City of Legends

This is actually the introduction to a collection of vignettes I wrote a while back, which sets the stage for the stories.  The stories revolve around a man who fakes his own death in order to liberate himself, and becomes a person outside of society, having no identity, no name, no resources, but those within him.

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"Now what?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean…this was supposed to be a one-way ticket," the small man said, his eyes dark with thought.

"Yes, and it remains so," the larger man responded. The crack in his voice betraying the wry smile. His smile was ever askew, more so when he wore it as a mask.

"You accomplished a lot."

"I accomplished everything. I cannot measure my victory by the actions of others. I did what I set out to do…so far. Many chapters are yet to be written."

"You’re committed to this, are you? I envy you, I think."

"Part of me says you should, part of me would not wish this on my cruelest enemy," he said with a sigh. If possible, the chair seemed to swallow up his black-draped form even more.

"You are free now."

"Only in the most cynical of visions, but yes," the soft voice came. "I am free to accomplish a vision. But I understand something now, though."

"And that is?"

"The nature of Gethsemane.  The nature of a promise made to God and fate.  It is more liberating than intimidating, but there is trepidation."

The small man turned and saw his friend fall into the shadows of his own grave mood.

"I had anticipated this as a possibility, but never wanted it."

"So where to now," his friend asked, trying to brighten the room, which was rapidly falling into a colourless bath of grey and black.

"I become as the night, my friend," again the sighing shadow responded. "I will become an illusion, a delusion, an abstraction. I will be seen and heard only in the past tense or by those who want to believe I am both too fragile and too infallible to so easily fall away. I will construct my Taj Mahal, a temple, a monument out of words and whims. There will be rumours that I died, if not this night, then at some point.  No one will be certain"

"How shall you live?"

"That does become complicated, but I have survived much more complicated times. When I pass into legend, others will have control of everything I have done, and my small, but workable, fortune.  They are welcome to it"

"You will be without resources."

The large man rose from his chair and his friend swore he could see something darker than the darkness in the corners of the room pass from his face as he pressed a fingertip to his temple.

"No. I am smarter than I look."

It is not certain where, precisely, in the timeline of the Amomancer that this tale comes from. Indeed, there are those who argue even some of the more provable details.

Judging from the details given by the old man, it was before the bloody incident at Taranta, and most likely even before his sojourn up North with his elder friends whose names he will not say in public. We can tell it takes place in the Autumn, as by the setting, but since most of the tales we have to discover take place in Spring or Autumn, that is not unusual.

It has been conjectured that the Amomancer lingers where he is in Winter and in Summer, and that he does most of his traveling in the Spring and Autumn, as that is when it is neither too hot or too cold for long journeys on foot. There is, of course, the question always as to whether or not the seasonal setting is actually just a subtext for whether the poet is, at the time of the story, falling in love (the Spring) or recovering from his latest lost love (the Autumn). It is hard to say, as so much comes down second or even third hand, sometimes even altered by individuals to suit their sense of the man and his life.

In any case, here is how it was relayed to me.

It was a cold Autumn morning when the young man first saw the Amomancer, approaching the camp where the youth and his family, and several other families, had bedded down for the night while traveling from where they had been (the East) to where they were going (the West). The man approached from the West, walking the middle of the road, whether to avoid potential highwaymen who may lurk along the road in the bushes, or merely to show as best he could to strangers he may encounter that he was not seeking to, himself, surprise them, that is to others to interpret. I merely report what I am told.

As she approached the camp, which was just beginning to stir in the frosty morning air, the young boy, Theron by name, who had risen early to prod the fire to a more congenial flame for breakfast, ran to let his parents know that there was a stranger approaching.

He shook his father awake and gave him word that there was someone approaching and the father, being the good father that he was, tumbled from the wagon, clutching his staff, and cursing the comforter he had tangled in during the night. He landed with a resounding thud. The boy’s mother, upon hearing his husband do his usual graceless fall from the wagon, rolled over and returned to sleep.

The father followed his son the the edge of camp and there, still a good ways off, came a man who may or may not have been drawn by the fire or the sight of the small caravan, bedded down for the night. But there was no use in taking chances.

