First Fridays: Chapter Six

Another Friday, another behind-the-scenes look at a chapter of Changelings: Into the Mist, this time, Chapter 6. If you’re new, you can start with Chapter One, and if you haven’t yet, be sure to pick up your copy of Changelings so you can follow along!

Six

20141207_140911~2 The sounds and smells of Carrickahowley Castle met them a good half-mile before they reached the stronghold itself. What was deserted in their time – with only the occasional fishing boat for company – was bustling with life. Nearly twenty ships filled the waters of the inlet, and the noise from their crews was rivalled only by a small market doing brisk business in the harbour. Overseeing it all was the stout stone tower. It glowered at them, even as it offered its protection.

Tomás manoeuvred his cart alongside a rickety dock and hailed two men standing close to the pier. They stopped their chatter and waved back. He turned to Sean and Maureen.

“Here we are. Hand those bundles off to young Owen over there.” He nodded his head at the younger of the two men as he approached the cart.

They scrambled out, eager to repay him – for his lack of interest, and the ride. Tomas tied off his pony’s reins and strolled over to the other man.

“No, that’s all right, lass. No need to strain yourself,” Owen said to Maureen as he took the sack of – well, of what, she was not sure. It was heavy, though. She handed it off and reached for a smaller pack.

“Ah now, you’re a bonnie bit of a thing, but breeches or no, the lad and I can manage this.” The young man laughed and sauntered off with two bundles under his arms. Sean looked at her and shrugged, but followed the other boy anyway.

She made a face and contented herself with unloading the cart and stacking its cargo close to the gangplank Sean and the boy had used to access a large ship. That was one mercy, at least. The gangplank was a flimsy thing, balanced precariously between the pier and the boat.

A shudder roiled her shoulders. Water, boats and swimming – these she did not mind. Heights, now? Heights made her legs weak.

Word of the Day

Gangplank: a movable plank used as a ramp to board or disembark from a ship or boat. Granted, as this NGram shows (and oh my god, aren’t NGrams the greatest thing ever for word nerds?!?)

D: I think that might just be you, A.

A: I don’t think so. There must be others. There’s a whole blog, called “Not One-Off Britishisms,” that uses it as a reference.

D: Okay, so you, and that guy.

A: Yeah, well – still not ‘just me,’ then, Druid.

D: Pedant.

A: Kill joy.

D: Fair enough. Let’s move on, shall we?

A: Right, where was I before you interrupted me?

D: Explaining why you used gangplank to describe the flimsy ramp between the dock and the boat when the word wasn’t even in use in 1584.

A: And the answer is simple: Maureen is describing the scene. To her eyes and ears, gangplank is a perfectly common, suitable word.

D: Scintillating.

A: Indeed. Cheers, D.

Devil’s in the Details

Tomás Conroy is the ultimate messenger. In addition to being the resident blacksmith, he is a storyteller with a strong superstitious streak, which predisposes him to accepting strangeness, even as he is willing to tell all and sundry about it. Most quest archetype stories need one (heck, most stories no matter where they fall on the paradigm need one) and Tomás is it. Not only does he deliver Maureen and Sean to the action, he conveys important messages to a variety of characters, and to the readers. Because I use a limited form of 3^rd person narrative, messengers such as Tomás are necessary to keep things moving along.

Historical Footnotes

Carrickahowley Castle, photo via WikiCommons, uploaded May 2007 by Brholden

Carrickahowley Castle, today known as Rockfleet Castle, was just one of several strongholds held by a one Grace O’Malley/Grania Uaile, Pirate Queen of the Irish Seas. Carrickahowley is a tower house, built in the mid sixteenth century. It has four floors and is over eighteen meters in height. I took liberties with the location of the inlet, as currently the tower appears to have been built in the sea – at high tide, it is difficult to get into or out of the main door. Owned by an American, several years ago the castle was restored using traditional building methods and materials (Ref. Wikipedia).

