Note: I wrote this a week or so ago, and it's not so hot anymore. My point is the same though, so I thought I'd go ahead and post it. Happy 4th, by the way. I'll put a "Fourth of July" poem at the end too.
I am really not a big fan of summer. Let’s just put it that way.
Actually, it might be more accurate to say that I detest summer – at least around here.
Don’t get me wrong – I love swimming and fireworks and barbecue and chasing lightning bugs after dark, but it’s just so hot.
And where I live, it’s wet too. Not just rain; but a thick, sticky humidity that clogs up your lungs and makes moving seem like trying to swim through syrup. The hottest part of the day can be like a sauna, and in an old country house without air-conditioning…bleh.
Well, I guess I shouldn't say that. We have a window unit downstairs to cool things off there – in fact, I’m typing this right now sitting not ten feet from it, and it’s blowing a gracious gift of coolness all over the room. But the thing is, my bedroom is upstairs. On the west side of the house. You know that old saying “rise in the east, set in the west”? Yeah – so I get the afternoon sun.
I lay there at night in my bed, my face stuck into the small pocket of moving air generated by my fan in the window, staring up at the stars through a thick layer of haze, and I wonder: if I ever get married, what are the chances of my talking my husband into moving to Wisconsin? Or better yet – Alaska.
But I’m not writing this just to whine – I actually had a point to this blog.
Psalm 74:17 says: “You have fixed all the boundaries of the earth; you have made summer and winter.”
Summer – much as I may dislike it, and even the oppressive humidity and heat – is a creation of God.
Have you ever noticed, that when it’s cold, we long for the summer, (or at least the spring) and when it’s hot, we wish for the winter? We humans are such fickle things – the grass is always greener and all that. But God has a time, plan and purpose for everything. The well known passage in Ecclesiastes tells us:
“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace.”
I might add: “a time for heat, and a time for coolness, a time to sweat and a time to freeze”!
But God knows what we need and when we need it, He does “great and unsearchable things”, and “sends the rain on the earth”, the snowstorms across the countryside, the hurricanes through the seas, and the heat into my bedroom. God knows what He’s doing, and even in such insignificant-seeming things as the heat of the summer, He has a plan that He’s ultimately working out.
I may detest the summer, and I’d still like to live somewhere that rarely gets above 80 on a hot day, but it’s great to know that my God cares enough to work even in the small things – like the fact that our house does have cool air downstairs, and that there’s this really great thing called Kool-aid that you can freeze and make amazing Popsicles out of. And if we can trust Him in the small things, shouldn’t we be able to trust him with the bigger ones too?
Now…where’s that Alaskan guide-book..?
~Trav
The Smell of Patriotism
7-5-07
Plumes of fiery feathers
Play upon the night air
With cracklings
And muffled roars
And shouted booms
They sing their song
They only last a few seconds
Then pass into memory’s
Blurred oblivion
Bits of cold, soft stuff
Fall from the sky
Like pieces of a star’s pillow
They land, dead and pale
On my upturned face
Moments ago, they were fire
Living, breathing, shining
Now they lay peacefully
On the palm of my hand
In my hair
On my clothes
Only a dim reminder
Of their former glory
And as a blanket
Of thick smoke covers
The whole land
I think that the smell
Of ashes and powder and sparks
Is the most patriotic smell
That there could be.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Ryan Watters and the King's Sword
Not too long back, I won a copy of Eric Reinhold's book "Ryan Watters and the King's Sword". I read it eagerly, as it's the only author-signed book I own (and if that's not cool, I don't know what is...).
I liked it, glad to say; though it was a bit on the "cliche" side of Christian fantasy.
So here's the story.
Ryan is a normal kid in a small town (which actually exists, believe it or not) with normal kid problems - including a certain bully. Then one night, an angel visits Ryan and gives him several powerful objects, and commissions him on a quest to find the King's Sword. This sets off a wonderfuly colorful adventure that includes talking animals, other worlds, strangly colored water, and the said bully.
Now, all that said, it is a fun book, and worth the read. I did find it to be - like I said - just a little cliche: the talking animals were nothing special, (though they were good characters) and the story was pretty predictable.
The spiritual side of the story - the battle between good and evil, as the bully and his demonic boss infiltrate this fantasy world and bring dissatisfaction and chaos - is probably the best part of it, because - well, I won't say, as it would just spoil the story for you. lol
I would reccomend "The King's Sword" for kids - probably about twelve and under, though I enjoyed it well enough to read it twice myself.
Anyway, that's my quickie review - hopefully the next time I post something, I'll have something besides a review to write about!
~Trav
I liked it, glad to say; though it was a bit on the "cliche" side of Christian fantasy.
So here's the story.
Ryan is a normal kid in a small town (which actually exists, believe it or not) with normal kid problems - including a certain bully. Then one night, an angel visits Ryan and gives him several powerful objects, and commissions him on a quest to find the King's Sword. This sets off a wonderfuly colorful adventure that includes talking animals, other worlds, strangly colored water, and the said bully.
Now, all that said, it is a fun book, and worth the read. I did find it to be - like I said - just a little cliche: the talking animals were nothing special, (though they were good characters) and the story was pretty predictable.
The spiritual side of the story - the battle between good and evil, as the bully and his demonic boss infiltrate this fantasy world and bring dissatisfaction and chaos - is probably the best part of it, because - well, I won't say, as it would just spoil the story for you. lol
I would reccomend "The King's Sword" for kids - probably about twelve and under, though I enjoyed it well enough to read it twice myself.
Anyway, that's my quickie review - hopefully the next time I post something, I'll have something besides a review to write about!
~Trav
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
The Rivers Run Dry
Special Agent Raleigh Harmon is good at her job; forensic geology investigation for the FBI. In The Rivers Run Dry, the second installation in a budding series about Raleigh’s adventures, (written by author Sibella Giorello,) she has just been transferred to Seattle from Richmond as the result of some serious politicking at the end of book one: The Stones Cry Out. 
As one of the few females on her new team, Raleigh finds herself struggling: the new workplace and living-space, the strains of caring for an ailing mother, and the half-bullying of a confusing colleague all add up to a tough transition.
Then a young college girl goes missing while hiking in the woods, and a ransom note is sent to her worried – and worryingly rich – parents. Raleigh vows to find the girl, relying on her background in geology and her training as an FBI agent to uncover the truth. By the way, just as a slight “spoiler”, the end truth is so unexpected that I’d be willing to bet my signed Rebecca St. James CD that you won’t guess “whodunit” until at least chapter twenty eight. Hint: just ignore that annoying character named Claire. She’s right, but you’ll never “get it” listening to her random rambling.
OK, so enough of the spoiling the book for you. You came here for a review, not a Cliff’s Notes version.
