Posts tagged with "ocean" - Faerye Net

World Ocean Day

2010-06-08T15:23:04+00:00

Happy World Ocean Day

Today is apparently the second official World Oceans Day. I wish it were under more hopeful circumstances. I wish we could still see the ocean only as powerful and fruitful, instead of so very vulnerable.

Childhood memories: Mother Ocean

2004-08-17T15:18:15+00:00

When I was little, my parents would take me to the beach, and my father would carry me in a sturdy baby backpack along the grey, shimmering margin. I don’t know, truly, if these are my memories, or back-formed images tricked out of photographs and later trips. But the later trips — those I know I remember. My mother would wear a quilted aqua jacket which I privately thought looked like Princess Leia’s Hoth vest, and my father would wear his sturdy brown corduroy coat with the big knobbly buttons, just as he would to work outside in bad weather. The corduroy was large of wale, and made a sound like a giant zipper when he moved his arms.

My sister and I would wear little hooded sweatshirts or jackets, gathered tight around our faces to save our ears from the whistling wind, but there was no way to save our red noses from cold and dripping. Our bangs would tangle and fill with salt and sand as we dug and played. I loved to dig, and my sister, I think, loved to build, so she would set me to making the moat while she used the resulting pile to build a castle — one year, my parents bought her sand castle molds, and her castles rose perfect and tidy until the waters came.

I would dance along the waterline, spinning in the wind or the sun, just as I do now, child that I am, when I see the sea. I walked along the coast alongside my long-legged parents, and ran like an excited puppy at every tantalizing treasure half-exposed in the sand — the fragment of sand-dollar that might have been a whole, the bit of wood that might have been a timber of a wrecked ship, the jelly-fish that might have still been alive, and wriggling, and dangerous. I would write my name in the sand, and then, as I grew older and came to look upon the ocean not just as a vast, beautiful noise, a force that had tried to draw me in when tiny, a mélange of shimmers and shadings, but as the source of life, I would dawdle behind my parents and my sister as they headed up the beach away from the waterline, and write in the wet sand, “Mother Ocean.”

The Boy

2003-10-21T15:53:25+00:00

← The Emperor

At this, his August Splendour the Emperor Adelmar sat up slightly in his gaudy throne, pushed his crown back so that his hair could be brushed out of his eyes, and studied his guest with some interest. She did not look somber like the servants of the Empire, nor was she flushed with bustle like the people of the City that he sometimes saw. She was different, and, as anyone who has ever been a ten-year-old Emperor holding audiences in a half-built fish-bowl will tell you, different is fascinating.

“Where are you from?” the Ruler of the Perfect Empire asked Isabella.

“Over -”

“She improperly utilized a Phare, my liege,” Wallace the Seneschal said, eyeing Isabella haughtily.

“How’d you do that?” the Marvelous Magnate of All asked Isabella, transfixed.

“It was quite-”

“The mechanisms are designed to be very simple, Sire, in light of the limited capacity of the Phare Keepers.”

Isabella frowned at Wallace, and Adelmar the Mighty looked inclined to agree with her sentiments.

His Imperial lower lip began to bulge, as it were to balance the ominous protrusion of his brow. Returning his majestic gaze to Isabella, he said, “Did you come on a boat?” He immediately swung his head (imperiling the diadem perched thereupon) towards Wallace with a look of Imperial ire, and Wallace immediately found the question quite innocent and below his notice.

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” smiled Isabella, “your chessmen were kind enough to send a ship to transport me.”

“Chessmen? Impertinence!” muttered Wallace like an operatic baritone about to launch into a recitative, “Imperial servants sent to investigate…” They ignored him.

“You see, I’ve never been on a boat,” said His Diminutive Excellency, with a touch of wistfulness.

Isabella blinked. “But, Your Regality, you have four or five score in your harbor.”

Wallace, bursting out in stentorian tones, said, “His Exalted Wisdom is quite busy with matters of State, and cannot be bothered to take care of boats that take quite good care of themselves!”

Isabella studied Wallace, who looked like a very unhappy man, and His Superlative Formidability, who looked like a very unhappy boy, and said, “Surely there is nothing more fitting for a potentate to do than to tour the ships of the line?”