Spotlight: Helena Hann-Basquiat

pubslushbutton By now, everyone knows that Helena Hann-Basquiat is, by far, my favorite Dilettante. And it’s not just because I don’t know too many, either. I do, in fact, know quite a few, although they may not consider themselves as such (usually ‘raconteur’ is a word I hear tossed about, but whatever). But what makes Helena my favorite by far is her passion, her writing, and the creativity that pours out of every facet – and every identity – she owns. Because as we all know, Helena is a construct, just like the mistress of creepy, Jessica B. Bell, is a construct. The brilliance of that construct – and of the man behind it – astounds me every time Ken says, “Hey, get a load of this idea…”

So yes, favorite dilettante, and everyone knows it – but what I’m not certain of is whether or not everyone knows about Helena’s PubSlush Campaign, which went live on Monday.

What is PubSlush?

To use Helena’s own words, the PubSlush Campaign is a way for her to conduct her business and sell her writing direct to her readers and fans (like the Druid and myself) — like a musician selling CDs after the show, or like a street performer passing the hat after a performance.

It’s also the only way to get a signed/personalized copy of Memoirs of a Dilettante, Vol. 2. You’ll also have the opportunity to pick up deals with multiple books (signed and unsigned). There are all sorts of wonderful things to be had over there – so you should go. No, it’s okay, I’ll wait.

So, What’s this Dilettante been doing lately?

Vol. 2 of the Memoirs, Cover art by Hastywords

I think the better question is what hasn’t she been doing lately! Seriously, the Dilettante Machine is prolific in the extreme and I love it.

In the last two years, Helena has written and released Memoirs of a Dilettante, Vol. 1, written the sinister bayou serial, CHUK, and developed the short story collection, VISCERA, which will be available for purchase later in 2015. She also tried her hand at NaNoWriMo this November, completing the first book in the People of the Manatii Trilogy. Then there is much-anticipated Memoirs of a Dilettante, Vol. 2 and the Shakespearean-styled play, Penelope, Countess of Arcadia. Add to that the variety of creative endeavors she’s treated us to on her blog, Being the Memoirs of Helena Hann-Basquiat, Dilettante, and you have a body of work that is inspiring, to say the least.

Added Fun – More ways to get involved:

The #WhereIsHelena postcard hashtage social media extravaganza! Read more about it here. So long as those postcards keep moving, being Tweeted, etc., Helena will keep handing out prizes – maybe even an e-book of Memoirs, Vol. 2 or Penelope, if you’re lucky!

Bio of a Dilletante

helena-h-b The enigmatic Helena Hann-Basquiat dabbles in whatever she can get her hands into just to say that she has.

She’s written cookbooks, ten volumes of horrible poetry that she then bound herself in leather she tanned poorly from cows she raised herself and then slaughtered because she was bored with farming.

She has an entire portfolio of macaroni art that she’s never shown anyone, because she doesn’t think that the general populace or, “the great unwashed masses” as she calls them, would understand the statement she was trying to make with them.

Some people attribute the invention of the Ampersand to her, but she has never made that claim herself.

Earlier this year, she published Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume One, and is about to release Volume Two, along with a Shakespearean style tragi-comedy, entitled Penelope, Countess of Arcadia.

Helena writes strange, dark fiction under the name Jessica B. Bell – VISCERA, a collection of strange tales, will be published by Sirens Call Publications later this year. Find more of her writing at http://www.helenahb.com or and http://www.whoisjessica.com Connect with her via Twitter @HHBasquiat

BECOME A FAN at PUBSLUSH and pre-order Memoirs of a Dilettante Volume Two and Penelope, Countess of Arcadia

First Fridays: Chapter Five

I interrupt the blog’s Valentine tomfoolery to bring you the first page of Chapter 5 in Changelings: Into the Mist. If you’re new, you can start with Chapter One, and if you haven’t yet, be sure to pick up your copy of Changelings so you can follow along!

Five

20141207_140911~2 Sean woke with a gasp and a sickening heave of his stomach. The waking was so sudden, he forgot where he was. He forgot he had spent the night back-to-back in the dirt with Maureen. He forgot they had travelled through time – he even forgot they were now stranded. It came back to him in a rush and his stomach twisted even more.