At any rate, The Rivers Run Dry balances on a very thin edge between good reading and...otherwise. Not that it's bad – it’s a great story – but it’s…different somehow. Slow, but not really. Shallow characters at times, but for all the right reasons, you still care about them and cheer them on wholeheartedly. A good mystery, but hard to follow at times.
Part of this, I think, is that you don’t “hear” Raleigh’s thoughts all the time. Sometimes you do, but when it comes to the important stuff – like why this clue pertains to this one – it’s like the window slams shut.
Overall, though, the religious ambiguity in Raleigh’s life is the only thing that really bothered me. She’s a Christian, but church and a personal life with God seem to play a pretty small part. Even that I could handle, but Raleigh’s mother – who seems to suffer from some kind of manic depression or mild dementia – dabbles in all sorts of “spiritual” cloudiness. From ultra-conservative communes to charismatic churches to New Age garbage, the woman looks to be seeking, and though Raleigh seems to know the answers, she acts content to let her mother wander willy-nilly over the religious landscape. I would hope that Mrs. Giorello sheds some brighter light on this subject in the future.
Personally, I enjoyed The Rivers Run Dry. Before reading it for Thomas Nelson, I picked up a copy of The Stones Cry Out, so I’d know what was going on. And let me say, The Rivers Run Dry is twice as compelling and fascinating as its predecessor. The Stones Cry Out was good, but I definitely liked The Rivers Run Dry better.
This is a book to check out – here’s a link to Thomas Nelson’s website: (click here). And I’ll be waiting eagerly for Raleigh Book three, (The Clouds Roll Away) set to hit the shelves March of 2010.
~Trav
As one of the few females on her new team, Raleigh finds herself struggling: the new workplace and living-space, the strains of caring for an ailing mother, and the half-bullying of a confusing colleague all add up to a tough transition.
Then a young college girl goes missing while hiking in the woods, and a ransom note is sent to her worried – and worryingly rich – parents. Raleigh vows to find the girl, relying on her background in geology and her training as an FBI agent to uncover the truth. By the way, just as a slight “spoiler”, the end truth is so unexpected that I’d be willing to bet my signed Rebecca St. James CD that you won’t guess “whodunit” until at least chapter twenty eight. Hint: just ignore that annoying character named Claire. She’s right, but you’ll never “get it” listening to her random rambling.
OK, so enough of the spoiling the book for you. You came here for a review, not a Cliff’s Notes version.
At any rate, The Rivers Run Dry balances on a very thin edge between good reading and...otherwise. Not that it's bad – it’s a great story – but it’s…different somehow. Slow, but not really. Shallow characters at times, but for all the right reasons, you still care about them and cheer them on wholeheartedly. A good mystery, but hard to follow at times.
Part of this, I think, is that you don’t “hear” Raleigh’s thoughts all the time. Sometimes you do, but when it comes to the important stuff – like why this clue pertains to this one – it’s like the window slams shut.
Overall, though, the religious ambiguity in Raleigh’s life is the only thing that really bothered me. She’s a Christian, but church and a personal life with God seem to play a pretty small part. Even that I could handle, but Raleigh’s mother – who seems to suffer from some kind of manic depression or mild dementia – dabbles in all sorts of “spiritual” cloudiness. From ultra-conservative communes to charismatic churches to New Age garbage, the woman looks to be seeking, and though Raleigh seems to know the answers, she acts content to let her mother wander willy-nilly over the religious landscape. I would hope that Mrs. Giorello sheds some brighter light on this subject in the future.
Personally, I enjoyed The Rivers Run Dry. Before reading it for Thomas Nelson, I picked up a copy of The Stones Cry Out, so I’d know what was going on. And let me say, The Rivers Run Dry is twice as compelling and fascinating as its predecessor. The Stones Cry Out was good, but I definitely liked The Rivers Run Dry better.
This is a book to check out – here’s a link to Thomas Nelson’s website: (click here). And I’ll be waiting eagerly for Raleigh Book three, (The Clouds Roll Away) set to hit the shelves March of 2010.
~Trav
Thursday, May 14, 2009
"Potaotes" could have used a little more butter...
Recently, our family watched the new-ish movie entitled Faith like Potatoes. I had seen the previews, and was looking forward to a good movie in the vein of Saving Sara Cain, The Ultimate Gift, or Fireproof.
I was left feeling pretty disappointed.
Potatoes is the based-on-a-true-story movie about a man named Angus Buchan and his family, white (Scottish) farmers in South Africa. It follows their adventures and triumphs over a period of a few years; including Angus’ turn from a raging man with both anger-issues and a small drinking problem, to a man of faith who wants to tell the good news about Christ to everyone he meets. The movie’s title comes from this part where Angus wanted to plant potatoes in his fields, instead of the usual maize or beans—despite the fact that there is currently a drought, and that the fertilizer alone for such a crop was extraordinarily expensive. He wants to plant the potatoes to prove something to the people around him—for those who have faith, God works miracles; and our faith should be like a potato itself: solid and tangible and obvious.
And while the movie had a pretty good message (that faith like a potato can move mountains,) and the acting was pretty well done, Potatoes failed badly on one major issue: Clarity.
First, the biggest part of the film’s lack of understandability was the cast. While, as I said, they were decent actors, their diction was horrendous and nearly mumbled at times. This was not helped by the fact that they all had thick Scottish/British/Australian accents; they all spoke very quickly and seldom enunciated. Believe it or not, it was a relief when they began to speak in Zulu (the language of the local African tribes): There were subtitles then!
Secondly, Potatoes had problems with flow. The film is supposed to be about the idea of this man planting a crop of potatoes in the middle of a dry spell, as an act of faith. That was the primary focus of the previews and advertising—not to mention the very name of the movie. However, of the approximately two hour film, only about the last fifteen minutes even mentioned potatoes! Oops—let me correct that: earlier in the movie, there is one scene where two characters comment that potatoes would be a very expensive and potentially time-wasting crop.
That’s it.
The rest of the hour and forty-five minutes consist of barely-connected scenes from this farming family’s life: moving from one farm to a new one, going to church, planting, building a house…but all in a very disjointed fashion. Only the thinnest of storylines connect the scenes; and the scarcity of an actual, solid plot makes for a jerky, yet somehow slow story.
Granted, this is based on a true story, so it’s almost more of a documentary than a feature film. Still, if you only see the last twenty minutes of Potatoes, you’ll probably get the main gist of the story, not to mention the most interesting part.
It seems to me that the tale they had to tell was good, and could have made a compelling movie. If they had only given the script to someone with a bit more story-telling talent, it could have lived up to my expectations. As it was, there were far too many long scenes of uninspired (unintelligible) conversation, and too many scenes of short, meaningless action. This is not, and could never be an action movie; but a better, more plot-driving script and a few more…energetic scenes would have not gone amiss.
