.

            Cramwell sat up, slid his feet into the dark shearling slippers, and put on his deep-blue dressing gown with a firm resolve. He would have to ask Karthey for help—that is to say, information. He needed to know the sort of thing she knew. He needed to glean from her what she knew about the town. Cramwell felt the cell phone in the pocket of his dressing gown. He had just the way to get the information he wanted, too.

            Good morning, Miss Mavis, he texted her, after debating as to the best way to frame his request, I know you are familiar with the habits and movements of the various citizens of Precinct. Ergo, I will leave a list of names on the dining room table. I want you to record as much about them as you have observed before, and leave the paper—feel free to use more than one sheet if you need it—on my desk in the study. Cramwell hesitated, reviewing the instructions carefully; it would work… wouldn’t it? It ought to! Cramwell hesitated, hemmed, hawed, rubbed his forehead, and, on a whim, typed out Thank you and pressed “Send.”

            After the screen confirmed the send, Cramwell mildly berated himself. Why “thank you”? Was he inviting the girl to live there? Did he really seek to make her comfortable enough to stay? Did he want another woman in the house—who wasn’t Jelilah? Perish the thought! But he did need the information she had, and if thank you got it to him, then where was the harm? The sooner he knew enough to apprehend the kidnapper, the sooner he could send her back down the hill and resume life as it had been before—albeit with a cleaner, fresher, brighter house. Satisfied with what he had done, he left his room as the clock struck eight and went downstairs to collect the paper and begin his daily routine.

<<<<<Previous          Next>>>>>

Throwback Thursday: "Amazon", an UnExcerpt, Part 2

Near the end of last year, I posted an excerpt for which I could not invent any sort of plot. I did add to the excerpt over the course of a week, but could not come up with anything more than just that, an excerpt. Usually excerpts are taken from stories... but in this case, an un-excerpt is a piece of a story that does not yet exist, hopefully leading to a story... Any ideas? Let me know in the comments!
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Jaws and teeth, anger and ripping—my leg, what happened to my leg? Roaring, screaming, fur—

I regained consciousness in the midst of blackness and the stench of death. I blinked as the dark materialized into a blunt muzzle as big as my head, and full of sharp teeth as long as my fingers. The muzzle moved closer, blasting me with the foul breath, and I tried to turn away, which produced an electric shock of pain in my left leg. I could not escape the gaping mouth hovering over me. The giant panther bent over my face—and licked me soundly from my collarbone to my hairline. I couldn't breathe for the slime and the stink. The panther backed away with a gentle growl, very pleased with itself.

"Carnossus say she like you."

Once again, I heard the voice before I saw the speaker. Looking up, I could barely see the whites of two dark eyes. The speaker smiled then, and I could see two rows of sharp white teeth. Carnossus the panther sat below the woman, haunches folded, paws outstretched like a sphinx. The moon shone through a hole in the center of the roof above me, illuminating a circle as wide as my arms' reach, but deepening the shadows in which my companion sat.

"Wwwwhaaa—" my mouth wobbled as I fought to get the word out. "W-w—what... What—"

The face loomed over me. "You feel now?" she asked. Reaching down, she cradled my shoulders in her hand and propped me slightly up, cupping a smooth clay bowl against my mouth as she did so. I choked as a thick, dark liquid splashed against my face.

"Drink," the giantess commanded. I had no choice.

The liquid tasted awful. It burned in my mouth and left a horrible essence in its wake, but she pressed the bowl to my face till it was empty. She continued to hold me up for a bit afterwards. I raised my hand and felt her arm, sinewy and rock-hard. I could sense the warmth radiating off her impossibly-smooth skin, as if her body were made of obsidian.

The hut I was in had a fire pit at one end, over which stood a spit with a small kettle hanging from it. I glanced down at my leg. Two thick branches braced it, tied on with vines. She had torn the ripped pieces of my trousers off from around it. I wondered if I was going to have to wear pelts like my caretaker. The medicine I had drunk took effect, and abruptly my body became very heavy. My head lolled, so she lowered me back down to laying on the pelt.

"Sleep now," she murmured, "heal."

Sleep... 

Sounds faded from my ears as I closed my eyes again.

The sun shone brightly through the skylight when I regained consciousness again. The woman was not in the hut, but Carnossus snuggled next to me like a big, stinky cat, with one forepaw draped over my chest and her muzzle so close to my face that her whiskers rested on my cheeks. I turned away from the rotten-meat breath and saw, through the doorway of the hut, the tallest person in the world heading straight for us. She wore pelts fastened to her body with thongs, and her hair was braided and strung with beads, vines, and shells.

"Shetara!" she thundered.

My caretaker stepped from her position beside the door to in front of it.

"What have you done?" the newcomer demanded, and I recognized the voice from when I had first arrived in the jaws of Carnossus.

"She is no harm, Deloma," Shetara affirmed.

Deloma shoved Shetara out of the way and stepped inside the hut. Immediately, I inhaled fur as Carnossus wrapped her body over me. Her flank rested on my broken leg, and I couldn't restrain a small moan of pain. Deloma tried to reach me, but Carnossus blocked her hand with her teeth, growling threateningly.

"Begone, panther!" Deloma demanded. "The human cannot stay here. She must be brought back to where she came from!"

Carnossus wouldn't budge. If anything, she laid heavier on me, pressing into my leg and raising the pain level from unbearable to excruciating. I couldn't move even if I wanted to.

There was a hint of smugness in Shetara's vice as she observed, "Carnossus save the life, Carnossus decide the fate. We send her away, she die fast."

"If she remains here, more of her kind will come!" Deloma tried again, but Carnossus snarled at her. "That is a risk we cannot take. She must leave now!"

One last attempt from Deloma, and Carnossus bared her teeth. The giantess could not lay a finger on me.

Shetara chortled. "Carnossus say no."

I could feel the sustained growl vibrating against my belly.