"Hello," cried out the father, mildly brandishing his staff. The figure stopped and regarded him, still at a distance, then continued walking towards the camp with no obvious change in path or speed of approach. As he approached, the father regarded him, as did the boy.

The first thing the boy noted was his size. While not unusually tall, he was broad of build and wore a massive cloak of some sort about him, in such a manner that it was impossible to tell if he was armed or armored.

The father took note of the man’s hair and beard. Both wild and unkempt and more salt than pepper, which he took as a good sign, as an old man was less likely to be much trouble. He also noted the large pack that was slung over a shoulder and moved as if possessed of great mass as the stranger approached, and the stranger’s black boots. Well made, expensive. Either he was a man of some fortune, or he had taken the boots off the last traveler he had waylaid.

The father gulped, nervously.

""I said ‘Hello’," called out the father, again. The stranger, now much closer, stopped and regarded the father.

"And I did not respond," replied the traveler, "As I had no notion of whether there were those of your party still sleeping and did not wish to disturb them."

By now a small group had gathered around the boy and his father, as they stood, confronting the traveler. One of the older men of the group stepped forward and squinted his eyes, studying the stranger before speaking.

"I know you," he said, as if a clever thought had just occurred to him.

"Indeed?"

"Yes, I was in the Arbors a few years ago, you passed through there on some business," said the old man, smiling. "May we show you some hospitality?"

"A place to sit and a drink of water would do wonders for my spirit," came the reply. "I have been walking all night, since I left Bellingwood."

With word of the nearness of a substantial town there was a sudden hubbub in the camp and a few of the party made a space for the traveler by the fire and gave him a cup of water. He drank it down then stretched, like a yawning man, you could hear his weary joints pop and crack like a great tree, leaden with ice, preparing to fall in a snowstorm.

"Thank you, that was good," he said. He looked at the faces around him and smiled a broad smile. "Peddlers, refugees or gypsies?"

"Pardon me," said the boy, a bit peckishly.

"I meant no insult. Usually when you see such a large party traveling the roads, they are either a camp of peddlers, or people fleeing the wrath of some tyrant or fool, or those who travel the roads just because that is their home, the road."

The father cuffed his son gently for having spoken up so abruptly. The stranger smiled and waved it off, then spoke.

"If you are on your way to Bellingwood, with your wagons, if you break camp in the next hour or so you should make it by nightfall. Beware as you approach the last bridge, near a stand of very tall trees, as that is a spot where highwaymen sometimes lurk. You have numbers, so it is unlikely they will bother you, but be cautious nonetheless."

"Where are you headed," asked the father. Perhaps thinking he could get the experienced traveler to go with them for the day and help watch out for trouble.

"I am heading to the mountains to wrestle a manticore," he replied. He paused, then rose to his feet in a single smooth motion, as though raised by a rope.

"And I best be on my way," he added, looking at the sky. "It looks like there may be rain and manticores are slippery when wet."

He patted the boy on the head who had first seen him and as he did he slipped him a small leather pouch.

"I thank you for your hospitality, but I must be on my way," the stranger said, then without a word or glance back, began his trek towards the mountains in the Northeast.

A few of the party glanced up from time to time to see him recede in the distance, and soon they too were on their way. As they walked the road the father noticed his son’s new pouch.

"What is that," asked the father of his son.

"The stranger gave it to me, I guess for us having been kind to him."

The father took the pouch and opened it. Inside was a handful of coins and a brown and gold stone the size of a small hen’s egg. He took the stone out and examined it, calling over the old man who had recognized the stranger.

"What do you make of this," he asked him.

The old man took the stone and looked it over carefully. He then gently gave it back to the father.

"It is an eye of a manticore," he explained. "No doubt he did not want it on him when he reached the mountains, as it is said they came smell their own kind and they would have tracked him as prey and enemy."

"Is it worth anything," asked the father, curious to know if he might be able to sell it for provisions.

"I wouldn’t sell it," replied the old man. "He may be back for it. In fact, I am sure he will be back for it, for I know the story of where he got that one…"

As part of my withdrawal from Authors Den (just wait, other deletions in the works) I today pulled down and out all my articles, short stories and poems. Hundreds of items.

