The wind whistled through the trees. There were many reasons to be upset, since the Naxos had been overthrown. He was a dragon who helped rule the nether kingdoms, and actually persuaded King Charles to avert his war with the Elves of Elvira. Did they have enough gumption to follow the dragon’s advice? He would have to go alone, & nobody knew whether this would lead. This was the last stand of dragons against the forces of darkness and black magic.

They decided to take Carr along for the journey. He had a red three cornered cap, with a feather in it. Carr was a master of red magic, & he could wield a rapier. They were still trying to understand the prophecy, & many or us were still puzzled. What would be the outcome of this omen? No one could decipher what was written on the obelisk:

“The earth is rotting, the sea is wild…”

They could not understand why this would apply to our country, Marginalia, but we were struck with terror. What was the reason of the earth’s rotting? No one could be certain, but the sage Sarda would know. Tefl drew his sword and made an ‘X’ in the sand. “This is Nitla pass,” said he, ” and we will go no further. We will camp here for the night.” Every one of them, including Carr,  gathered wood for the fire, while Tefl folded up the map. The sun was setting, and the sky was crimson red and burnt orange. The wind was dying down, and they could hear the jeweled scarabs making noise as they unfolded the sleeping bags.

Poxig talked of the fool on the hill that night. It was well known that on the top of Mt. Crump, the Jongleur lived, with his massive library. It was no secret that the imps had been trying to torch the library, but King Charles protected the great library with soldiers from the elite guard.

“We thought he might be nuts,” said Lakfi, “but he is actually intelligent.”

“I didn’t know, ” said Sheila Nesta, the translator and healer. “But I knew he tells riddles.”

“Won’t you tell one, Poxig?” said Lakfi.

“Ok. Here it goes. What flies but has no wings?” asked Poxig.

“That’s easy,” he said.

“Oh, then what is it?” she asked.

“Well, my money seems to fly away,” Tefl rejoined.

“Time.” he said.

“Ah, yes.” said Nesta.

“Well, there are many others, but I’ll let Jongleur tell you himself,” Poxig said.

Tefl grunted in assent. Due to the warrior code, he didn’t say much. He would only speak when he had something meaningful to say. Tefl was shining his metal helmet with a rag. As he cleaned his sword to get the imp blood off of it, he said:

“Sic Transit Gloria…”

“Glory fades,” said Nesta.

 

There were so many reasons to have trepidation, since Poxig and his companion Jancuis were entering the evil swamp. They saw through the maw of hades, for all the imp-beasts had overtaken the swamps. Returning to the path, the talking trees began chanting.

”∑ομα, ∑ομα”

The Greek word for bodily personhood was not immediately lost on  them. They knew that the magic that surrounded them was of an evil nature. The trees were bending under  the weight of the dark magic that oppressed all living things. Poxig tried to keep focused on his courageous self, for the light magic that could dispel the gloom was far from them.

“When do you think we will reach Wyckham Hall?” asked Jancuis.

“We aren’t far from it,” Poxig replied, “but I can’t hear anything beyond the screaming trees.”

“Why are they chanting?” he asked.

“They mourn for the dead that the imps have slain,” Poxig grimly remarked. “The imps feast on the swamp animals. They leave nothing in their wake but ruin and destruction.”

“For this reason, we must make it to Wyckham Hall and restore order to this place overrun by imp-beasts.”

They journeyed further into the murky wasteland looking for signs of life. The wind whistled through the tops of the ancient trees. One misstep would bring them further from the path that led to the dark mansion. Poxig could himself no longer be persuaded of the virtue of venturing further into the evil swamp. It was likely that the muck all around them, and the shrieking imps with their blood-curdling cries would overcome them.

“We will need the help of the ancient spirits tonight,” Poxig mumbled.

They had despaired of ever getting through the wasteland, and then appearing through the midst of a fallen tree, they came upon the dark shadow cast by a decrepit old mossy manse.

“Wyckham Hall!” Jancuis said.

“At last!” Poxig returned.

 

 

Poxig came to the edge of the waterfall. He looked over the side, and viewed the abyss below. He knew these falls because he had been here as a boy. Underneath the waterfall was a grotto where he used to bring his wooden action figures. Now, as a man, he had a different view of Nitla Pass. It was a place where Manichean forces would fight for supremacy.

There was only another hour until the Orc-Wizard Darxon and his armies of darkness would arrive. He had been responsible for the fall of Wyckham Hall, and the soul-possession of Sir Belhomme, who had become an orc himself. The cruel magic of Darxon could only affect those who had turned to the dark side of magic, which the once great knight had done. Poxig had known him many moons ago. His new orc name was ‘Trink-Zelfo.’

It would be only a few short minutes before the demonic hoards would take over this region. All the trees in Nitla Pass would be chopped down and burned, and the vegetation would be stripped. As for the waters of Nitla Pass, they would turn to blood-red. And with all of this havoc wreaked on his favorite place to come as a boy, Poxig could only think of retreat to the armed forces of King Charles I, whose army was the only worthy adversary of such an evil force…

See a sample here:  the great journey

Sheila wrote the next line, not realizing it was Koiné Greek:

‘Εν ‘αρΧη ην ‘ο λογος ην προς τον Θεον, και Θεος ην ‘ο λογος…

She realized that this was the first line of the prophecy of the gospel.

It was a short order because she had come this far, and it didn’t seem like the cosmic order of the universe was going to change for her. But she prayed nonetheless that the dice would roll in her favor.

There was a sense in which the justice that was inherent in the universe would come to her, and Dostoevsky’s floating ax would describe her fate. She looked at Poxig, who gave her a quick glance. Then, she returned to her prophetic wanderings.

“Is it possible that each will receive his or her comeuppance?” she said.

“Yes, since the cosmic order of the universe could not be altered,” Poxig returned. But Poxig didn’t flinch. The still ax in space still terrified him. It was the absurdity of evil, that the great Dostoevsky had described.

 

 

 

I am currently trying to take a vow of silence on the book until I write a substantial portion of it.

Here are some of the French photos I have done on the translation of Pierre & Jean by Guy Maupassant.