Behind him, Maureen was stirring. He started to turn to her but she hit him and ‘shushed’ in his ear.

“Do you hear that?” she hissed.

His protest at being smacked in the shoulder died on his tongue. He closed his mouth and listened. There it was – the sound that first woke him.

“Someone’s chopping down the trees.”

Maureen nodded slightly. “Aye. I was having a nightmare and the noise blended with it, somehow. It woke me up.”

Something about the shadows under her eyes, and the steady beat of a handsaw and axe made the hair on his neck stand. “I don’t think we should be seen by whoever is up there – doesn’t feel right.”

She eyed him for a second – hunches and wild suppositions were her area of expertise – but nodded. “Nothing has felt right since yesterday morning. Let’s get out of here.”

They helped each other stand and quickly brushed off the leafy debris of their night under the stars.

Sean stretched and rubbed at his face. “If there’s any civilization here at all, we’ll find it closer to the bay. There’s probably a road or path at the base of the hill – if we can get to it without being seen.”

A shout and the ear-splitting groan of a monarch’s fall overshadowed this last. They stared at each other as the birds jeered above them.

Word of the Day

Monarch: ruler of a kingdom, in this case the oak tree is the monarch of the forest, a common symbol. Oaks have long been associated with royalty – not only because it was valued by the Druids, but because of its durability (Ref: Fine Dictionary).

Devil’s in the Details

Dreams, visions and “wild suppositions,” as Sean calls it, figure heavily as motivating factors in Changelings. While only hinted at here, Maureen’s dreams – much like the oaks and the mist – become an important player in the ongoing mystery surrounding the Changelings.

D: Wow A – is that all you’re going to say?

A: Um, yeah. Why?

D: You’re ‘details’ aren’t exactly detailed today, are they?

A: I can’t say more – it would be a spoiler. It’s important. It’s probably the most important thing on this page of the book, besides their emotional elasticity – which I talked about in Chapter Four – that allows them to accept their current reality.

D: Bla, bla bla, words, words, words. You’re just not willing to admit this is kind of a boring opener for a chapter.

A: Would it be better if I’d stuck you in there, despite the fact that you were likely gallivanting around the Continent, leaving Maureen and Sean on their own?

D: . . . well, at least it would have been entertaining.

A: (Sigh) Yes, D. Whatever you say, D.

D: That’s better.

Historical Footnotes

How many miles is it really to the bay? As the hill is technically fictional, it could be as many – or as few – miles to Clew Bay as I wanted. However, I had fun with maps (fun fact: I have several atlases. While I can get lost crossing the street – true story – maps are some of my favourite things.), and explored an elevation map for a reasonable spot to plant my fictional hill, abbey and chapel. As it happens, the other side of Carrowbeg Lough was just hilly – and empty – enough to be favourable. Using roads, that general area is roughly 2.3 Kilometers from Carrickahowley Castle, or 1.42 miles (See below – source: Google Maps).

Unmasked: A love letter to our favorite Dilettante

This is one of my favorite images of the Dilletante. — This is one of my favorite images of the Dilettante.

There’s a rumor going round that our dearest Dilettante, Helena Hann-Basquiat (not to mention her hair-raising alter ego, Jessica B. Bell) has been unmasked. And well, I think the title of the – ah – revelatory post says it all. Helena is the Goddamn Batman. She doesn’t need to be unmasked.

The name and gender of my writerly-friend matters not at all. There is brilliance that flows from that pen, whether it’s styled as Helena’s frank prose, which is at turns, hysterical and heartbreaking , Jessica’s creepy mastery, or Ken’s bitingly-aware vignettes of human nature. That said, I support Ken’s decision – I support Ken and his writing, because I believe in it. I read his words – even the ones I’m supposed to be editing (ha ha, who’s the lucky chick with her hands on CHUK?!) – and I stand in awe of his talent.

Allow me, for those who may doubt, to defend Ken and his decision – either to unmask himself or to write as Helena – before moving on to why it doesn’t matter. If the name and gender is more important than the writing, well, then you’ve come to the wrong place. A and D are not always myself and the druid – sometimes the voices fail me, and I fall back on snippets of conversation I’ve heard, or the voice of those within my sphere. I’m a writer. So is Helena. It’s what we do!