I saved them all…and am pondering where, when and how to best re-apply them elsewhere (one friend suggest I post all 130+ poems here in a single posting!)

The thing I hate about it was losing the reviews…thousands of them, from friends and rivals, admirers and critics. I liked hearing what people had to say (which is why the dearth of comments here and on Amomancer is so effing annoying).

But, people, let me know what you think I should do…I am sure some of the short fiction and articles will end up on my Random Drafts and Chapters blog, but we shall see.

I will dream of you till morning…

Inspired not only by a line from "Gigi", but also an interview a few years back with Omar Sharif, I have been labouring for some time on the concept for a screenplay entitled "The Prince of Love". Twice I have tried to bring in co-authors, both left me more confused than I started.

Well, today, as part of my house-cleaning, after I had updated my poetry master files and locked then out of mischief (I’m taking a break from it all…too much stress to write anything worth reading, to be honest) I checked the counter…16.443 poems. Guinness will thank me, one day.

Then I sat down and began the latest draft of the screenplay.

I’m going to get stupid and risk plagiarism (no one who reads this would rip me off, would they, he said with a knowing smile) and give you the high end pitch for it. I actually started to post the first few scenes on my blog Random Drafts and Chapters, but formatting is everything in a screenplay and it looked bizarre, so I decided that could wait.

The premise is there is this nobleman, old guard, who is a tragic romantic figure, as he abdicated his principality to marry the woman he loved, only to have her die a few months later. Twenty five years have passed and he is lured out of his seclusion by an old friend for a magazine project.

It seems a "Life"-like magazine is doing a photo shoot comparing royalty from around the world (the richest versus the poorest, etc) and this photographer who has known the Prince forever talks him into being in a shot with the "old guard" romanticism versus the "new guard" hedonism with this late-twenties party Duchess.

Problem is, there are sparks. Sparks her brother (who is next in line after her) seeks to exploit to his own benefit, as their Mother was the woman the Prince jilted to marry his ill-fated commoner and he works to fan them so his sister will be disowned.

I won’t give away the whole story, but that’s the nut of it. If I was casting it today, I would cast it with any of a few dozen first-rate Hollywood leading men who are finding themselves of an age where they no longer get the girl (older than Hugh Grant, younger than Sean Connery) but still can carry appeal as the Prince.

The Duchess could run anywhere from a Scarlett Johansson to a Keira Knightley to a Angelina Jolie. What we want is young, but even early-thirties isn’t a deal breaker…the energy is what we’re looking for.

The brother, the guy who is trying to throw them together? Not sure…I’d love someone with a touch of Mediteranean swagger.

And the elder Duchess, old girlfriend to the Prince? In a perfect world I’d love Anne Parillaud for this.

Trust me that, at this time, I can guarantee a happy ending.

Synopsis posted April 26, 2008 (in case anyone wants to double check before ripping me off)

(rough and rude, a very early draft of another chapter to the book)

"deep and unclean, the wound festers,
testing your endurance and those who cannot bear
to see your pain and dare not stand to draw out
the venom you have come to take as part of life
that is permanent and penitent and perverse.

a curse, if you would, accepted as inevitable
and surrendered to in exhaustion and regret.
I kiss the wound and lay my heat upon it,
feeling it as a living thing, saying softly
to me "She is mine, come no closer".

I kiss the wound and close my eyes and dream
a dream yet unfulfilled and, singing psalms,
under my breath, bartering death for life
I cannot live without, I draw out slowly
the bitter gall that chills your veins and heart.

I draw out the venom as gently and thoroughly
as I can, ever vigilant for your pain and strain
that I may not, again, be one who merely
slapped linen to poisoned skin and looked
the other way for another day and did not stay.

the wound is deep and a part of you now,
and everyday for the rest of my life, if I must,
I will draw out the venom in touch and kiss and word
you may have heard once upon a time, but never
through lips that have dared to draw the venom."

The Amomancer awoke with a start, the fresh words having just echoed through his soul, bursting like fire from the geysers of his mind, nearly wrenching his armed, pinned beneath the sleeping form that lay cradled beside him.