Deloma hissed. "The human may stay until she is well enough to survive—and then she must leave."

"We shall see."

Deloma left, and finally, Carnossus slipped off. She began rubbing her face on my chest and humming loudly, leaving the stench of rotting foliage from her fur on my clothes. Shetara reached out and rubbed Carnossus' shoulders. The panther sank to the floor, her head still resting on my midriff.

Shetara smiled at me. "Carnossus never see like you before, never defy Deloma before. She like you very much. I like you, too. You different." Shetara reached over and lifted a lock of my red hair. "Like flame," she muttered, watching it glint in the sunlight as it fell. "I call you Little Candle; is good?"

I was feeling considerably safer in the company of Shetara and Carnossus in light of the way they defended me. I nodded. Shetara busied herself around my splint, spreading a poultice that stung and then cooled quickly. She ladled a liquid into a coconut shell dwarfed by the size of her hand. Using a woven cloth, she smoothed the liquid onto my forehead. It smelled nice, and I began to feel very drowsy. Shetara started humming a strange, haunting melody.

"You sleep now, Little Candle," she murmured, and I discovered that there was nothing else I wanted to do. I closed my eyes and drifted off to the sound of her voice.

>>>>>>>>>

And so it went for many days. Sometimes I would awaken in the middle of the day, sometimes at night, but each time, Carnossus was there to greet me, and Shetara managed to enter shortly thereafter to tend to my leg and give me medicines to make me sleep. As I got stronger, I would sit up more, and as my leg healed, I could stand up for stretches (supported by Carnossus) and slowly hobble my way around the hut. Shetara remained adamant that I never left the vicinity of the hut.

"You stay, Little Candle," she would remind me. "No go out. Not safe."

I always assumed she was referring to Deloma and others who felt the same as she did. The other woman did come frequently, still trying to get Shetara to send me away. Though we spoke the same language (something I didn't expect here in the Amazon jungle), Deloma and some of the others constantly treated me like a new kind of rodent, speaking at me and around me, and constantly fearing an infestation of my kind. They referred to me as "the human"—as if they were not. Were the Amazons more than just another race, but another species?

Shetara was the only one who would talk to me, and her vocabulary seemed far more limited than Deloma's. I asked her how long I had been there, and she informed me it had been "many days." I wondered from time to time what the others at the compound I had left behind what felt like a lifetime ago were doing about the fact that I wasn't returning. I knew fractures like mine took several weeks to heal, maybe even a month or so—but the medicines Shetara used seemed to have some special super-healing properties, or perhaps I spent several days asleep at a time.

[...]

 

I made it about five paces before I had to stop and rest. I smelled stench and heard a low growl by my ear. Carnossus stood behind me, watching. I tried to diffuse the tension by scratching the enormous panther under the chin. It worked. Carnossus hummed happily and threw her paws forward in a stretch. She looked up at me and deliberately bent down to nudge my legs. She was offering to carry me. Willingly, I gripped the fur at the scruff of her neck and did my best to clamber aboard the cat as big as a Clydesdale. She bent down to make it easier for me, and soon we two were making even better progress through the jungle.

Carnossus seemed to know where I wanted to go. We followed the path Shetara had taken not long ago, her large footprints visible in the mud. It led to a large pool fed by the Amazon River. There was no one in sight.

Carnossus bent down and I slipped off her back, landing gingerly on my injured leg. The bone had healed pretty nearly, but it was still sensitive and stiff from disuse. Crouching by the water's edge, I listened carefully. In the muted silence of the jungle, all I could hear was the quiet lapping of the pool.

In retrospect, had I looked down, I would have seen the creature lunging for me from the clear depths of the pool, but as matters stood, I knew nothing of the ambush till long, wet arms wrapped around my neck and hauled me into the water. I had only a brief gasp of air before the creature that grabbed me pinned me tight against a wiry, scaly body. It swam deep into the pool and out toward the River—and yet the appendages holding me were very much like arms. Human? No; the skin felt like that of a shark. The braided hair bearing shells and seaweed seemed familiar. Did the Amazons who served as my hostesses take fashion cues from these beings? The water skimmed over my bare feet. We pulled up with a jerk, and the creature kept me pinned with one arm, gripping my face with a slimy, webbed hand. I could see long, narrow shapes circling overhead. I tried to break its grip, but the arm had a smooth membrane hanging from it that resisted my attempts to wriggle.

The next thing I knew, globs of slime attached to first one ear then the other. I remembered feeling the same sensation one of the first times I woke up after Carnossus brought me to Shetara. I felt the blade of a bone knife press against my throat as a female voice hissed through the slime, "You should not have come, human! No one shall discover our secret, and now you shall pay!"

It took a few moments for me to realize that the creature holding me prisoner and the one speaking were the same. The way she pulled my head back to see the caimans overhead in an obvious threat to slit my throat and let them feast on me gave her away. But how did she know I had deliberately arrived at the pool, and was not some passerby who stopped for a drink at that pool? The way she called me human reminded me of Deloma. My lungs burned for breath, but this creature—was I becoming acquainted with my first mermaid?—would sooner let me drown than offer me any kind of breathing apparatus.

A dark shape hurtled through the water toward us, striking my captor in the arm and breaking her hold on me. The sudden release caused me to involuntarily gasp—forgetting that I was still submerged. The water filled my lungs and I blacked out as the dark shape filled my vision.

I regained consciousness to the feeling of something wide and heavy pumping rhythmically on my chest. I coughed up the water in my lungs as I sat up to get the heavy thing off my ribs. My eyes focused on the thing in my hands just as it extended a long pink tongue and licked my face. Carnossus had saved me once again—even though, being a cat, I never expected her to follow me into the water and dive so deep. I rubbed her head to let her know I was okay, and she hummed softly and turned back toward the bonfire blazing against the side of the cave. Her rump was still wet, and for some reason she dragged it along the ground instead of walking, which I didn't understand till I saw that her body ended in two wide flippers instead of two legs and a tail. Was this sea creature not the panther I knew? 