It was especially annoying to me that they seemed to set it up—several times—for an “action” scene: for example, there are quite a few bits where the main characters are worrying about white farmers being attacked by angry natives. Radio news in the background; or conversations with other characters all seem to be leading up to something…but it never comes. This kind of unfulfilled foreboding was irritating, and could have been resolved in only one scene—perhaps of Angus and his wife talking about how they worry, but they’re sure God will see them through. That’s all it would have taken.
Really, the only “action” in Potatoes is when something drastic goes wrong—a fire gets out of control, or a woman gets hit by lightning, or the pre-Christian Angus gets into a knock-down, drag-out fight. The exceptions, such as a polo game played by some of the characters; are very quick and choppy, with no real resolution. They almost seem distracted—and are certainly distracting.
And so often, we come in after the action. The tractor crashes; we only see it busted on the side of the road. (This, by the way, right after one of those seemingly-foreboding scenes, where two small children are playing on the tractor. You think, Uh-oh. The kids trashed Dad’s machine, only to find out that, no, it was the hired hands.) Or the house is to be built—we only get one scene of them plastering the sides of the house with mud.
There is, however, one scene that would qualify as “action”, but personally I could have done without it. WARNING: spoiler ahead.
Angus, his hired-hand/friend Simeon and two small children are driving along the road in the tractor. (It’s been fixed by this time, obviously.) The little boy slips, falls, and is crushed under the machine’s gigantic wheels. What follows includes copious amounts of blood, the death of the little boy, and much agonized weeping. All true to life, no doubt, but it all happens very suddenly, and was violent enough that we had to send my little brother out of the room.
I could go on about my disappointment with Potatoes, but to be honest, I’m feeling guilty already. I have no doubt that Potatoes was a noble effort and took a lot of hard work and time to create. If anyone who was involved in the making of this movie reads this, please do not take my article as a personal attack, or even an attack against the movie itself. I was simply expecting something entirely different, and was very disappointed by what I saw.
As a final comment, I think Potatoes had great potential, but was not given the chance to become all it could be, and could have significantly benefited from a large dose of clarity in all aspects. If the film is Potatoes, then I would recommend an unhealthy helping of butter and salt to the filmmakers for future works.
Now, for some reason, I’m craving mashed potatoes. Hey Mom, where’s the vegetable peeler?
~Trav
I was left feeling pretty disappointed.
Potatoes is the based-on-a-true-story movie about a man named Angus Buchan and his family, white (Scottish) farmers in South Africa. It follows their adventures and triumphs over a period of a few years; including Angus’ turn from a raging man with both anger-issues and a small drinking problem, to a man of faith who wants to tell the good news about Christ to everyone he meets. The movie’s title comes from this part where Angus wanted to plant potatoes in his fields, instead of the usual maize or beans—despite the fact that there is currently a drought, and that the fertilizer alone for such a crop was extraordinarily expensive. He wants to plant the potatoes to prove something to the people around him—for those who have faith, God works miracles; and our faith should be like a potato itself: solid and tangible and obvious.
And while the movie had a pretty good message (that faith like a potato can move mountains,) and the acting was pretty well done, Potatoes failed badly on one major issue: Clarity.
First, the biggest part of the film’s lack of understandability was the cast. While, as I said, they were decent actors, their diction was horrendous and nearly mumbled at times. This was not helped by the fact that they all had thick Scottish/British/Australian accents; they all spoke very quickly and seldom enunciated. Believe it or not, it was a relief when they began to speak in Zulu (the language of the local African tribes): There were subtitles then!
Secondly, Potatoes had problems with flow. The film is supposed to be about the idea of this man planting a crop of potatoes in the middle of a dry spell, as an act of faith. That was the primary focus of the previews and advertising—not to mention the very name of the movie. However, of the approximately two hour film, only about the last fifteen minutes even mentioned potatoes! Oops—let me correct that: earlier in the movie, there is one scene where two characters comment that potatoes would be a very expensive and potentially time-wasting crop.
That’s it.
The rest of the hour and forty-five minutes consist of barely-connected scenes from this farming family’s life: moving from one farm to a new one, going to church, planting, building a house…but all in a very disjointed fashion. Only the thinnest of storylines connect the scenes; and the scarcity of an actual, solid plot makes for a jerky, yet somehow slow story.
Granted, this is based on a true story, so it’s almost more of a documentary than a feature film. Still, if you only see the last twenty minutes of Potatoes, you’ll probably get the main gist of the story, not to mention the most interesting part.
It seems to me that the tale they had to tell was good, and could have made a compelling movie. If they had only given the script to someone with a bit more story-telling talent, it could have lived up to my expectations. As it was, there were far too many long scenes of uninspired (unintelligible) conversation, and too many scenes of short, meaningless action. This is not, and could never be an action movie; but a better, more plot-driving script and a few more…energetic scenes would have not gone amiss.
It was especially annoying to me that they seemed to set it up—several times—for an “action” scene: for example, there are quite a few bits where the main characters are worrying about white farmers being attacked by angry natives. Radio news in the background; or conversations with other characters all seem to be leading up to something…but it never comes. This kind of unfulfilled foreboding was irritating, and could have been resolved in only one scene—perhaps of Angus and his wife talking about how they worry, but they’re sure God will see them through. That’s all it would have taken.
Really, the only “action” in Potatoes is when something drastic goes wrong—a fire gets out of control, or a woman gets hit by lightning, or the pre-Christian Angus gets into a knock-down, drag-out fight. The exceptions, such as a polo game played by some of the characters; are very quick and choppy, with no real resolution. They almost seem distracted—and are certainly distracting.
And so often, we come in after the action. The tractor crashes; we only see it busted on the side of the road. (This, by the way, right after one of those seemingly-foreboding scenes, where two small children are playing on the tractor. You think, Uh-oh. The kids trashed Dad’s machine, only to find out that, no, it was the hired hands.) Or the house is to be built—we only get one scene of them plastering the sides of the house with mud.
There is, however, one scene that would qualify as “action”, but personally I could have done without it. WARNING: spoiler ahead.
Angus, his hired-hand/friend Simeon and two small children are driving along the road in the tractor. (It’s been fixed by this time, obviously.) The little boy slips, falls, and is crushed under the machine’s gigantic wheels. What follows includes copious amounts of blood, the death of the little boy, and much agonized weeping. All true to life, no doubt, but it all happens very suddenly, and was violent enough that we had to send my little brother out of the room.
I could go on about my disappointment with Potatoes, but to be honest, I’m feeling guilty already. I have no doubt that Potatoes was a noble effort and took a lot of hard work and time to create. If anyone who was involved in the making of this movie reads this, please do not take my article as a personal attack, or even an attack against the movie itself. I was simply expecting something entirely different, and was very disappointed by what I saw.