It took a moment for him to clear his head, then he recalled the previous night, when Aubergine had come to his bed, surrendering herself to him as he gave himself to her. Life imitating poetry and impregnating the future with new joys to be commemorated in word and echo.

It was then he noticed that her form was cool to the touch. Not cold as in death, but still somewhat withdrawn from life, and strangely stiff. He tried to awaken her with a touch, a soft kiss to her cheek, even a few words, but there was no response. He called out, terrified that she had taken ill or that he had somehow harmed her in the night.

Sleepily her eldest daughter, the Faerie, entered the room where they lay. She surveyed the scene and went over to sit by her Mother, still unresponsive and cool. She took her hand in her own and looked to the Amomancer.

"I have seen this before with her, it happens," she said, reassuringly. "It is an old poison that sometimes rises within her. She always recovers, but we are always worried when it happens."

"Poison? Who and when and how," asked the poet as he paced the floor, grim with concern.

"Many times, many sources and many ways," she relied , her voice betraying her concern, despite the precision of her language. "Look on the back of her left shoulder, where the tattoo is, she had it placed there to obscure the mark."

The Amomancer slid across the bed and turned her, gently, looking for the clue. There, on her left shoulder blade, beneath her tattoo of a small cat, there was a raised area he did not recall from the previous night. He gently touched it, feeling the texture and heat of it, as it seemed to be drawing the life and joy out of her.

"Get me a basin of hot water and the herbs in the short cannister on the table," he softly asked of the Faerie. "Please."

In his voice she read a tender concern and slipped from the room. While he waited the Amomancer took Aubergine in his arms and whispered softly encouragements to her.

"I may not be able to end the pain, but I shall ease it, as you have eased mine."

When her daughter returned with the basin and the herbs he removed the lid from the cannister, which filled the room with a flash of lavender and savoury herbs. He scooped a handful of these out and added them to the water, then turned to the Faerie.

"Do you trust me?"

"My Mother trusts you, and that speaks volumes," came her reply.

The Amomancer took the hot, wet herbs that floated on the surface of the water and carefully laid them on Aubergine’s skin around the wound. The skin reacted immediately, warming as some of the colour returned to the beautiful woman’s flesh.

The Amomancer then bent forward, kissing the mark obscured by the tattoo and began gently to suck at the wound, drawing the venom that had collected beneath the surface. It was bitter and vile, tasting like fear and regret, pain and indifference. He turned his head and spat a mouthful of it into the basin, then returned to his ministrations.

As the Faerie held her Mother’s hand she felt the fingers slowly regain their limberness and the skin grow warm. For more than an hour the poet continued his treatment, drawing out as much of the venom as he could. Aubergine slowly regained consciousness and when she opened her eyes and started to speak her daughter calmed her and told her to stay still, that there was magic afoot.

After an hour the poet ceased his drawing, and spat a final trace of the venom. He touched her gently on the arm and asked if she was feeling better.

"I still feel a little weak. Did you cure me?"

"No," he replied, "Only you have the power to do that. I merely took what venom had collected in recent times. More will collect, I believe, but the treatment should be effective in keeping these incidents to a minimum."

"Do you know what it was that poisoned me," she asked, as she had never known for sure.

"Life," responded the poet, "You are so gentle a blossom that the darkness and cruelty of this life has struck at you a thousand times, each time leaving a little more of the poison within you. You have grown strong but still carry these veoms. You need your sleep now."

He took the basin out and poured it in the garden. As he was doing so the Faerie emerged and asked him if he wasn’t concerned it would kill the flowers in his garden.

"No, for this is where I have poured out my own drained venoms for years, for no one has ever done it for me. I had to learn to do it for myself, I will show your Mother how to for herself."

"I think she’d like that, but I think your magic is more than herbs and hot water."

"Yes," he replied with a soft smile. "Love is the cure of life."

He looked through the doorway to Aubergine, who had gone back to sleep.

"We will let her rest a bit."

There was, in a great city, a great building of great importance. And in it, many great things were decided and accomplished and great men thought great thoughts and spoke great words.