The sea-panther crawled toward the flame and curled up next to it. I looked around the vicinity. Near my feet was a small pool not unlike the one I had entered. Perhaps this was where I had been brought out of the water. The cave extended twenty feet upward, and the perimeter was clearly visible in the light of the bonfire—but who had made it? Certainly the sea-panther would not be capable of such a thing. 

I heard a splash from the pool, and another shape emerged, this one much longer than the sea-panther. It had long hair braided with shells and seaweed, large, blinking fish eyes, flapping gills in the middle of the face, webbed hands, fins under the arms and along the spine, and long legs that ended in wide flippers. A mermaid! It had to be one—though it was very different than the conventional concept of a mermaid. The sea-panther arose and shook itself—and as I watched, its flippers extended into legs and a long tail, which it stretched, cat-like. It was Carnossus; she could change her shape to become an aquatic creature! Did that mean she was in league with the mermaids who grabbed me?

The mermaid turned to look at me, but I closed my eyes quickly and pretended to be unconscious still. I heard her turn away and snuck a glance. She dragged her long body over to the fire. The water evaporated from her shark-grey skin and left strange brown marks. As I watched, the brown expanded, and the fins and flippers shrank and disappeared. When she was dry and fully human, she reached next to the pile of wood against the wall and picked up some pelts with thongs. Once she fastened them on, I immediately recognized her as the one who had nursed me back to health after I had been attacked by the caiman.

Shetara turned to me, her smile white against the blackness of her face. The gills had been replaced by a nose, and the eyes were not so bulgy.

"Little Candle!" she cried, reaching toward me.

I shrank away. She was one of them, one of the ones who wanted to kill me! "H—h-h-how... Y-y-you—" I spluttered.

Carnossus stalked over on four legs and licked my face again, as if to confirm that they were still the ones I could trust. I wiped the saliva from my eyes. Carnossus laid down next to me and put her head in my lap. Her jaw covered half my leg. Shetara sat cross-legged in front of me. Her knees were practically as high as my head.

"My sisters and I—people of the water," Shetara explained. "It is secret from others. We hide from outsiders, they never find us. Little Candle is first one to come so far." Shetara grinned at me.

The pieces began clicking together in my mind. "In the water," I mused, "the mermaid who attacked me—"

"Deloma." Shetara frowned, "She no like you. She scared bad of humans. Humans take her one time, she escape very hard. She say all humans evil, all humans is kill, kill all time. We believe, because we never see others. Then Carnossus bring us Little Candle, and you hear us, and speak our tongue, so Shetara say Carnossus keep Little Candle safe, Deloma no can harm."

Carnossus, sensing that she was the topic of our conversation, growled happily and shoved her head against my middle. I had to brace myself to keep from falling over. I couldn't help noticing that she still smelled; only, this time, it wasn't rotted vegetation—Carnossus smelled like the Amazon at low tide.

"But why me?" I asked aloud.

Shetara shrugged. Her wide hand cane down and ruffled the giant panther's ears. "Who knows? Carnossus no say why, she say only, So!"

I shook my head. "Wait a minute, you say I'm the one speaking your language—Shetara, where I am from, everyone speaks my language, this language I am speaking now."

Shetara looked at me and shook her head. "No one speak our language except people of the water. You only human who speak our tongue."

My head was spinning. I stood, pushing Carnossus away as I tried to make the gargantuan woman understand. "Shetara, we are speaking my tongue right now."

She shook her head. "We speak tongue of the water. Remember?" she raised her hand to my head and pressed a finger on my ear. Something squished between her finger and my earlobe. Then I remembered the lumps of goo.

"Uandino," Shetara explained. "Shetara find uandino in there when Carnossus bring. Not know who put it. You hear with the uandino. You only one."

I reached to my own ears, but felt only the lobes and the ear canal opening. I could not feel the uandino on my ears. I gasped, "What does it mean?"

Shetara shrugged her wide shoulders. "Little Candle save the water-people," she answered simply.

Poetry Tuesday: "The Lord's Prayer" in Andarian

Oy Rinna Anoy Loresh-Fergu

[The Blessing of the Master-Son]

Oy Laeren Chlosrethanaru shed afchemet Calaithe,
[Our Dear         Father         who lives in   Heaven,]

rinnafaru oy pendon medjeanaf.
[we bless your great   name.]

Aruhandchimaf oy rethelaithe anaf atbeddath, 
[we wish that your kingdom would come to us]


aruhandchimaf oy eshanaf arueraf etoy lacke jeddere afueraf etoy Calaithe;
[we wish to do your will              on the earth just as   it is done in Heaven;]


Afwheddaru plosti oyechte arugalaf etoy zat,
[give us     only   the things we need each day,]

xe afwheddaru jeddeme orraf,
[and give us     unity with you,]

jeddere aruyimaf jeddeme orr losandaru;
[just as we seek     unity    with  others;]


xe bin wheddataru oy kidorchimu,
[and do not give us to evil desires,]

jiquap branaru queste anoy kidorraenna;
[but    call us      far    from an evil heart;]

Anoyarto oy Rethelaithe enanaf,
[because the Kingdom is yours,]

oy gwynne enanaf,
[the power is yours,]

xe losi anoy rinnu anoy losandu at caltren;
[and all the blessings of the world forever;]

Afenedd.

[Amen.]

Monthly Reading List: April

The Winner, by David Baldacci
Checked out this book on a recommendation from a friend. It was my first non-"King & Maxwell" Baldacci novel, and...

It was still amazing.

It starts innocently enough: a con-man with spectacular costuming and makeup skills sails into a small Georgia town and offers a poverty-stricken single mother the chance to guarantee her win of the hundred-million dollar national lottery. Her drug-dealing boyfriend gets killed over drug money, so she has plenty of motivation to want to leave her old life behind like this man wants her to... she wins, and goes on the run with the man who's supposed to protect her and make sure her cover stays in place...
Ten years later, the case is drug up by an ambitious journalist, and old secrets come to light... loyalties tested... but how can the Feds find a man whose real face no one has ever seen?