“There is nothing for an Emperor to do but direct the construction of his Palace,” sighed the Seneschal as if Isabella were a child pulling his coattails.

Isabella raised an eyebrow, crowding a dozen wrinkles dreadfully, and said, “I see no hammer about his person.”

“Of course not!” declaimed the Seneschal.

Tilting her ear to catch the far-off shouts of men, she added, “I do not see him giving orders.”

“Of course not! The day-to-day matters are the province of far lesser…uh, personages.”

“In that case, he has delegated the real work, and shall now have a pleasure cruise, and I can think of nothing more Imperial.”

The lad sprung from his throne, which gave his golden robes to billow loosely, and grinned at Isabella and at Wallace. “Indeed!” said Adelmar.

“But… Your Supreme and Eternal Incandescence!” Wallace began in tragic tones.

“Now, now, Wallie!” said Adelmar, with a real incandescence in his dusty hazel eyes, “I go where I like, and I do as I please, and you can’t say better than that.”

The Galleon →

The Emperor

2003-09-02T16:59:30+00:00

← The Palace

Isabella’s black eyes bloomed in a field of wrinkles, and saw that it was morning. The blue of the mosaic sea was bright and twinkling, and the pointed window now opened her gaze onto the real sea, basking in the sun.

Isabella replaited her hair. She put on her faded blue breeches, her white linen blouse, and her leather vest. She laced up her boots and secured her wool cape at a jaunty angle across her chest. She peered into a small, pointed mirror and laughed. “Now,” she informed her reflection, “there really ought to be breakfast.” And there was, in the hands of a small chessman who wasn’t a chessman at all, dressed as it was in blue. It was a good breakfast, and soon there were only crumbs, which Isabella, perhaps remembering Guano, sprinkled on the broad window sill. Then she poked her head out of the room. Immediately, a blue-robed figure appeared on the spiral staircase above her door.

“Trying to keep me out of trouble?” Isabella asked, and followed the servant down the spiral staircase, out of the vast carved doors, and into the sunlit day. Immediately, Isabella looked around, and discovered that to her right, the long, tree-lined avenue not only continued, but continued to sweep up to the stairs of palaces. The first one she saw was a rather pretentious marble affair with five stumpy towers, rather like an elephant lying on his back. The second was a vast red globe with two spindly minarets on either side. Beyond that, a glass confection warred with a overblown chalet, and pyramids, cubes, domes, loggias, battlements and buttresses blurred into the distance. She blinked. Almost frightened, she looked to her left, and saw an indistinct building swathed in fabric. From it, the sound of hammers and the shouts of workers emerged muffled.

Isabella looked at the servant, but the servant seemed very absorbed in his or her hands, which were clasped in front of the blue habit. Isabella had not seen the hands of any of the chessmen or their blue friends before, and so she joined him in the study until he looked up with a start, and she caught a look down his hood at his face. He was about sixteen, with a freckled snub nose and very untidy brown hair. “I suppose wearing a hood saves brushing your hair in the morning?”

The boy nodded and blushed. “You’re not supposed to see,” he whispered, “so would you keep it quiet?”

Isabella considered. “I suppose you aren’t supposed to talk to me, either,” she hazarded.

The boy shook his head miserably.

“Well, dare the rules by telling me one thing, and I shan’t breathe a word of your mistake.” The boy nodded gratefully. “What are all those follies?” she pointed down the row of buildings, majestic in proportions and ludicrous in form.

“Oh, those are the Elder Palaces,” he said with a look of relief.

“Why are they so dreadful?” she asked, with furrowed brow.

“You said I was to tell you one thing,” the boy asseverated, lifting his chin back to his solemn posture.

Isabella laughed. “So I did! More fool me! Lead on, now, boy, and your freckles are safe with me.”

They mounted the crude board steps up to the mysterious New Palace, and Isabella was struck at once by the dim but omnipresent light, as if no wall had yet been installed, and the tinny echo of the men’s voices within. Her small guide brought her as far as a vast green curtain, before which the Seneschal stood.

Isabella strode up to him, fuming. “I don’t know where your servants were trained, Mr. Seneschal, but they’ve a curious idea of courtesy! They won’t talk, they won’t even meet your eye! It made me almost miss your sonorous orations.”