Not convinced? One of my favorite authors – Barbara Michaels/Elisabeth Peters/Barbara Mertz – has been writing as three different people since the 60s, probably earlier. It’s just, as Helena says in her post, the weird manufactured intimacy of the internet, in which we expect people to bare their souls to those of us who are interested, makes shifting personas to meet a literary need questionable. We’re just so damn accessible – and I’m a willing participant in forcing that accessibility (case in point, this Twitter post from last night, attempting to entice Richard Armitage to narrate Changelings…. still waiting, Mr. Armitage).

The fact remains: regardless of this amorphous concept of identity, we as readers have lived Ken’s world – in bits and pieces, in snatches of brilliance and outright terror. We’ve been there every step of the way, and who or what our favorite dilettante is matters less than the journey we’ve taken. I know many who will agree with me: It’s a great journey.

That talent that I crow about can take us from laughter to tears in the space of a few sentences – or to a shocked, but amused, gasp if he’s feeling wicked. A year ago, when I was happily promoting the Kickstarter for Memoirs of a Dilettante Vol. 1, I wrote the following:

Through her words, I see her world. Penny is as familiar to me as people I’ve known my entire life, because that’s how Helena invites you into her world. Some of the things you’ll witness there are raw. Some of them are painfully but beautifully honest and still others are downright silly and fantastic. And all of it will keep you captivated. Every last second. You’ll devour her words and in turn, they will devour you, spit you out and leave you satisfied they did.

Ken does a remarkable thing, which is to create intimacy where there could easily be none. The face and the name don’t matter because the writing connects us to a wider range of human experience – connects us to a raw, captivating nerve, which transcends identity because it has the ability to speak to all of us.

I decided two years ago the mastermind behind “Being the Memoirs of Helena Hann-Basquiat, Dilettante” and I were going to be friends. And my nerdy persistence paid off – even though I’m not the greatest friend out there. Nevertheless, Ken, in turn, has persevered, and trusted me with the information of who-he-really-is, and that is a gift I cherish from the bottom of my crusty heart to the ends of my tippy-toes. Furthermore, Ken has trusted all of us with this information. Treasure it. Hold this writer close to your heart and let him weave his magic over you. Because that, more than names, more than genders, is who he truly is, and that is what we’ve been privy to this whole time.

Now, Ken has a PubSlush campaign going live in 5 short days. If you’re new here and want to know what all the hubbub is about, check it out. Better yet, head over to “Being the Memoirs of Helena Hann-Basquiat, Dilettante” and read to your heart’s content. You will not be sorry you did. I know I never have been.

~ A and D – otherwise known as Katie Sullivan

Not-So-Shocking Adventure: The Podcast Has Landed

D: Well, it’s about bloody time.

A: Excuse me?

D: How many months ‘hiatus’ did you take from podcasting, Miss A?

A: Seriously? This from the druid who ridiculed the very idea that I put my voice to the interwebs?

D: Well, now, I may have had some reservations, but while you were off not doing the podcast, no one was giving any thought to who should be my voice!

A: But I’ve known all along who should be your voice (and with that hefty revelation, why don’t you stop by GE Recommends for the podcast. Don’t worry – D’s waited this long. He can wait a few more minutes).

D: You have?

A: Uh huh.

D: . . . and why haven’t you shared that with the world? Come on, A – this audio-book isn’t going to act itself out!

A: Oh all right, in the spirit of the week that’s in it, I’ll reveal who not only inspired your um, brooding looks–

D: I do not brood.

A: It could have been worse, I could have called you a lurker.

D: (Sputtering). Fine. Brooding, it is.

A: This gentlemen not only inspired your brooding good looks, but in my head, whenever you speak, it’s his voice. Every. Single. Time.

D: Distracting, is it?

I may or may not encourage silly gifts like these from The Boy on Valentine's Day. What can I say, they just make me smile. — I may or may not encourage silly gifts like these from The Boy on Valentine’s Day. What can I say, they just make me smile.