It was a very intense read, one that kept me tearing through the chapters and wondering what was going to happen next. Baldacci still crafts an amazing cast of characters and a driving mystery with twists and reveals saved all the way to the very end!

Second Foundation, (Foundation #3) by Isaac Asimov
Initial reaction: Wow. Just Wow. Isaac Asimov can ramble on, stringing complicated terms and syllables together and sound totally convincing.

About a year ago, I was on a big Isaac Asimov kick, and I decided to read his famous Foundation Trilogy. I made it through the first two books in about a month an a half and had to return it before I could read the last one.
Note to self: When reading Asimov, one should not leave too much time between reading consecutive books in a series, particularly sociologically-heavy books like the Foundation Trilogy. I admit I spent most of this book very lost, but I am still very attracted to Asimov's style and method of writing, and the colorful dialogue between diverse characters. The young girl Arcadia who serves as the catalyst and the central driving force of the novel is a very intriguing and entertaining character, well placed. Not sure how I feel about the ending... but it was a twist I never expected, so hats off to Asimov!


Kingdom Keepers: Disney After Dark (Kingdom Keepers #1), by Ridley Pearson

Initial reaction: Lame as heck. 
 I admit the premise was a little kooky (four teenagers hired as models for Disney World's "Holographic Tour Guides" suddenly find that their consciousnesses are being randomly accessed by the computer program projecting the holograms while they're asleep, and characters like Maleficent are trying to use this, coupled with a little magic, to find a certain artifact of Walt Disney's and attain ultimate power) but there was a little-girl part of me (the part that never fails to be fascinated by everything those theme park designers dream up) that hoped the story could at least be somewhat interesting.

Nope.

There was only the merest bit of actual Disney World trivia involved in the book, and the rest was just an adult's opinion on how stupid a buch of teenagers can actually be (including one character whose personality is steeped in the "girls-gots-cooties" stereotype) The book was as ridiculous as a pilot episode of a Nickelodeon show of the early 90's.
I was not even all that impressed with the level of conflict. His parents are clueless and foils for awkward situations which I do not find entertaining, and just how much can a person really do against a character with magic at her disposal? The revelations were not as shocking as character reactions would make them seem, and frankly, I finished this book and could not care less what happens in the rest of the series. Bad form, Mr. Pearson!

Bound By Guilt, by C. J. Darlington
Managed to get through half of the book in amidst all the others I was reading this month. It was a

gift from my sister on my last birthday, so I have prioritized reading the library books first. This time, though, I added it to the list.
I have to say, it's better than the average Christian fiction novel. There hasn't really been the preachy "spiritual moment" or the "Little-House-on-the-Prairie-esque" kind of faith demonstrated. A girl bounced around the foster system landed with a mother and son who are "career" book thieves, stealing antique books from small bookstores and selling them on the black market. They get caught at one of the stores and the son ends up shooting the manager, which prompts the girl to run away from them. Also explored is the story of the manager's sister (who's a cop) and girlfriend/fiancee (who worked at the bookstore and hoped to manage it someday) and his father, who is considering selling the business... the sister is the token Christian character so far, not counting a random trucker the runaway hitches a ride with who "looks like Mr. T" but gives her a Bible and some money. The narrative has begun strongly enough, and I'm still interested to find out how things develop from here.

2nd Chance, (Women's Murder Club #2) by James Patterson

Initial reaction: Slight improvement. More mystery this time, but still a high body count and not very strong main characters.
Somebody shoots up a church and miraculously, the only victim is a young girl. More deaths happen, but the pattern doesn't become evident till the third victim, and then it's a mad race to discover who will be next.... punctuated by extended scenes of horrified and deeply emotional reactions as the victims become those closer and closer to our main female characters. The trouble is, Patterson never really let the readers get that close to any of the characters, and not even Lindsay herself, so that we can neither sympathize nor empathize with her portrayed feelings. The whole response carries all the compulsion of a stage direction printed on a page "for dramatic effect."

I still don't like Lindsay Boxer or any of her "posse." It was an interesting twist to have her estranged father show up, and it definitely played into the theme of "second chances", but it still did not give the realism or dimension that should have been there from the get-go. I guess after the life-shattering scare from the last book, Lieutenant Boxer can return to her mundane, adamantly single life.

King And Maxwell, (King & Maxwell #6) by David Baldacci
A rousing mystery from start to finish!

King and Maxwell are at it again, with an intriguing story that quite literally crosses their path one stormy night. Running up against conspiracy buried under conspiracy, the two agents face stonewalls at every turn as they attempt to answer the one question posed by their unexpected teenage client: "Is my dad dead like the military says he is, or not?"
I have loved King and Maxwell as a highly inventive series and as unique characters from start to finish. Baldacci gives them life and lets them balance each other and play off each other through all six books, and it is wonderfully satisfying. Having simultaneously experienced at least two other "thriller" authors who feature female main characters, Michelle is a refreshing mix of equal parts tough and sensitive; Baldacci carries more insight into a tomboyish only-girl-in-a-cop-family than Patterson and his gaggle of "lady crimestoppers." You'll find yourself as much attracted to her wit and logic as you might be repulsed by the legendary landfill-of-a-truck she drives. If you like mystery, intrigue, writing that feels well-researched and plenty of characters presented with such depth one can almost picture them as unique individuals instead of celebrity portrayals, King and Maxwell is for you!


Crossed (Matched #2) by Ally Condie
A reasonable continuation of Matched. Cassia and Ky learning in their separate ways how to live in the forgotten wasteland outside the Society's reach.