As a final comment, I think Potatoes had great potential, but was not given the chance to become all it could be, and could have significantly benefited from a large dose of clarity in all aspects. If the film is Potatoes, then I would recommend an unhealthy helping of butter and salt to the filmmakers for future works.
Now, for some reason, I’m craving mashed potatoes. Hey Mom, where’s the vegetable peeler?
~Trav
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
A Short Fan Fiction
So, I was looking for something to post...and I found this. I think I've mentioned before that I'm a big fan of L.B. Graham's "Binding of the Blade" series, and a while back, I wrote this fan fiction, about one of the main characters, for a writing contest.
Anyway, hope you enjoy - oh, but if you haven't read BotB, and plan to, you may not want to read this. Spoilers are included. ;)
Have fun!
~Trav
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Benjiah was late.
The shadows of dusk were already darkening the streets of Amaan Sul as he raced toward the palace. “Mom’s gonna kill me,” he panted to himself.
It wasn’t really his fault, though – how was he supposed to know that clumsy Creen would choose today to break his arm playing spatball? And it would have been rude – not to mention unprincely – to just leave his friend while he was having it set. Yes, that would be the way he told it to his mother. Wylla wouldn’t be able to argue with a prince aiding a friend.
Benjiah dodged around a strolling matron and her maid, narrowly missing an old man on the other side of the street.
Besides, his musings continued, seeing a bone set was very educational. First the healer had put Creen to sleep with a drink of a nasty-looking green brew, then he carefully-but-firmly grasped the broken arm and –
“Oomph!” Benjiah, distracted, collided with something in his path, and fell to the pavement. The something – or someone he realized with dismay – fell down as well.
“Bungling oaf!” a sharp voice exclaimed. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
Benjiah sat up, grunting at the pain in his skinned elbows. He was about to offer a pointed retort when he saw whom he had smashed into.
It was a girl, dressed in an outlandish outfit that made Benjiah blink, even in the dim light. She wore a vivid teal blouse and a lavender skirt that would have usually flowed gracefully as she walked, but now was tangled around her feet. On her feet was a pair of tooled-leather boots dyed a darker shade of purple. Benjiah averted his eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of the girl’s preposterous stockings – green with stripes of darker green.
She brushed her shortly-cropped, auburn hair out of her face and glared at Benjiah. He couldn’t help but notice her eyes, which were bright green and very, very pretty.
“Well?” she demanded.
Benjiah, startled, clambered to his feet. The girl glared up at him even harder than before, if that were possible. “Well?!?” she repeated, louder.
He couldn’t think of anything to say. “Uh…I…”
She huffed impatiently and, grabbing his arm, hauled herself to her feet. Benjiah stumbled and fell to the ground – again.
The girl put her hands on her hips and looked smugly down. “That’ll teach you to knock over innocent girls in the street and not even offer to help them up,” she said primly.
Benjiah stammered an apology, which the strange girl ignored.
“You know, you look awfully familiar…” she mused, cocking her head at him. “Who are you?”
Benjiah collected his wits enough to answer. “I’m Benjiah Andira.”
The oddly-dressed girl took a tiny step back. “The prince? Joriam Andira’s son?” she seemed incredulous.
Benjiah nodded and pushed himself to his feet, dusting off the back of his breeches.
The girl let out a cynical laugh. “Why, you could be my –“ she interrupted herself and stuck out her hand for him to shake. “I’m Arina Gilion. Figure that one out.”
Then she was gone, pulling out of his grasp lightly and disappearing around a street corner.
Benjiah just stood, looking after her, and rubbed his hand.
Then suddenly, he realized just how dark it had become and shook his head as if to clear it. Darting away toward home, he wryly realized that his excuse for being late had just been rendered useless. Now he was later than ever.
Mom’s gonna kill me.
************************************************
Wylla didn’t exactly kill him, but the tongue lashing Benjiah got for being so tardy mad him almost wish she had. Wylla was a skilled speaker, as befitted a queen of Enthanin. However, when her large vocabulary and flawless sentence structure was put to use scolding her twelve-year-old son, it made anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the room burn with embarrassment and squirm uncomfortably – even if he or she wasn’t actually the object of Her Majesty’s wrath.
By the time his mother was finished with him; Benjiah had apologized six times, vowed never again to be so late without sending word, and had been divested of his dinner.
With a hungry sigh, he gave Wylla a perfunctory kiss goodnight and left the dining room, the smell of roasted fowl and fresh bread wafting tauntingly after him. He climbed the stairs to his bedchamber in a disappointed slump, falling into his large bed glumly.
Lying there, he gazed up at the stone ceiling, tracing its many cricks and cracks with his eyes. His thoughts drifted, and he thought of the strange girl in the streets. Who was she?
“I’m Arina Gilion. Figure that one out.”
He voice echoed in his head. Gilion…where had he heard that name before? Perhaps one of Mother’s friends? It wasn’t someone in Amaan Sul, he knew that much. After all, the girl hadn’t recognized him, so she probably wasn’t a resident of the city.
Outside Amaan Sul then…who did he know? Who did his mother know?
The girl – Arina – had mentioned his father. “Joriam Andira’s son?” she had asked. Perhaps she had known his father? No. Benjiah discarded that thought immediately. Arina looked to be even younger than him. She couldn’t have known Joriam, unless she was at least sixteen or so.
But perhaps there was still a connection there…Gilion, Gilion…Where had he heard that name? By the mountain, it was irritating.
Wylla would wash his mouth out with soap if she heard him saying things like “by the mountain”. Benjiah remembered one time when his grandfather Monias had come to visit, and –
Grandfather Monias! That was it!
Grandfather lived in Dal Harat, where Benjiah’s father had also lived. Now he remembered! Grandfather Monias had been visiting Wylla and sharing news of Dal Harat and those who lived there.
“Aleta has had her second child,” he had said “A healthy baby boy. His sister is thrilled.”
“What did Aleta name him?” Wylla had asked
“Barlon, after his father,” Monias answered. “Though I half expected ‘Joriam’.” He laughed. “I can still see Joriam’s face some nights, hiding in the barn with the cows rather than face Aleta’s attentions.” He sighed “I was surprised when she married so soon after his death.”
Wylla looked into the fire they sat beside in the large palace library. Benjiah sat at her feet, listening to the adults’ conversation contentedly. His mother shook her head. “I too, Father,” she said with just a touch of sadness in her voice. “But it was for the best, and Barlon Gilion is a good man, from what I remember.”
Now Benjiah sat up straight in his bed, grinning in satisfaction. Arina Gilion, daughter of Barlon and Aleta Gilion.
But what had she started to say?
“Why, you could have been my –“ Brother? Yes, that was probably it. If even half the stories about Aleta’s pursuit of Joriam were true…Benjiah was distracted for a moment by the thought of how his life might have been different if his father had married Aleta instead of Wylla. Might Joriam still be alive?