A: Considering The Boy jokingly gives me movie paraphernalia with his face on it every year for Valentine’s? Yeah, a little.

D: I knew I liked that child. So you’re telling me, I’m based on Thorin?

A: Or Richard Armitage, but yeah, basically.

D: I like it.

A: Really? No push-back? No snark?

D: No. I think it is highly appropriate. He has my gravitas, pathos and a charmingly wicked gleam to his eye. All in all, I believe you found the perfect muse with which to release my greatness. In fact, only one thing remains.

A: I’m afraid to ask. . .

D: Answering the question why you haven’t cornered him and demanded he do my voice?

A: I think he’s a little busy being epic on stage and in the movies.

D: I don’t think that ought to stop you.

A: Oh dear, this not going to end well.

D: In fact, I think you need to fly or sail or swim or, I don’t know, take that broomstick of yours and get yourself over to England and enlist that man’s voice. You can do it – I’ve heard what you and your friends got up to trying to get Conan O’Brien’s attention.

A: (Sigh) And I was right. While I try to talk D off this particular high, head over to Green Embers’ Recommends for the 14th episode of the Not-So-Shocking-News Dialogues, The Podcast Has Landed!

‘Twas the week before Valentine’s . . .

‘Twas the week before Valentine’s,

And all through the house,

Nary a heart was heard beating,

No, not even a pulse…

D: Um, A. . .

A: Yes, D?

D: What are you doing?

A: Taking creative license with Valentine’s Day.

D: With a poem ripped off from Christmas?

A: It’s how I roll.

D: Okay, but isn’t it slightly morbid?

A: You’re talking to the chick who wrote a flash fiction story based on a zombie getting it on with Jenny from Human Resources.

D: . . . this is true. So, tell me, have you written something slightly off-kilter for this year’s Valentine’s extravaganza – because I assume that this being Monday, you’ve decided to devote the entire week of posts to this strange, modern holiday designed to sell flowers, ridiculous pieces of lace, and overpriced bits of plastic masquerading as chocolate?

A: I actually like Valentine ’s Day.

D: . . .

A: No, really, I do – amid all that bad chocolate is some fabulous chocolate, which goes on clearance the day after. Plus, all the color is a nice break for all of us in the northern climes completely surrounded by grey, white, more grey and bits of crusted-over, gnarly-looking snow.

D: Uh huh, and?

"Circle of Adam Elsheimer The Lupercalian Festival in Rome" by Circle of Adam Elsheimer - Christie | Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons — “Circle of Adam Elsheimer The Lupercalian Festival in Rome” by Circle of Adam Elsheimer – Christie | Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

A: And, it has some rather dark and disturbing pagan roots – beyond Cupid – and I just like that kind of thing.

D: Um, A – did you read the article you just linked?

A: Okay, I don’t like the actual Roman Lupercalia ritual, I just find the idea that the Catholics attempted “to put the clothes” back on the ritual when they tried to assimilate the pagans amusing. Of course, we’ve done a rather bang-up job of taking the clothes back off, which is okay, too. However, we can leave the ritual beatings for fertility to those ancient Romans, thankyouverymuch.

D: Thought so.

A: Right, so, we interrupt this Monday’s installment of “Three Ghosts” with the a repost of a story I wrote for The Community Storyboard a few years ago, which is a) based on the ghosts I grew up with, and b) the basis for a far-off book I’ll write when I’m good and ready and D please stop tapping your foot at me.

D: Who, me?

A: (Eye roll) Right – without further ado. . .

My Dearest Love

Portrait of a Union Soldier -- Kenosha (WI) Civil War Museum | Image by Ron Cogswell, 2012 — Portrait of a Union Soldier — Kenosha (WI) Civil War Museum | Image by Ron Cogswell, 2012

My Dearest Evelyn,

While war continues, I would not write of it. I would spare you the details of my daily horror.

When I write to you, it is to forget that I am far from you, far from your embrace. I wish that I had been brave enough to speak to your father and ask for your hand before this started. I have faced enough Secesh as punishment for my fear, and I will speak to him.