Ky is convinced that venturing out further to find and help the Resistance is the only way to end the Society's rule. Cassia at first is all worried about finding Ky, and then when they finally reconnect, her next order of business is figuring out what happened to Xander. All along the way, even out here, little bits of the Society's methods of rote data collection and rigorous monitoring pop up periodically.
I am having a hard time with Cassia. She's stronger than the average girl-trapped-between-two-guys (here's looking at you, Bella Swann!) but then again, she keeps choosing the guy she isn't with. When she's alone she can't stop thinking about Ky, when she's with Ky she's thinking about Xander.
The one thing that keeps me coming back is the realization that the books are color-coded along with the three types of pills every Society member carries with them. The first book was green, and we learned the effect of the green "calming" pill. This book was blue, and we learned the truth behind the blue "survival" pill: it doesn't make one stronger, it weakens you so the dreaded, controlling authorities can find you without resistance. This last book is red, which by now we know is the "reset" pill, to erase memories. Is a strong ending too much to ask from a mediocre series?

Map of Time, by Felix J. Palma

A serious disappointment from start to finish. I found it on the "Staff Picks" shelf of the local library and thought the premise sounded like an expanded, steampunk Sherlock-goes-Doctor-Who kind of thing.
What I got was a man who falls "in love" with a prostitute, who ends up marrying another guy but continuing the affair until she's killed by Jack the Ripper.
And no, that wasn't a spoiler. That's just the first five chapters.
The other thirty-odd chapters were spent hunting out H. G. Wells, H. G. Wells staging a random room in Whitechapel to look like the room from the man's past so he can have the release of thinking he traveled back in time to kill his love's murderer before he could kill her, and then H. G. Wells encountering a man who pretends to travel through time into the future (which, in true Victorian fashion, is an Industrialist Dystopia where the last humans are battling an army of self-replicating robots), and chuck into all that an actor who convinces a young woman that he is the hero captain from the future battle just so she would sleep with him and convince herself that she must be in love with him because they are lovers in the future, he says.
Sheer idiocy all the way through... Unless you are the type that likes smut. It's a very smutty book. That's about it's only quality.

Serial Saturday: "Cipherstalker," Part 10

Cramwell Fornberg returned from his daily visit to Precinct and remembered to brace himself before entering. It had been quite a shock that morning in the dining hall when he threw the switch on the wall and expected only a dim light from the single chandelier over his end of the table, but instead found a blinding flood pouring from every light fixture in the room. Cramwell never realized how many lamps there were in that dining hall. He had almost forgotten the size of the room as one by one the lamps went out, and he never bothered to replace them. After the shock in the dining hall, he began to notice that the bulbs had been changed in almost every other room in the house—except, of course, the cloister and his own bedroom. As he finished stoking the fire in the library and moved into the cloister, Cramwell caught himself musing how dim the room seemed compared to the rest of the now-brightened house.

            That girl, Miss Mavis; she had been the one to do it.

            “Of course it was her,” Cramwell muttered to the painting of Jelilah standing so stately and gloriously in front of him—in spite of the dim lights beside her. He opened the case and picked up the instrument, “She’s the only one in the house with me now,” he finished, and began to play another heartfelt dirge for his beloved, deceased wife.

            As he played, Cramwell found himself wondering what Miss Mavis looked like. Was she young, like Jelilah? Or was she an old spinster, like Alivia? Was she pretty, like Clarissa, or rather comely, like the latest victim—what was her name, Apple? No—Cherry? The video feed from the CCTVs was always black and white, so he could not discern any colors in her appearance. Surely she could not be a brunette, like Jelilah was! Jelilah…

 Cramwell sniffed at the way he had allowed the compulsory guest to distract him from the only woman who meant anything to him. She was only there because the police had insisted; he certainly could not be found guilty of actually inviting her to stay!

            Cramwell stopped playing and left the library, heading for the kitchen to make his supper—and hers? No! Let her cook for herself tonight. Cramwell nodded his head decisively and stepped into the hallway.

            He stopped. He paled. He clutched his cane so tightly in a cold, sweaty grip that his knuckles whitened.

            “He’s here,” he whispered to himself in sheer terror, “he’s come here; he’s found me at last!”

            There, laying deceptively innocent in the middle of the hall, as if dropped from a nonchalant hand, was a small, white, folded paper!

            “Curse the messages!” Cramwell shrieked savagely, snatching the paper up in a sudden fury. Curse the messages, curse the man who left them—curse whatever fiend it was who suddenly had the idea to inflict him and the town of Precinct with all the pain and terror of such a mystery! Cramwell did not even dare to look at his hand as he tucked the diabolical paper into his pocket and proceeded on schedule to the kitchen.

            All during the making of his supper, that paper seemed to burn right through Cramwell’s skin. He felt its heat, every edge of the paper searing his skin like the meat in the pan. Mechanically, Cramwell brought out the dishes for his supper, laid everything impeccably upon a tray, and carried it all to the dining room.

            He squinted as all the light bulbs flashed on at once with a single touch of the switch. As his eyes became more accustomed to the light, it suddenly occurred to him how clean and, as a matter of fact, pleasant-smelling the room was now. He caught himself smiling for the first time in a while; did he enjoy the new atmosphere? Why, yes; he supposed he did.

A part of him reflexively recoiled at the unexpected thought; was it too much? His hand was already heading to the pocket holding the cell phone. Should he reprimand her? Discourage her? He brought his hand back up to pull his chair out from the table. He would say nothing; he could not say it was out of hand just yet. She was still well within the bounds of propriety, a fact that soothed Cramwell’s mind. Miss Mavis was doing splendidly.

            Cramwell took the first bite of his meal before he could muster sufficient courage to pull the paper out of his pocket. His hands shook as he unfolded it, and his mind raced. That pen—it looked like his pen! Was the kidnapper getting bold enough now to come into Cramwell Fornberg’s house and use his pens to leave him messages now? Was the kidnapper actually—

            Cramwell froze; the horror! Could Miss Mavis—Dare he think it? Cramwell shook his head violently, frowning fiercely. Impossible… wasn’t it?