Benjiah shoved the thought away. It was pointless to dwell on such thoughts.
Instead, he remembered Arina’s bright green eyes.
*******************************************
Over the next few weeks, it became apparent to everyone around the young prince – except himself – that Benjiah was smitten, and badly.
As things turned out, Aleta and Barlon were actually there in Amaan Sul to visit Wylla, and so Benjiah ended up saw quite of his object of fascination.
In fact, Wylla soon became worried that his “infatuation” had started to go too far. At first, she and her brothers, Pedraan and Pedraal, had chucked behind their hands at the besotted boy. But as he began to grow more and more obsessed with impressing Arina and catching her attention, Wylla realized that something would have to be done.
“He’s taking this a bit too far,” she confided to her brothers one evening. “He hardly says anything at the dinner table anymore, unless Arina is there; and then he babbles incessantly. Did you see him earlier this afternoon?”
The twins shook their heads. “No,” Pedraal answered “What did he do this time?”
Wylla tried to look annoyed, but couldn’t stop an amused smile from crossing her face. “He took charcoal out of the fireplace and painted a mustache on his upper lip. He thought it would make him look older.”
Pedraan began to laugh, unable to hold back his glee. “I remember Pedraal doing that once,” he chuckled, slapping his brother on the back. “Do you recall that red-headed lass from Tol Emuna, Wylla?” he asked “Her father was the ambassador and she came with him once on a visit.”
Pedraal just sat back in his seat complacently. “Well, we shouldn’t confine the discussion to my exploits, brother,” he said confidently “Why, I recollect a certain merchant’s daughter and a midnight serenade –“
Wylla waved her hand to get her sibling’s attention. They stopped laughing instantly, snuffing their guffaws in a pair of impolite snorts.
“Ahem. Yes, sister dear?” they said in near-unison.
She sighed. Boys.
“I would just like it if you would take Benjiah out and distract him for a few hours tomorrow.” She said. “Preferably outside the city.”
The twins nodded. “Sure,” Pedraal shrugged. “We can take him out hunting or something. He’ll like that.”
Wylla smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”
She left the room, fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) missing the impish look that passed between her brothers.
************************************
Benjiah was lazing in his bed, playing idly with a set of stone chessmen, when his uncles entered his chamber.
“Hello, Benjiah,” Pedraal said, just a trifle too sweetly. Pedraan nudged him.
But Benjiah didn’t notice. “Hi.”
“Want to go riding with us?” Pedraan asked.
Benjiah looked up. “Sure,” he said eagerly. “I’d like to.”
He slipped off the bed and hurriedly put on his boots. “Where are we going?”
The twins looked at each other, looked back at Benjiah, and shrugged. “Who cares?” Pedraal waved the question away. “We just want to get outside for some air.”
Benjiah followed his uncles out of the palace and into the stables, where they saddled a trio of horses, and set off, leaving the city just as most of the people were waking up.
It was a beautiful spring morning, just warm enough that they could shed their cloaks and just cool enough that the horses never sweated. Benjiah closed his eyes and let the wind blow through his blond hair; though his mother would probably complain about his tangles later.
“Hey, there’s a nice spot to stop a while,” he heard Pedraal call out. He opened his eyes to see a small copse of trees shading a deep bit of creek. He recognized the spot as a popular swimming hole in the summer months, but as of yet, the water was still too cold with melted snow to swim in. The three riders reined their horses to a halt outside the copse and tied them to an outlying tree. Dismounting, Benjiah ducked into the almost room-like space created by the tightly-growing trees and sat down on a large, flat rock inside. His uncles, large as they were, had to bend double to enter, but once inside, they too sat on the rock and sighed contentedly.
“What a gorgeous day,” Pedraal exclaimed, sniffing in the fresh spring air. He winked at Benjiah “Almost as pretty as that little Gilion lass you’re courting.”
Benjiah flushed. “I’m not courting anyone!” he protested.
Pedraan shook his head. “That’s not what word around the castle is,” he said. “Just about everyone knows that she’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”
“That’s not true!” Benjiah objected, his face growing hotter at the thought of everyone knowing his “secret” feelings.
The twins glanced at each other meaningfully. “All right, whatever you say,” Pedraan shrugged.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the water flow by and hearing the birds sing their springly songs. Finally, Benjiah had to ask. “Does everyone really think that?” he queried miserably.
His uncles nodded solemnly.
Benjiah sighed with all the feeling in his wiry, twelve-year-old body. “What should I do?”
Pedraan and Pedraal let twin smiles appear on their faces. That was just the question they had been waiting for.
*********************************************
The Gilions were to leave the very next morning, to return to Dal Harat. Wylla couldn’t help confessing that she would be relieved when they were gone. While Aleta had doubtless calmed down a bit from her younger days, she was still blunt and, quite frankly, tactless in her conversation. Her husband, Barlon, and three-year-old son by the same name where both quiet and sturdy, but her daughter Arina…Wylla sighed. She could easily see that Arina was probably an exact copy of Aleta at that age. And with Benjiah’s infatuation of the admittedly pretty girl…Yes, it would be a relief when the Gilions were on their way to Dal Harat, carrying messages and gifts for friends and family there, and out of her hair for another year or two.
Wylla sat in front of her mirror, brushing her long, black locks in preparation for dinner. She smiled at her reflection. Joriam used to love her hair, she remembered. He would play with it for hours, if she let him, tugging it when she wasn’t expecting him and wrapping it around his fingers. Wylla sighed. There were days when she missed Joriam so much. Then she thought of Benjiah. Her son looked so much like his father.
Wylla frowned. I wonder if Joriam ever had a crush like Benjiah’s, she thought, somewhat jealously. Then she laughed. What a silly, vain thought.
A knock on her bedroom door pulled her from her musings. “Dinner will be served in a few minutes, m’lady,” a servant called.
Wylla stood and laid the hairbrush aside on her dresser. Straightening her dark red gown, she left the room and headed downstairs to the dining hall, praying that Benjiah’s outing with his uncles would have sobered him up before tonight.
It wasn’t until she was about to enter the dining room when she suddenly saw the irony of hoping that Pedraal and Pedraan had sobered anyone up. Oh, well. It was too late now.
Wylla took her place at the long table and nodded a greeting to everyone present. Benjiah, her brothers, and the Gilion family all nodded back, and waited for her to be seated. As soon as she was, they took their own seats.
Most of the meal passed uneventfully. The rich stew and crusty bread her cooks had prepared brought compliments and exclamations of delight, but other than that, there was not much conversation. To Wylla’s relief, Benjiah was quiet and reserved throughout the meal, even though he was seated directly across from Arina. However; Wylla noted that he seemed on edge and fidgety…she could only hope that he and his uncles hadn’t contrived some prank or hoax as a send-off for their guests. But as the meal progressed, and nothing happened, Wylla relaxed. Perhaps Benjiah was just nervous being in the company of a girl he was so infatuated with.