The greatest of these was the man known as Lukal, who was rich beyond imagining and powerful beyond question and surrounded night and day with beautiful and talented people who fed his every whim and praised him in all things.

In time Lukal began to doubt their sincerity, whether due to evidence or just his own all-too-mortal self-doubt, he became very sad and grave, constantly imagining that those around him secretly mocked him and plotted against him. On a whim he summoned the Amomancer, offering him all sorts of inducements to come and perform for him and his entourage.

The word came back that the Amomancer was willing and able to pay a visit and that he wanted three things:

1) A pledge to rebuild an old church that lay just outside the city walls

2) A private audience with Lukal’s wife, Jennai, and

3) A new pair of boots, made to exact specifications, on the day that the poet arrived.

Lukal agreed to all the conditions, while wondering to the purpose at all, and asking his wife why this man would want to speak with her, to which she claimed no knowledge. He asked those friends of his who had known her the longest, and they all were perplexed as to the request.

The church was a simple few days work for a modest work crew. A few holes to be patched and debris to be cleared. The boots, there was no advance word as to the nature of them, so Lukal ordered a local bootmaker to be standing ready with all the tools, supplies and possible leathers that might be employed.

Lukal was taking no chances.

On the appointed day the Amomancer came out of the East, the rising sun casting his shadow over the wall of the city as he approached. His walk was bold, although a hard winter had slowed him with aches and pains, and his famed cloak of muses was in need of patch. As he walked he observed the wind and the sky, the road and the faces of those he passed, making note and even muttering to himself thoughts and impressions, to memorize the experience.

At the gate he was greeted with a great procession and after he was introduced to Lukal’s chief assistant he sat in the street and pulled off his boots. They were simple black boots, worn and weathered. He tossed them to the assistant and asked that another pair be made, identical to them in all but age and wear, by nightfall. The assistant gave them t ohis assistant with the specific orders and off the messenger went, dodging through the curious crowd.

The barefoot Amomancer rose back to his feet and asked to be taken to the rebuilt church. As he approached it was obvious it had been rebuilt and cleaned and he smiled at the assistant to Lukal and said "Well done!"

After a brief inspection, going over details on the altar and the windows as though he had been there before, the Amomancer turned to the assistant and commanded

"Bring me Lukal’s wife and leave us for an hour," he said with a low tone, "alone."

As the crowd was ushered out the assistant called for Jennai to be brought and she arrived in minutes, dressed as though to receive a prince (or there were always the rumours of the Amomancer’s true identity), and as she entered the church, the assistant left, pulling closed the door behind him and standing to block the way to curious onlookers.

"I bet you are wondering why I asked to speak with you," the Amomancer said to Jennai. As Lukal was a man of status, she was young and beautiful and well educated and not afraid to speak her mind.

"The thought occurred to me," she replied, "that you may have some questions about why my husband summoned you.

"He did not summon me."

"I was there when he decided to send for you, so I know that he did."

The Amomancer roared a laugh, derisive and cruel.

"I set him to the task, seeding the local tapestry with stories and songs of lonely men of power, beseiged by shallow and craven liars on all sides."

Jennai looked at him and snapped back "Why would you do such a thing?"

"It was necessary, before he found out the truths around him and lost faith in his vision of the world and was no longer a man who is, on the whole, a force for good. You will cease your affair with Mallin."

Jennai turned on him, her eyes narrowed with anger.

"That’s a lie, " she barked.

"I wish it was, but such is the nature of people that they often do not appreciate what they have been given in grace," he growled, "I know of your affair with Mallin, and before him Axtauk, who left town when you discarded him for his friend."

She looked at the poet uncomprehendingly.

"A drunken and spurned lover often speaks of his sorrows when plied with the nectar of sad song. I will restore your husband’s joy and you will stay faithful to him and him alone for at least five years, at which time you are free to leave him, but not betray or humiliate him."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then Mallin dies tonight, a suicide, and in his note he implicates you in the affair. You will be cursed and cut off, left penniless and your name will become a synonym for harlot. I will place such sorrow in him that he will take his life when and where I wish, cursing your name as he dies."