* * *

Samuel,

Your words fill me with hope that I will see you again. How foolish we were to think that this war would only last a week. Our nation is divided and my heart weeps. I will follow your advice, and think of you only as I remember you, for to imagine you amidst all that devastation is almost more than I can bear.

I think, in light of your new status in the military, you will find Father’s measure of you much improved, or else I have seriously misjudged his character.

Keep safe, my love.

* * *

My Dearest Evelyn,

Forgive me for keeping secrets from you. Once I knew that I would be granted leave for Christmas, I wrote to your father straight away. He has granted that we may wed.

I would not take you from the bosom of your family until this dreaded war is over, but please, do me the honor of becoming my bride when I return?

* * *

"Pauline Cushman" Part of the Brady-Handy Photograph Collection (Library of Congress). Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons — “Pauline Cushman” Part of the Brady-Handy Photograph Collection (Library of Congress). Licensed under Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

Samuel,

You must ask? Foolish boy, I love you with all my heart.

Mother is already a-flutter with preparations. She laments that we will not be able to go travelling as they did in her day, to celebrate amongst the family, but she is happy just the same.

I, on the other hand, am not merely happy. Your words have filled me near to bursting and I fear I may cry out, laugh or sing with the feel of it! Cook caught me signing the other day as examined what has become of my trousseau, and scolded me something terrible. She tells me such noise is bad luck. But what can she know of it? She is not married and I defy the fates to take this joy from me.

* * *

My dearest,

That I can call you wife, and yet not be by your side is more difficult than I would have ever imagined. Pray for me, my love; pray that I may return to your side, that I may have your sweet whispers in my ear once more. Pray that this war is over soon.

* * *

My love,

Mother says that ardor cools as daily life intrudes, but I have not found this to be true. Perhaps it is that I have yet to know you day-to-day. I remember you though, the feel of you by my side as I slept. At night, I kiss the air where you once were and weep to know that you are not there. My heart is full of the good nights and good mornings that have not yet been.

Knowing that you are mine, that those nights and mornings may yet be, only flames my ardor for you more. You may think me indecent, but my love for you only grows.

Let me be your beacon of light, guiding you home.

* * *

My Dearest Evelyn,

Your letters do me well, my love. I feel your kisses at night and they keep me warm, safe in this chill.

I do not find you indecent, dearest. Your blushes and modesty have no place with me anymore. I would fill your days with kisses and more were I there.

And, I will be there. With your love guiding me, I will be there.

* * *

My love,

The neighbors say that this war cannot last much longer. I pray that the year 1865 ends this horror. The thought of your smile, the memory of your touch, and the echo of your laughter stays with me, and cheers me. With them, I traverse the darkest hours of the night and live in hope that I will see you again soon.

* * *

My Dearest,

Your words, you once said, should be my beacon of light. I tell you that they are so. Your love is my guiding star, my heaven. I have suffered but the promise of home keeps me. The war is over, they say. We will be coming home. Once I would have leapt with joy at the news, now I weep that I have been gone so long. Wait for me.

* * *

The house my parents built. Evelyn & The Soldier's home is on the right, the exposed beam side. — The house my parents built. Evelyn & The Soldier’s home is on the right, the exposed beam side.

He knocked at the door and collapsed before it could open. Clutched in his hand was a scrap of paper, words scrawled across it with a near-unintelligible hand.

* * *

Evelyn opened the door and nearly tripped on the half-starved scarecrow that lay in a heap. There had been so many returning, so many seeking a warm fire and a bite of food, that she had stopped searching their faces for her dear Samuel.

* * *

He woke, stretched out before the fireplace. The tatters that had once been his fine uniform were gone, replaced by the heavenly scratch of thick wool blankets. The fire blazed, cheerful and comforting. He tried to turn his head, but found that even this small movement cost him more than he could spare.

“Don’t move, Samuel.”

Evelyn. He tried to say her name, to feel it on his lips once more. She kissed him silent. Her lips were salty.