Then, just before the dessert course, Pedraan tapped his glass with a knife. The gentle ringing tone caught the attention of the diners, and they quieted. “I believe,” the twin said gravely, “that our young prince has something to say.”
Wylla held back a groan. What have they put him up to? She wondered, shooting her best, Royally-stern stare at her brothers.
They ignored her, and Benjiah stood. Looking solemnly around the table, he began what seemed to Wylla like a memorized speech.
“It has come to my attention,” he said stiffly, “that a rumor is spreading; a rumor about me. This rumor states that I have become enamored with you, Ms. Gilion.” He nodded to Arina. Now Wylla was certain that he was reciting something memorized – the Benjiah she knew didn’t even know the word “enamored”, let alone how to use it. She glared at Pedraan and Pedraal, thinking oh, what have you done this time? Her brothers looked back innocently. Too innocently.
“Therefore,” Benjiah continued, “I have composed a poem that states my feelings truly, and – with your permission, Ms. Gilion – I shall perform it.”
Arina looked confused and a trifle embarrassed, but she nodded to Benjiah.
Benjiah cleared his throat, and Wylla closed her eyes.
“A lady I met in the street
Who wore purple boots on her feet
Came to visit my home
‘Neath Amaan Sul’s dome
And the gossips all started to bleat.
This lady whose face is so fair
Whose ears stick out from her hair
Shall not be forgot
But for me she is not
Despite what gossipers swear.
So, dear lady whose heart I don’t hold
Don’t think me incredibly bold
I think you’re just fine
And the pleasure’s been mine
And that is my poem, all told.”
The young prince sat down heavily in his chair, shooting glances at his uncles, who smiled approvingly. He was too nervous to look at his mother or at Arina.
All was silent in the dining hall for the space of perhaps a minute, save for the cooing of tiny Barlon.
Then Arina began to clap. Her parents, smiling broadly, applauded as well. Wylla and the twins joined in, and soon the whole room was filled with the echo of their approval. Aleta spoke up, her blunt voice sounding clearly above the noise.
“Well, that was very good, young Benjiah. And I’m certainly glad you’ve gotten over your thing for Arina. You’d never catch me doing anything that silly.”
The applause halted, and everyone stared at her. Aleta actually blushed, staring down at her plate. “Well…not much, anyway.”
They all laughed, and Benjiah breathed a sigh of relief, silently thanking his uncles for their help with his poem. Wylla just shook her head and smiled.
She leaned over to Pedraal, who sat on her left, and said in a low voice; “Just between us, brother, you don’t have much of a future in poetry.”
Pedraal looked askance. “Me?” he protested incredulously “What makes you think I had anything to do with this?”
Pedraan elbowed him. “You didn’t, brother, except for that sorry line about her ears sticking out of her hair.”
Pedraal coughed. “Pass the bread, dear sister, if you would,” he said quickly.
Benjiah finally worked up the nerve to look at Arina.
Her bright green eyes flashed merrily and she kicked him lightly under the table, saying softly:
“A Prince who once wrote a poem
For a visiting girl in his home,
Acted rather sweet
And even if he did cheat,
It still was quite nicely done.”
THE END
Anyway, hope you enjoy - oh, but if you haven't read BotB, and plan to, you may not want to read this. Spoilers are included. ;)
Have fun!
~Trav
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Benjiah was late.
The shadows of dusk were already darkening the streets of Amaan Sul as he raced toward the palace. “Mom’s gonna kill me,” he panted to himself.
It wasn’t really his fault, though – how was he supposed to know that clumsy Creen would choose today to break his arm playing spatball? And it would have been rude – not to mention unprincely – to just leave his friend while he was having it set. Yes, that would be the way he told it to his mother. Wylla wouldn’t be able to argue with a prince aiding a friend.
Benjiah dodged around a strolling matron and her maid, narrowly missing an old man on the other side of the street.
Besides, his musings continued, seeing a bone set was very educational. First the healer had put Creen to sleep with a drink of a nasty-looking green brew, then he carefully-but-firmly grasped the broken arm and –
“Oomph!” Benjiah, distracted, collided with something in his path, and fell to the pavement. The something – or someone he realized with dismay – fell down as well.
“Bungling oaf!” a sharp voice exclaimed. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
Benjiah sat up, grunting at the pain in his skinned elbows. He was about to offer a pointed retort when he saw whom he had smashed into.
It was a girl, dressed in an outlandish outfit that made Benjiah blink, even in the dim light. She wore a vivid teal blouse and a lavender skirt that would have usually flowed gracefully as she walked, but now was tangled around her feet. On her feet was a pair of tooled-leather boots dyed a darker shade of purple. Benjiah averted his eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of the girl’s preposterous stockings – green with stripes of darker green.
She brushed her shortly-cropped, auburn hair out of her face and glared at Benjiah. He couldn’t help but notice her eyes, which were bright green and very, very pretty.
“Well?” she demanded.
Benjiah, startled, clambered to his feet. The girl glared up at him even harder than before, if that were possible. “Well?!?” she repeated, louder.
He couldn’t think of anything to say. “Uh…I…”
She huffed impatiently and, grabbing his arm, hauled herself to her feet. Benjiah stumbled and fell to the ground – again.
The girl put her hands on her hips and looked smugly down. “That’ll teach you to knock over innocent girls in the street and not even offer to help them up,” she said primly.
Benjiah stammered an apology, which the strange girl ignored.
“You know, you look awfully familiar…” she mused, cocking her head at him. “Who are you?”
Benjiah collected his wits enough to answer. “I’m Benjiah Andira.”
The oddly-dressed girl took a tiny step back. “The prince? Joriam Andira’s son?” she seemed incredulous.
Benjiah nodded and pushed himself to his feet, dusting off the back of his breeches.
The girl let out a cynical laugh. “Why, you could be my –“ she interrupted herself and stuck out her hand for him to shake. “I’m Arina Gilion. Figure that one out.”
Then she was gone, pulling out of his grasp lightly and disappearing around a street corner.
Benjiah just stood, looking after her, and rubbed his hand.
Then suddenly, he realized just how dark it had become and shook his head as if to clear it. Darting away toward home, he wryly realized that his excuse for being late had just been rendered useless. Now he was later than ever.
Mom’s gonna kill me.
************************************************
Wylla didn’t exactly kill him, but the tongue lashing Benjiah got for being so tardy mad him almost wish she had. Wylla was a skilled speaker, as befitted a queen of Enthanin. However, when her large vocabulary and flawless sentence structure was put to use scolding her twelve-year-old son, it made anyone else unfortunate enough to be in the room burn with embarrassment and squirm uncomfortably – even if he or she wasn’t actually the object of Her Majesty’s wrath.