The Seneschal waved languorously to the serving boy, who nearly forgot himself and scampered in his relief. “Perhaps things are different where you come from, but in the Radiant and Scintillating Metropolis, a servant is but a cypher with hands, and to be more would be unseemly. We all,” he added, in a martyred tone that would have done credit to a death aria, “are but the tools of his Glorious and Eternal Majesty, and move but as he wills.”

Isabella smirked, “That’s lovely, I’m sure he’s very grateful. Is he through here?” she thrust her little brown hands into a cleft in the curtain, and emerged into a round chamber whose walls were little more than shelves, filled with bowl after bowl of clear glass. After a moment, she saw that each bowl contained a fish, cavorting in the lost rays of sunlight, and that at the end of the room, on a throne made of gold-lacquered wood and carved to resemble a great many goldfish inexplicably interested in holding someone up, there was a little boy of about 10 years of age. His eyes were grey and bored, his hand was beneath his chin, and his white blond hair was pushed into his eyes by the weight of a shining diadem.

“Your Majesty,” Isabella smiled, and dropped a very small curtsy, mostly to show off her cape’s flutter.

The boy frowned, and the heavy crown nearly toppled forward. Catching it, he saw the Seneschal leap into the room. “I’m so sorry, Your Exquisite Person! She…”

“It’s all right, Wallace.” the boy sighed. “What’s your business with the August Seat?” he asked Isabella, and she answered, as you might suppose,

“I go where I like, and I do as I please, and you can’t say better than that.”

The Boy →

The Palace

2003-08-27T17:21:13+00:00

← The City

Isabella followed the Seneschal through the darkened streets of town. Many of the houses were brick, and some were a cheerful yellow stone, but none of them showed much promise in the scintillating radiance department.

“No doubt,” said the rich-voiced Seneschal, “you are struck dumb with wonder.”

Isabella thought it more politic not to say. “I am wondering one thing, actually,” she offered, “why are you a Seneschal, and not a singer?”

The man faltered in his smooth pace, and then kept on, “The office of Seneschal is an ancient and revered one,” he said at last, and Isabella made no further attempts at conversation.

At last the Seneschal paused – he was a tall man, and Isabella had to take three steps to his two – and gestured across a substantial footbridge. “The Old Palace!” he proclaimed. Isabella crept closer, and the building crept out of the night to meet her eyes.

The Old Palace was a great phantasmagoric beast, a bundle of towers roped together like asparagus or stalks of wheat; all were topped with ridiculous turban-like protuberances, which grew in such variety and profusion that Isabella was put in mind of a bad arrangement of tulips. In the center, a great teardrop-shaped door beckoned, lit by unobtrusive torches on either side.

Isabella’s head swivelled, and she peered back down the unremarkable streets. She turned to look at the palace again. It was still there, and if anything, more grotesque. She frowned at the Seneschal, who made no sign of understanding her behavior. “What, may I ask, does the New Palace look like?” said she.

“It’s under construction,” he boomed, and led the way rather quickly across the stone bridge, over a wide cobbled avenue, and up the wartily mosaiced steps of the Old Palace. Several stairways later, Isabella felt closer to seasick than she had ever been on a ship, and the Seneschal produced an immense key-ring, ringing with well-polished keys, and introduced her into a dark guest room.

“I trust it will be sufficient to your needs,” he said, without making the sentence a question, and was gone.

Isabella paused for a moment before lighting the lamp near the bed. Perhaps she did not want to know what it looked like. But curiosity prevailed, and Isabella lit the lamp and saw.

It was an aging room, but sumptuous. The hangings of the bed were indigo velvet and brocade. The walls were mosaic, not in gaudy gold, but in shades of blue and grey that she saw gradually were the sea and a fleet of grand triremes sailing majestically in all directions. She took off her boots and her cloak and laid them on a venerable and dusty rocker. She brought forth a set of rather over-large pyjamas from somewhere, and donned them. She sat on the foot of the grand bed as she unbraided her hair. From this vantage, the ships on the walls seemed to be sailing directly away from the bed, as if scattered by Isabella’s commands. She grinned. “To the ends of the earth!” she cried, “and back before teatime!”