            “Impossible!” he said aloud to Jelilah’s marble face, looking up at him so coquettishly like she used to. In his imagination, Jelilah smiled in assent. Cramwell unfolded the paper and read.

            CLARISSA FORQUIST—Works at café. Always wore red-and-white-striped scarf. Last seen leaving work, estimated time of abduction eight o’clock.

            COLBY MCKEE—Attends Precinct Elementary. Wore red jacket. Disappeared from mother in grocery store. Last seen twelve o’clock just outside grocery store, corner of Square….

            Cramwell Fornberg let out an enormous sigh of relief and let his head fall back against the chair. It wasn’t a threat after all! Rather, it seemed to be a list of all the information about the abductions from the paper. Who had written it? Who but Miss Mavis? Had she been the one to leave it there for him? Why had she made such a list in the first place? Was she attempting to investigate the abductions as well?

            “Why didn’t I think to take such action myself?” Cramwell asked himself aloud. The fact that a young woman had taken a more decisively investigative action while he, Cramwell Fornberg, broke out in a cold sweat at the sight of mere paper fairly rankled the man. He ought to be the most active one in this investigation! After all, he was the one to receive all the warnings.

            Cramwell picked up his fork and resumed eating his supper. After only a few bites, he suddenly stopped, laid down his fork, texted an invitation to supper in the kitchen to Miss Mavis, and resumed his meal. He heard her cautious, measured footstep on the stair. He re-folded the paper and tucked it back in his pocket, where it was more of a shield than a flame.

            He would have to find some way to thank her for that list when this was all over.

<<<>>>

 

            Karthey awoke on the fourth morning since coming to Fornberg House and actually found the will to smile. The sun shone through her window, she could look down upon the gently rolling hills behind the house that were so much more inviting than they ever had been before, and she had officially conquered her fear of Cramwell’s library! She could solve these mysteries! She could do it!

            Karthey sat up, stretched, and immediately checked the cell phone, as was becoming her habit now. As usual, a message awaited her. Karthey opened it.

            She stopped; she blinked. She read it again. Two words confronted her on the screen; two words she never in her entire life expected to “hear” from Cramwell Fornberg.

           

Good Morning, Miss Mavis.

            Karthey almost checked to see if it was really Cramwell who just sent the text message, but she knew the folly of this lay in the fact that no one else but Derrik could possibly know that she had a cell phone in the first place, and even Derrik would not be able to text because he did not have the number. No, Cramwell Forberg himself had just wished her a good morning. What was the world coming to? Why the sudden friendliness? Karthey suddenly felt incredibly curious about this man. She had always believed he was more than a monster, but something within her had never wanted to confirm this belief, much like the way she never wanted a reason to go into the library, because of her fear. Now that fear of the library was gone; did she have need to fear the master of the house any longer?

            While Karthey was getting dressed, the cell phone buzzed again.

If you have any messages you would like to send, leave them in the basket by the front door, and I will bring them into town.

            Karthey was almost floored; more uncharacteristic kindness! Was Cramwell himself a fearful man, to the same degree that he inspired fear in others, and now that fear seemed to be fading in him as much as it was in her?  She could not think how it could come to pass that Cramwell Fornberg was interacting with anyone in town; now he was volunteering to bring them messages from her! She had nearly given up on any interaction beyond Derrik’s visits—and he wouldn’t know about half the things she wondered about concerning various people in town—with anyone else in town, and what little connection the newspapers provided (was this how Cramwell Fornberg chose to subsist? No wonder the man was afraid!), and now here she had a chance to reclaim that connection!

            Karthey hurriedly scribbled down notes to various friends in Precinct who were probably worried sick about her, and others about whom she was worried, herself. Mrs. McKee, her friend Karleen who had been in a study group with Cherry, her father, Darla Munroe, Derrik, Mrs. Preston—Karthey rushed down the stairs with fifteen notes in her hands, and found the basket standing in the entryway (she distinctly remembered no basket the previous evening; Cramwell must have put it there in the morning, a sign of premeditation on his part). She piled the notes in the basket as the clock began to strike quarter-past-nine. She heard the sunroom door creak, and knew that Cramwell would appear at the door to the east hallway within minutes. In that single moment, Karthey experienced two conflicting, compelling thoughts.

            She could stand there and wait for him; she pictured him limping out of the shadows, his tall, lean body, long, garish nose, and queer, staring blue eyes pointed right at her. Karthey shuddered; would she ever overcome her fear of such a person?

            As the thump of his cane drew closer, Karthey also felt the panicked urge to run back upstairs, to continue avoiding him as she had learned to do so comfortably now. For the second time, Karthey saw Cramwell’s hand on his cane appear in the doorway (it wasn’t so gaunt as she remembered it; perhaps he was younger than she thought)—and for the second time, Karthey dove behind the stairwell and into the dining hall. No, she would not face her warden today.

            Karthey went through the dining room and around the back of the house to get to the kitchen stairwell. She heard Cramwell close the door behind him as he left. Once she was finished (and cleaned up his dishes which he had so considerately left in the dumbwaiter for her), she returned to the library, thinking furiously about the four victims. Having lost the piece of paper she wrote on yesterday, Karthey was only mildly put out to have to write it all over again, but this was soon done, and Karthey also began listing all that she knew about the victims, the details about each of them that her father had neglected to mention.

            For example, Clarissa Forquist, before she was kidnapped, had been working full time at the café with the hope of earning enough money to go to the same college in Maine that Gavin attended. Clarissa and Gavin had both been juniors at Precinct High School when Karthey first began attending. She knew them as Derrik’s friends at first, on account of his being a junior as well, but as the years progressed, and Derrik, Gavin, and Clarissa moved on to their senior year while Karthey tumbled into sophomore status, Derrik allowed the company of his younger sister, and the foursome became very close friends. Then Gavin left for college, and Clarissa became engrossed in her work, and Karthey found herself with only Derrik. Not that she minded; she loved her older brother; all the rest of her friends were girls and guys from her class. She was never avoided by the rest of the senior class, but she never felt included, either. One thing Karthey knew for certain: Clarissa and Gavin definitely harbored hope of a relationship with each other someday, but it was a hope that could not be realized yet, and if the police could not find Clarissa, it would never be.