By the time his mother was finished with him; Benjiah had apologized six times, vowed never again to be so late without sending word, and had been divested of his dinner.
With a hungry sigh, he gave Wylla a perfunctory kiss goodnight and left the dining room, the smell of roasted fowl and fresh bread wafting tauntingly after him. He climbed the stairs to his bedchamber in a disappointed slump, falling into his large bed glumly.
Lying there, he gazed up at the stone ceiling, tracing its many cricks and cracks with his eyes. His thoughts drifted, and he thought of the strange girl in the streets. Who was she?
“I’m Arina Gilion. Figure that one out.”
He voice echoed in his head. Gilion…where had he heard that name before? Perhaps one of Mother’s friends? It wasn’t someone in Amaan Sul, he knew that much. After all, the girl hadn’t recognized him, so she probably wasn’t a resident of the city.
Outside Amaan Sul then…who did he know? Who did his mother know?
The girl – Arina – had mentioned his father. “Joriam Andira’s son?” she had asked. Perhaps she had known his father? No. Benjiah discarded that thought immediately. Arina looked to be even younger than him. She couldn’t have known Joriam, unless she was at least sixteen or so.
But perhaps there was still a connection there…Gilion, Gilion…Where had he heard that name? By the mountain, it was irritating.
Wylla would wash his mouth out with soap if she heard him saying things like “by the mountain”. Benjiah remembered one time when his grandfather Monias had come to visit, and –
Grandfather Monias! That was it!
Grandfather lived in Dal Harat, where Benjiah’s father had also lived. Now he remembered! Grandfather Monias had been visiting Wylla and sharing news of Dal Harat and those who lived there.
“Aleta has had her second child,” he had said “A healthy baby boy. His sister is thrilled.”
“What did Aleta name him?” Wylla had asked
“Barlon, after his father,” Monias answered. “Though I half expected ‘Joriam’.” He laughed. “I can still see Joriam’s face some nights, hiding in the barn with the cows rather than face Aleta’s attentions.” He sighed “I was surprised when she married so soon after his death.”
Wylla looked into the fire they sat beside in the large palace library. Benjiah sat at her feet, listening to the adults’ conversation contentedly. His mother shook her head. “I too, Father,” she said with just a touch of sadness in her voice. “But it was for the best, and Barlon Gilion is a good man, from what I remember.”
Now Benjiah sat up straight in his bed, grinning in satisfaction. Arina Gilion, daughter of Barlon and Aleta Gilion.
But what had she started to say?
“Why, you could have been my –“ Brother? Yes, that was probably it. If even half the stories about Aleta’s pursuit of Joriam were true…Benjiah was distracted for a moment by the thought of how his life might have been different if his father had married Aleta instead of Wylla. Might Joriam still be alive?
Benjiah shoved the thought away. It was pointless to dwell on such thoughts.
Instead, he remembered Arina’s bright green eyes.
*******************************************
Over the next few weeks, it became apparent to everyone around the young prince – except himself – that Benjiah was smitten, and badly.
As things turned out, Aleta and Barlon were actually there in Amaan Sul to visit Wylla, and so Benjiah ended up saw quite of his object of fascination.
In fact, Wylla soon became worried that his “infatuation” had started to go too far. At first, she and her brothers, Pedraan and Pedraal, had chucked behind their hands at the besotted boy. But as he began to grow more and more obsessed with impressing Arina and catching her attention, Wylla realized that something would have to be done.
“He’s taking this a bit too far,” she confided to her brothers one evening. “He hardly says anything at the dinner table anymore, unless Arina is there; and then he babbles incessantly. Did you see him earlier this afternoon?”
The twins shook their heads. “No,” Pedraal answered “What did he do this time?”
Wylla tried to look annoyed, but couldn’t stop an amused smile from crossing her face. “He took charcoal out of the fireplace and painted a mustache on his upper lip. He thought it would make him look older.”
Pedraan began to laugh, unable to hold back his glee. “I remember Pedraal doing that once,” he chuckled, slapping his brother on the back. “Do you recall that red-headed lass from Tol Emuna, Wylla?” he asked “Her father was the ambassador and she came with him once on a visit.”
Pedraal just sat back in his seat complacently. “Well, we shouldn’t confine the discussion to my exploits, brother,” he said confidently “Why, I recollect a certain merchant’s daughter and a midnight serenade –“
Wylla waved her hand to get her sibling’s attention. They stopped laughing instantly, snuffing their guffaws in a pair of impolite snorts.
“Ahem. Yes, sister dear?” they said in near-unison.
She sighed. Boys.
“I would just like it if you would take Benjiah out and distract him for a few hours tomorrow.” She said. “Preferably outside the city.”
The twins nodded. “Sure,” Pedraal shrugged. “We can take him out hunting or something. He’ll like that.”
Wylla smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”
She left the room, fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately) missing the impish look that passed between her brothers.
************************************
Benjiah was lazing in his bed, playing idly with a set of stone chessmen, when his uncles entered his chamber.
“Hello, Benjiah,” Pedraal said, just a trifle too sweetly. Pedraan nudged him.
But Benjiah didn’t notice. “Hi.”
“Want to go riding with us?” Pedraan asked.
Benjiah looked up. “Sure,” he said eagerly. “I’d like to.”
He slipped off the bed and hurriedly put on his boots. “Where are we going?”
The twins looked at each other, looked back at Benjiah, and shrugged. “Who cares?” Pedraal waved the question away. “We just want to get outside for some air.”
Benjiah followed his uncles out of the palace and into the stables, where they saddled a trio of horses, and set off, leaving the city just as most of the people were waking up.
It was a beautiful spring morning, just warm enough that they could shed their cloaks and just cool enough that the horses never sweated. Benjiah closed his eyes and let the wind blow through his blond hair; though his mother would probably complain about his tangles later.
“Hey, there’s a nice spot to stop a while,” he heard Pedraal call out. He opened his eyes to see a small copse of trees shading a deep bit of creek. He recognized the spot as a popular swimming hole in the summer months, but as of yet, the water was still too cold with melted snow to swim in. The three riders reined their horses to a halt outside the copse and tied them to an outlying tree. Dismounting, Benjiah ducked into the almost room-like space created by the tightly-growing trees and sat down on a large, flat rock inside. His uncles, large as they were, had to bend double to enter, but once inside, they too sat on the rock and sighed contentedly.
“What a gorgeous day,” Pedraal exclaimed, sniffing in the fresh spring air. He winked at Benjiah “Almost as pretty as that little Gilion lass you’re courting.”
Benjiah flushed. “I’m not courting anyone!” he protested.
Pedraan shook his head. “That’s not what word around the castle is,” he said. “Just about everyone knows that she’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”
“That’s not true!” Benjiah objected, his face growing hotter at the thought of everyone knowing his “secret” feelings.