"Why do you do this to me? "

"Because I have been Lukal. And Mallin. And you. And Axtauk. If I must live in so polluted a sphere, I shall at least try to clear a few plots where I can lay my head without pain and sorrow."

"I could have you killed for your impertinence."

"You could try."

"I could claim you tried to seduce me."

"Then I would wager my reputation against yours and you would suffer in the light. Mallin would never stay silent if directly suspected. Do as I say and I shall write of you a song of your beauty and fidelity that shall make all women envious and all men respectful. Cross me and learn to live in less finery."

The Amomancer left at dusk, after his performance for Lukal. As the crowd murmured in awe at his new work "Jennai’s Ode", his new boots made a satisfying rhythm on the dirt road as he continued West, his shadow rising above the city wall.

This is the opening of a book I have been working on, tentatively entitled "Tales of Aubergine and the Amomancer". I promise to get some of it done this weekend and have stayed up to work on the opening… The fire was down to almost embers when the figure emerged from the shadows, bare hands raised, palms out, in a sign that he meant no evil. The men looked up from their reveries and the thin figure in the old coat nudged the man sitting next to him, and nodded at the stranger who had emerged from the dark. "I am just traveling here and saw your fire. I would be appreciative of the hospitality of your company, as the road has been well under me today," he said in a low, measured voice, his head bowed in respect and apology for the intrusion. "Hell, always room for one more," said the man in the old coat. "Especially if you’ve got something to contribute." He eyed the large pack the stranger had unslung from his back and had carefully leaned against a small tree. "Not much, just water and some dried fruit. And music if you’d like it." "You’re a minstrel?" "After a sort," came the reply, the voice pitched low, measuring the fall of the words to the ground. He untangled himself from a small, hand-carved stringed instrument and lightly brushed the strings. Strange words were carved into the wood, burnt into it, it looked in the dim firelight. "What is that, a lute?" "A cithara, actually. But lute will do, " he replied, his voice slowly evolving into a sing-song rhythm. His cloak was thick and made of the pelts of many beasts, black and silver and red and striped. The man in the old coat looked the visitor over and with a nod caught the stranger’s attention. "I’ve seen you before, heard your words," he said. No emotion to his pronouncement as the stranger turned to him and pushed back his cloak to reveal flowing grey locks bound into a ponytail that fell out and down his back. "Really? Where?" "I used to work in Tampingwood. You were there as the guest of a lady for a time." The stranger nodded then plucked a few notes to match his tone of voice. "I have a piece about that lady, if you’d like to hear it," he said, pausing for permission. "You know her husband killed her when she went back to him." "I know," came the reply, sadly. "That is what this amomancy is about, the futility of rage against love." And the night filled with strange words and soft plucked strings and when the morning came the stranger was gone and the men could not remember or agree on the details of his visit or what he had said and sung that night. There was a sense of lightness, though, as they broke camp and continued North. And they agreed he was heading East, towards the water’s edge. And they would have a tale to tell when they got home.

Hmmm…my partner seems to have not been posting here in nearly two weeks. Methinks she is tired of constant adoration! Nah. I know how busy she has been and, unlike me, she is not a total freak of nature when it comes to writing obsessively.

Sweet dreams, my love.

And on the topic of sweet dreams…in amongst the billions of writing projects I am involved with (and poor Candy has gotten herself swept up into) I have committed myself to a variant on an old project of mine, "The Tales of the Amomancer", which is an allegory on my life and view of the world. Oh joy. More fodder for those who once read the the story of Narcissus and now think they are fully qualified psychiatric professionals.

You may have noted a series of dark works this evening on my blogs, with more likely to follow this brief respite. Don’t worry. I am just letting off some of the darker steam. I made several verbal faux pas earlier today in conversation with the big C, and am beating myself up for them. Unlike some other people (not Candy, but others)I do not have the compulsion to blame others for my missteps, I have allowed myself to get worn down and as a result, I have gotten sloppy.

I need to make some adjustments.

I need to lay down beside Candy and let bleed the wounds I have bound in illusion and allusion for so long. For too long. But the diligence and endurance that brought me to here, where I belong, was not for naught.