Isabella tucked herself into the great four-poster bed, told herself a bedtime story, and blew out the light. She stared up at the canopy, adorned with compass roses. She smiled like a cat full of cream.

“I go where I like, and I do as I please, and you can’t say better than that.”

The Emperor →

The City

2003-08-25T17:07:00+00:00

← The Trireme

The chessmen tilted their hoods in what might have been a quizzical gesture, but was certainly not an ominous one. Isabella shrugged, and said, “How about, take me to your leader?”

“A most daring request,” the middle chessman intoned.

“We must confer,” the right-hand chessman added.

“In private,” the left-hand warned.

Isabella did not budge, and so with a faint ‘tsk’ the chessmen floundered over the boulders until she and Brogg could not hear their conference. In a moment, they returned.

“You may travel with us and be awed by the Majesty that is the Empire and its Golden Visage.”

“Excellent,” said Isabella. The chessmen turned and streamed awkwardly towards the water. The little woman cocked her head at Brogg, who was looking dumbfounded. “If the tower’s comfy,” said she, “Go ahead and stay. But I’m not sure this lot is worth eternal devotion. They’re a bit pompous, it seems to me.” With an impertinence that almost broke her fingers, Isabella leapt up and pinched Brogg’s cheek before turning to go.

She traipsed over the boulders behind the chessmen and smiled to see that they did indeed have a boat, concealed at the foot of the promontory. It was grey, and flat, but it held the chessmen and Isabella perfectly well, and floated silently towards the trireme moored in the bay. Isabella jumped up and down, just to see, and the raft bobbed but continued unperturbed on its way. The chessmen turned to face Isabella, who said, “You know, scowls are more effective when one can see them.” The figures turned slowly away with an aura of affronted dignity. Isabella waved to Brogg, who was standing, confused and ponderous, on the rocky shore.

The raft met the trireme, and was raised to the deck with four lines. Isabella stepped off, sniffed the salt air, and smiled around. No one took any notice of her, moving as they did like self-important ghosts to their silent tasks. The ship slowly lurched into movement, the sails now tightly furled as if to impress upon the visitor still further that their ways were dark and mysterious. Isabella walked around the deck of the ship, peered at the unmanned wheel, and followed the hooded sailors on their pacing crossings of the forecastle. At last, she turned her face to the great gray mast in the calm blue sky, and climbed into the crows nest. There she produced a pear from her cloak, and wiled away an hour in snacking and attempting interrogation of the local gulls.

Finally, a stark white gull from the stern caught sight of the game of cat-and-mouse, or rather, gull-and-pear, that was transpiring, and rose to investigate.

“Refreshments can only be provided to intelligible sources,” Isabella was warning the squawking birds with a stern expression.

“Howzat now?” said the white gull, “I’m a seagull, not an intelligible source.”

Isabella smiled, “We shall see, and perhaps you shall eat.” The gulls who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, talk, settled onto the rigging with bad grace and much ruffling.

“You’re not a cat, are you?” the gull asked.

“No, why do you ask?”

“You climb up high and you’ve got a tail,” the gull eyed her braid.

“No, I’m a human being.”

“And that,” the gull pecked in the direction of her pear, “is something to eat.”

Isabella raised an eyebrow and held the pear even more protectively. “Do you travel with this ship much?”

“Off and on, last few months.” his beady eyes watched the remaining pear eagerly.

“Why?”

“Makes a change.”

Isabella nodded. “An excellent answer.” The seagull looked hopeful. “How does it move?”

The seagull looked exasperated. “I think something under the water pushes it.”

“What might that be, do you suppose?”

“I’m a seagull, not a scientist!”

“Indeed. What is your name, seagull?”

“Guano.”

Isabella blinked. “May I ask why?”

“Simple. Guano’s white, so am I,” he cocked his head, “What? It’s not like they named me after something to eat or something insulting like that.”

“All right, Guano,” Isabella smirked, “Have a pear.” She produced a fresh pear from her cloak, and Guano retreated to the stern, dropping under his heavy burden and attempting to guard it from the swarm of argumentative seagulls. A chessman looked at the raucous birds, and up at Isabella. “Lovely day, isn’t it?” she called.