            “I won’t let that happen!” Karthey burst out emphatically to the marble Woman leaning over her as she sat in (perched on the very edge) the armchair Cramwell Fornberg typically used. Karthey resumed expanding her profiles.

            Colby McKee had a vivid imagination, and was not shy to share his musings with complete strangers. Karthey smiled as she remembered the many conversations that had occurred between her and Colby. The young boy was always bursting with facts and fictions about everything he saw. He had the most optimistic view of people out of anyone in Karthey’s acquaintance. She wondered offhandedly if Colby perhaps had ever tried starting a conversation with Cramwell, but did not doubt the possibility of such a thing happening. The young boy was willing to talk to anything that seemed like it could listen to him. He was fearless in action as well; Colby would climb anything he could reach, and walk to the very edge of any precipice. Mrs. McKee was forever dragging him back and holding him tightly. “Gates and fences and guardrails were made for people like him!” she would mutter as she clutched his wriggling body. Karthey made a note as well that Mrs. McKee always went to the café with Colby after dropping David and Marsha off at the Middle School, and after this she brought him shopping—which is where Colby disappeared.

            Alivia Rogner was as much of an enigma in Precinct as Cramwell Fornberg, but for quite opposite reasons. If there was anything to know about anyone, Alivia Rogner knew it. She probably could have solved the kidnappings overnight if she had not been one of the victims herself. A reputable Know-all, Tell-all, See-all, and Hear-all in the town, Alivia made others’ lives her business—but in a good way as much as a bother. In the same way Alivia Rogner would catch two seniors making out behind the diner, she would also notice someone in need of encouragement, or a parent struggling to make ends meet, a widow behind on her rent, or a mother of “too many children” who had almost given up being able to feed and clothe them all. She would notice, and she would not rest until she had helped in any and every way she could. Organizing “secret” drives for toys, clothes, and food; leaving bags of groceries on doorsteps; offering her capable services as a nanny, since all her own children were grown and had flown the coop; stopping by with a cup of coffee or tea to just sit and chat. Karthey noted that she always went to the café about mid-morning, took a brisk walk three times around the Square (unless there was someone who needed her help) before taking her lunch at the diner, and returning to the neighborhood where she lived. Alivia Rogner was as much a part of the daily life of the citizens of Precinct as Cramwell Fornberg was—or wasn’t.

            Lastly, there was Cherry. Cherry was the same age as Karthey. Cherry lived on the same street as Karthey. The girls shared a love of cats, outdoors, and comfortable yet chic clothes. Karthey recalled how she had met her closest and dearest friend (not counting her dad or Derrik): their first day at Precinct High School, the other students interacted and celebrated, while Karthey stood against the wall and felt like the odd one out. She happened to look around the room at the same moment as another girl—standing against the same wall, in the same manner! Cherry and Karthey connected in their disconnectedness, and they remained inseparable ever since that day. Karthey bit her lip as she suddenly imagined how Cherry must have felt the first day returning to school after Karthey had gone up to Fornberg House. It was almost a mercy, then, that she was kidnapped soon after—or had she allowed herself to be taken away on purpose, because she was so heartbroken over the “capture” of her friend Karthey, whom she likely abandoned all hope of seeing again?

            Karthey clenched her jaw and took a deep, shaky breath; no, she would not cry! She would choose to believe that Cherry had not given up hope, and she would purpose not to give up, either! She would stay brave and strong, if only for Cherry’s sake! She would remain alert, for Alivia’s sake! She would keep happiness alive, for Colby’s sake! And by any means, she would persevere, for Clarissa’s sake!

            Karthey looked over the profiles and shook her head morosely.

            “I know what they have in common,” she told The Woman, aware as she did so that it was very “Cramwellian” of her to be speaking aloud to an inanimate object, “They are all very dear to me.”

            But the only people she knew were the ones who lived in Precinct, and how could any of them be a kidnapper? Who would go around kidnapping one’s own neighbors, just to spite the girl who cared about them all?

            The clock struck half-past-ten. Karthey huffed and laid down the page she was writing on. She had been staring at her own handwriting for so long, the letters were beginning to dance before her eyes. Karthey glanced around her immediate surroundings for something else to read.

            Her eye fell on the creepy note she had noticed earlier, the one that said, SOMEONE WILL DISAPPEAR AT EIGHT TONIGHT. Careful not to disturb anything else around it, Karthey pulled out the notebook. She saw the list of letters, lined in a single column; it dawned on her that the same letters all appeared in the message. She saw them mixed around, placed in different orders and alignments. It had been a coded message, she realized, and Cramwell had solved it. But where had the message come from, and why was it sent to Cramwell? Karthey turned the notebook over. On the other side was a series of hyphenated numbers, and then “Now you see him, now you don’t; someone you notice today will not be here tomorrow.” Karthey wondered when he had received that message; had it terrified him? Most likely; a person would have to be dead not to be unnerved by such a definite prediction.

            Karthey mused that the messages seemed to be predictions, warnings ahead of time that the abductions would occur. Or had he fabricated them himself, after the fact, for the sake of having a riddle to solve? She would not put it past a bored, eccentric, lonely man like Cramwell Fornberg to do something of the kind.