The twins glanced at each other meaningfully. “All right, whatever you say,” Pedraan shrugged.
They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the water flow by and hearing the birds sing their springly songs. Finally, Benjiah had to ask. “Does everyone really think that?” he queried miserably.
His uncles nodded solemnly.
Benjiah sighed with all the feeling in his wiry, twelve-year-old body. “What should I do?”
Pedraan and Pedraal let twin smiles appear on their faces. That was just the question they had been waiting for.
*********************************************
The Gilions were to leave the very next morning, to return to Dal Harat. Wylla couldn’t help confessing that she would be relieved when they were gone. While Aleta had doubtless calmed down a bit from her younger days, she was still blunt and, quite frankly, tactless in her conversation. Her husband, Barlon, and three-year-old son by the same name where both quiet and sturdy, but her daughter Arina…Wylla sighed. She could easily see that Arina was probably an exact copy of Aleta at that age. And with Benjiah’s infatuation of the admittedly pretty girl…Yes, it would be a relief when the Gilions were on their way to Dal Harat, carrying messages and gifts for friends and family there, and out of her hair for another year or two.
Wylla sat in front of her mirror, brushing her long, black locks in preparation for dinner. She smiled at her reflection. Joriam used to love her hair, she remembered. He would play with it for hours, if she let him, tugging it when she wasn’t expecting him and wrapping it around his fingers. Wylla sighed. There were days when she missed Joriam so much. Then she thought of Benjiah. Her son looked so much like his father.
Wylla frowned. I wonder if Joriam ever had a crush like Benjiah’s, she thought, somewhat jealously. Then she laughed. What a silly, vain thought.
A knock on her bedroom door pulled her from her musings. “Dinner will be served in a few minutes, m’lady,” a servant called.
Wylla stood and laid the hairbrush aside on her dresser. Straightening her dark red gown, she left the room and headed downstairs to the dining hall, praying that Benjiah’s outing with his uncles would have sobered him up before tonight.
It wasn’t until she was about to enter the dining room when she suddenly saw the irony of hoping that Pedraal and Pedraan had sobered anyone up. Oh, well. It was too late now.
Wylla took her place at the long table and nodded a greeting to everyone present. Benjiah, her brothers, and the Gilion family all nodded back, and waited for her to be seated. As soon as she was, they took their own seats.
Most of the meal passed uneventfully. The rich stew and crusty bread her cooks had prepared brought compliments and exclamations of delight, but other than that, there was not much conversation. To Wylla’s relief, Benjiah was quiet and reserved throughout the meal, even though he was seated directly across from Arina. However; Wylla noted that he seemed on edge and fidgety…she could only hope that he and his uncles hadn’t contrived some prank or hoax as a send-off for their guests. But as the meal progressed, and nothing happened, Wylla relaxed. Perhaps Benjiah was just nervous being in the company of a girl he was so infatuated with.
Then, just before the dessert course, Pedraan tapped his glass with a knife. The gentle ringing tone caught the attention of the diners, and they quieted. “I believe,” the twin said gravely, “that our young prince has something to say.”
Wylla held back a groan. What have they put him up to? She wondered, shooting her best, Royally-stern stare at her brothers.
They ignored her, and Benjiah stood. Looking solemnly around the table, he began what seemed to Wylla like a memorized speech.
“It has come to my attention,” he said stiffly, “that a rumor is spreading; a rumor about me. This rumor states that I have become enamored with you, Ms. Gilion.” He nodded to Arina. Now Wylla was certain that he was reciting something memorized – the Benjiah she knew didn’t even know the word “enamored”, let alone how to use it. She glared at Pedraan and Pedraal, thinking oh, what have you done this time? Her brothers looked back innocently. Too innocently.
“Therefore,” Benjiah continued, “I have composed a poem that states my feelings truly, and – with your permission, Ms. Gilion – I shall perform it.”
Arina looked confused and a trifle embarrassed, but she nodded to Benjiah.
Benjiah cleared his throat, and Wylla closed her eyes.
“A lady I met in the street
Who wore purple boots on her feet
Came to visit my home
‘Neath Amaan Sul’s dome
And the gossips all started to bleat.
This lady whose face is so fair
Whose ears stick out from her hair
Shall not be forgot
But for me she is not
Despite what gossipers swear.
So, dear lady whose heart I don’t hold
Don’t think me incredibly bold
I think you’re just fine
And the pleasure’s been mine
And that is my poem, all told.”
The young prince sat down heavily in his chair, shooting glances at his uncles, who smiled approvingly. He was too nervous to look at his mother or at Arina.
All was silent in the dining hall for the space of perhaps a minute, save for the cooing of tiny Barlon.
Then Arina began to clap. Her parents, smiling broadly, applauded as well. Wylla and the twins joined in, and soon the whole room was filled with the echo of their approval. Aleta spoke up, her blunt voice sounding clearly above the noise.
“Well, that was very good, young Benjiah. And I’m certainly glad you’ve gotten over your thing for Arina. You’d never catch me doing anything that silly.”
The applause halted, and everyone stared at her. Aleta actually blushed, staring down at her plate. “Well…not much, anyway.”
They all laughed, and Benjiah breathed a sigh of relief, silently thanking his uncles for their help with his poem. Wylla just shook her head and smiled.
She leaned over to Pedraal, who sat on her left, and said in a low voice; “Just between us, brother, you don’t have much of a future in poetry.”
Pedraal looked askance. “Me?” he protested incredulously “What makes you think I had anything to do with this?”
Pedraan elbowed him. “You didn’t, brother, except for that sorry line about her ears sticking out of her hair.”
Pedraal coughed. “Pass the bread, dear sister, if you would,” he said quickly.
Benjiah finally worked up the nerve to look at Arina.
Her bright green eyes flashed merrily and she kicked him lightly under the table, saying softly:
“A Prince who once wrote a poem
For a visiting girl in his home,
Acted rather sweet
And even if he did cheat,
It still was quite nicely done.”
THE END
Friday, May 1, 2009
Check this out!
Click here for one of the coolest things I've ever seen:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EYAUazLI9k
~Trav
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7EYAUazLI9k
~Trav
Friday, April 10, 2009
The Tale of Ander Collins
If you've been reading my blog long, you'll recall that I posted some pictures not terribly long ago, inspired by a story I was working on about a boy named Ander, a dragon named Thraluic, and some other random characters.
So I just thought you might be interested to know that I am currently rewriting the story (entitled "The Tale of Ander Collins" for now) and posting a chapter about every other week at www.apricotpie.com/loriann
Just FYI. Have fun, and I hope you enjoy.
~Trav
So I just thought you might be interested to know that I am currently rewriting the story (entitled "The Tale of Ander Collins" for now) and posting a chapter about every other week at www.apricotpie.com/loriann
Just FYI. Have fun, and I hope you enjoy.
~Trav
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