The hours passed in the rocking, breezy way hours do on a calm sea in a smooth and silent boat. Guano returned to the crows nest to offer information of dubious import in hopes of further payment, but the other gulls saw he would get naught and returned to their usual business. The sun put her toes into the ocean and dyed it with her radiance, spreading the red and violet behind her into the leaping waves. She sank into her damp slumber in a slow exhalation of color, and Isabella heard a chessman below ring a chime. On her left, as she watched the sunset a dark mass of land had crept up, and now stood quiet and dignified in the fading light. It was, of course, too dark to see it properly, but the frail pinpricks of human light and the regular, dark shapes scaling the skies told Isabella that she had come to a city. The ship entered the harbor under the watchful eye of a flame-tower, and the chessmen tied up to a rather obnoxiously clean pier. A particularly short chessman with a particularly self-important gait approached the mast and looked expectant, so Isabella shimmied down and smiled at him.

“The most Radiant and Scintillating Metropolis of his August Serenity Adelmar the Fourteenth, Emperor of the Perfect Lands of Hereabouts.”

“For a scintillating and radiant metropolis,” remarked Isabella as she gazed on the sleeping city, “it’s rather dark.”

A sniff caught her attention, and she turned to see a new, lean chessman walking up the gangplank, his black costume brightened with a steel pin in the shape of a coronet.

“His most Cogitative Excellency, the Seneschal,” offered the short one in a rather smug manner.

“How dare you mock the multifarious beauties of the resplendent Imperial Seat?” he said, in a rich, deep voice at odds with the slight width of his habit and full to the brim with indignation and repugnance.

“I go where I like, and I do as I please, and you can’t say better than that.”

The Palace →

The Tower

2003-08-21T13:02:28+00:00

The sky was feigning black, but could only manage a blustery grey, as if somewhere far along the paths of the sea, light fell and shone back along the miles onto this storm sky. The clouds milled slowly in shades of charcoal and slate, inking the stars out. The sea was fretting below, a sullen grey-blue, and rose swiftly and briefly under the little boat as if it was trying to slough her off.

In the boat a small figure sat, swaying imperturbably with the waves. The silhouette was accented with a venerable, stained canvas parasol, and between the glints of water running off its rim an occasional twinkle of black eyes emerged. The sea was shoving the dinghy towards an outcropping of rock, a black tumble topped with a more ordered tumble that was a tower, its top swathed in hissing steam from a wind-teased and much abused flame.

The boat neared the crouching rocks, and the little figure within stirred and stepped onto the bucking bench, waiting until doom was well and truly nigh before hopping into the air and drifting a few feet landward with the maelstrom under the parasol before falling awkwardly but safely on a particularly large and uncouth-looking rock.

The tower was tended by Brogg. Brogg had always tended the tower, and whether his bronze skin had once been bronze, and had weathered to the pores and wrinkles of skin, or had once been skin, and had weathered to the sheen and toughness of bronze, you may guess yourself, as I abstain. Brogg knew his job was frightfully important, and himself frightfully imposing, and for those reasons, in some order, no one ever bothered him, and he was glad they did not.

So when a rat-a-tat came from the door, Brogg did not rise from his chair. Rat-a-tat. He looked around. Rat-a-tat. Perhaps the sea was throwing pebbles at his tower. Rat-a-tat. Perhaps the stones were finally falling from the crumbling parapets up above. Rat-a-tat. Brogg looked at the door. Rat-a-tat. The sturdy oak did not shake, but Brogg was certain that someone was ratting and tatting his door. Perhaps it was the tower-builders. Brogg hastily shoved his very domestic reading material under a suitably nasty-looking stone. Rat-a-tat. Brogg brushed a biscuit crumb from his shining bronze muscles. Rat-a-tat. Brogg opened the door.

Brogg’s employers, or makers, had had two legs, two arms, and two eyes. In this much, the figure at the door was like the tower builders. The legs wore faded blue trousers and ended in very battered brown boots, the arms held a drenched wool cape out like bat-wings and brandished a waxed canvas parasol, and the eyes were black and gleaming.

Brogg forgot that he was important and imposing. “Who are you?”

The woman smiled, and the web of lines on her face deepened like creek beds in flood. “I am Isabella.”

“Why are you here?”

“I go where I like, and I do as I please, and you can’t say better than that.”

The Trireme →