<<<<<Previous          Next>>>>>

Throwback Thursday Story Excerpt: "The Narnian Gospel Comes To Telmar"

My concept of Telmar: "Western Wild" to the west, "Archenland" to the north, and "Calormen" to the east; "Telami" is the capital province, and "Gildon" the capitol kingdom; "Maretum" is the provincial capital of Telami; the bulk of the story takes place in Nast (the tiny province)

Several years ago, I had this concept nagging at my brain when I was trying to study for my next test (the story of my life...), and it was one where a girl who was born deaf in our world travels to Narnia, where Aslan gives her the ability to speak and hear, and sends her on a mission to speak of him to those who don't know or believe in him. Of course, I knew I couldn't use Narnia itself, because there was already a whole series about it... but what other country could I use? I didn't want to make up my own country...
Prince Caspian reminded me that there was still one country that no one knew much about, which basically made it a fanfiction gold mine: Telmar. It was perfect, I could do what I wanted with it, there was an existing timeline with plenty of room for me to build characters and scenarios, without interrupting the original series in the least! 
And thus, The Telmar Trilogy was born.
Here is an excerpt from the third book, The Legacy of Telmar. 

>>>>>>>>>

Suddenly, amongst the pitiful lowing and bleating of the animals, Melanie heard the deep, sonorous voice that never failed to thrill her ears.

"In their ignorance, they have ceased to truly worship Me."

She looked toward the voice, on her left, but the person who seemed to speak had a cloak like hers, pulled so low she could not see his face at all. He spoke again, "You must tell them the truth about Me."

Melanie's heart jumped at this. "Me? Stand up in front of all those people? I am a stranger here, and what would I say? Besides, how can I tell the truth about you when I don't even know who you are?"

The hooded man sighed, and Melanie felt his breath, and smelled its wonderful aroma.
"Do you not, Child?"

Melanie's eyes glowed. "Aslan!" she gasped happily.

"I have given you the words to speak, Child," he said, "go quickly!"

Without a second thought, Melanie jumped to her feet right in the middle of the service.

Grammon the High Priest had been in the middle of giving some sort of oration, when a cloaked figure rose to his feet and advanced upon the pulpit.

He stopped mid-sentence, recovered his decorum, and said sanctimoniously, "What do you need, my son?"

Instead of answering, the hooded figure merely turned to the dead-silent crowd and began to speak.
"People of Nast, hear me!"

By the Lion! The voice was that a woman! Grammon stepped back and listened as she continued.

"Why do you do this? Why do you sacrifice bulls and goats to a statue? You are a faithful people indeed, but do you not know this is mockery to the one you profess to serve? Can bronze hear? Can gold breathe? Who then hears your petitions? What then breathes upon you when you ask Naslan to 'cover you with his breath'?"

Melanie pointed to the statue behind her, "You set up before you a statue of a lion, but who is to say that Naslan is a lion? What if I were to tell you that his image ought to be that of a bull? Would you still sacrifice bulls to a Bull? What if I told you he had no form at all? How can you make an image of a formless thing? Do you know him you profess to serve? No, you do not; that is why I am here, to tell you of the one whose world you live in!

"His name is Aslan, and he is the Great Lion, the High King above all High Kings, Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea! He made this world of Narnia, and he made this land, with the express intent that your ancestors—men from another world—would seek refuge here and find it. They would seek to dwell here, and find it a good land.
"Yet, even as the world stood barely formed, a Son of Adam, ancestor to the kings of Narnia, brought Evil into the new world. Since this blood of Adam runs in your veins, you too are incriminated in this ancient act. You, too, have the blood of evil in you, evil that seeks to turn away from Aslan, to rebel, to do only that which pleases itself, with no consideration for its neighbor!"

Such a murmur of conviction went up among the crowd! Grammon was stricken in his heart; never before had he heard such words! This woman seemed to be speaking the words of the Lion himself!

"Men of Nast, why do you sacrifice? Do you know? Does Aslan eat the flesh of bulls and drink the blood of goats? No! Let me tell you the meaning of the sacrifice: this evil blood that flows in your veins now is payment for a debt you owe, a debt of rebellion and lawlessness. By blood you are connected to the Curse of Separation from Aslan, and by blood also must this debt be paid, and your souls be absolved."

Melanie paused as she saw some men visiting from another province, grinning at each other and nudging each other as if to say, "Hear her put those Nasties in their place!" She pointed to them, emphasizing her next words.

"Hear me! I speak not only to Men, but also to Women, and to Children, and to every Telmarine, Archenlander, Westerner, Calormene, and Narnian who hears my voice!
"Yet even then it is not I who speak these words to you now, but it is Aslan, who desires to make himself known to you. Truly, I could not speak unless he willed it. He has sent me before you now to tell you of your guilt. How would this debt of blood you inherited from your ancestors be paid, if not with the blood of every man, woman, and child, from Telmar and the Western Wild all the way to the lands yet uncharted in the Great Eastern Sea! Tell me, how is it to be done? I say to you, even if Death came upon every living creature, man or beast, and their blood filled all the oceans and covered the land, still the debt would not be paid."

She could see the look of horror on most faces, and sought to reassure them,
"Take courage, though! For do you still not understand what I am saying? If Aslan desired blood, could he not slay us all, who are subject to him? People of Nast, it is not blood Aslan wants! He desires a relationship with us; he wants our faith, our trust, and our love.
"He does not want death! For Aslan himself, who knew no evil, who knew no guilt, who owed no debt, paid our debt with his own blood, giving his life for us all! In dying, he fulfilled Death, and Death cast him up again, and—Citizens of Nast!—Aslan LIVES!"

She stretched out her arms to the spellbound crowd, eloquently beseeching them.

"Brothers and Sisters, I call to you all! Tear down this foolish idol! (for indeed, it is foolish to worship a piece of bronze when you ought to be worshipping the Lion!) Repent of your wickedness, your cruelty, dishonesty, greed, and pride! Aslan is his own self. You do not need an image to worship him! He is worshipped when you seek to give of yourself to others in remembrance of how he gave his very life for you all! Believe his words, learn of his ways, and follow his example! Hail Aslan!"
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