“Don’t speak, my love. We didn’t know if you would wake. The doctor has been and gone; he was amazed you made it this far. Oh, Samuel, my dearest love.” She clutched his last letter in her hand. At least she would understand why. She kissed him again and rested against him. He breathed her in, surrounding himself with her. On her sweet perfume, he drifted off into the darkness, never to wake.

* * *

My Dearest Evelyn,

It was all I could do not to run all the way home when I received my discharge. That I was not permanently maimed or prisoner in some war camp was solely by the grace of God. That I prayed to you instead of Him may have been my undoing. The roads are not safe between our camp and you, and I was set upon in the night, attacked and shot. I fear it will be the death of me.

Forgive me, my love. Forgive me for not being able to be with you; forgive me for those beautiful babies yet unborn, forgive me for not growing into old age with you. I love you, Evelyn and I am so desperately sorry. If God is good, he shall grant that I watch over you, and love you for as long as you are upon this earth, my dearest. I feel your kisses yet, Evelyn and they still stave off the chill.

All my love,

Samuel

Background: The home my parents built – the home I lived in until the age of 18 – was haunted. It was actually two civil-war era log homes dismantled and rebuilt together, and most of the ghosts accompanied the timbers in the move. Evelyn and “The Soldier” to whom I have given the name Samuel, resided in the formal living and dining rooms, respectively. Their close proximity as ghosts led me to wonder whether they knew each other in life, and the story grew in my head until I was convinced Evelyn had waited for her soldier, only for him to die in her arms upon his return from the war.

Eventually, Evelyn and Samuel will form the backdrop to a multi-generational love story, but until then, I’m happy to let them have this little snippet of a tale.

First Fridays: Chapter Four

20141207_140911~2 D: I still think we should skip ahead.

A: . . .

D: It’s just, I didn’t mean—

A: I know you didn’t mean to leave them there, all by themselves, with no one to turn to. . . poor orphans, at the cusp of adulthood, chasing a phantom.

D: You can stop at any time, you know.

A: (Grin). No, really, I know you had no idea that headstrong and ridiculously bright Maureen would decide to break curfew and chase after you. I mean, she’s only your—

D: SPOILERS!!!!

A: Wow.

D: Ahem. I mean, please don’t continue, A. Those are spoilers, and we wouldn’t want to ruin the story, would we?

A: Uh, no. Of course not. Sorry.

D: As well you should be. Good gods, woman – I’m almost happy to let you deconstruct the first page of Chapter Four if it will keep you from divulging information vital to the denouement.

A: Then that is exactly what we will do – hold on to your hats, ladies and gentlemen, because this is Chapter Four of Changelings: Into the Mist.

Chapter One | Two | Three | Want to read along? Get your copy here!

Four

What does the hill look like? Maybe like this - in an abstract, totally denuded sort of way! — What does the hill look like? Maybe like this – in an abstract, totally denuded sort of way!

“Oh my God, Sr. Theresa was right, you are a Changeling,” Sean muttered. He did not know how long they had been lying in the tall grass, staring up at the starry sky. Long enough to realize that this was not a dream.

The church had vanished, and there were no sounds but those belonging to the night.

No, not a dream, but a huge, hideous mistake. The world started to tilt at funny angles and he dug his hands into the thick, matted earth.

“Me?” Maureen sat up. He winced at her speed. “It wasn’t until you touched my hand that anything happened.” She gave him a half-hearted glare as she attempted to smooth the back the riot of curls that had escaped her braids.

“And what did happen? In case you hadn’t noticed—”

“I know, I know. No church. Nothing.”

Yet, that was not completely true. She turned away and scanned the darkened countryside. Sean followed her gaze and tried to ignore the prickling unease that danced up his spine.

The church itself was gone, but the tumbledown remains of a stone structure, overgrown with weeds, sat in the middle of where the building had once been. Surrounding them was a great ring of oaks, or rather, what was left of them. Someone had been at them with an axe; a few raw stumps gleamed in the light of a moon that had just crested the hill. Beyond the oaks, with their twisted branches, were other stands of broad leafy trees that extended down into shadow.

The abbey, its collection of buildings and the modern trappings of their tiny world, had disappeared – either because they had not yet been built, or because they had fallen to ruin long ago.

* * *