“Come out and climb the
garden-path,
Luriana Lurilee.”
We all collect our own peculiar gems, don’t we? Slants of thought and pleasures that we pursue that make no sense to anyone else. Something others might ignore as mere banality or an oddity, but you—be honest—can’t help adoring. This is one of mine. I don’t need you to love it, too, but I hope your mind catches a precise glint here.
When I was a brand-new baby English major, one of my required college classes introduced me to the International Phonetic Alphabet for English. I was mesmerized by the seamless match between syllable and symbol. Students were given worksheets to practice spelling words phonetically, and for some reason, I have no idea way, I became enamored with the humble noun “tea chest.”
I’d never even seen such an item in real life (a light wooden box lined with metal used for transporting tea), but I didn’t have to gaze upon it or feel its woodgrain under my fingers to know—
Even intangible, it was utterly perfect as a pearl lacquered shiny by ink and sound: “ti čɛst,” or if I ran the words together, “tičɛst.”
For months, I would write the phonetic spelling of tea chest in the margins of my notebook like a soothing spell, a magic talisman, or a tiny marvel. Decades later, I don’t remember most of the phonetic symbols, but I still remember that one lovely little thing—
*Tea chest is also phonetically spelled “ti ˈtʃɛst,” but the above example is how I first learned and loved it many years ago. Eventually, I locketed it away in my heart as my mind latched onto the glamor of other shiny words. Syllabic treats ike ælf-sciene, an Old English word that means “elf-sheen,” or radiantly bright and beautiful as said ethereal creature. And thus, the glorious cycle began anew!
I don’t want to forget to cherish the odd little joys that find their way into my heart in this life. In the end, time takes away all our treasures, anyway. Love, locket, and finally—let go.
Fancy INK
In the Garden of the Day
Not so bad I don’t want to sing
Of maple hands and
Sun-dipped sticks
(Not even stones hurt today).
I would learn
The willow withy’s way—
Ever bending, never snapping.
In the garden
Azaleas blush their heart out
I will do the same.
*Originally published in Noctua Review (2011), 4, p.90.
"Dear Voracia" is a magical phenomenon! The mysterious dragon columnist has been dispensing her wise admonitions and lethal stratagems for over a millennium now. Not sure if you should buy a cursed needle or a poison apple to hex your enemies? Arguing with your significant other over whether to add armored newts or battle guppies to your castle moat? Wondering if a pair of glass slippers is a fair trade for your soul? Ask Madame V.
Correspondence 2: Happily Cursed
Dear Voracia,
My parents killed a unicorn or phoenix or something insanely magical before I was born, and their future first child got cursed as punishment. Enter me. I turn into a flying monster at night (gigantic fangs, leathery wings, razor-blade tail; basically; I'm an epic bat lord). My birth curse can only be broken if I find "true love" before I turn eighteen.
Trouble is, I don't want the curse broken. I CAN FLY. Stupendous, right? True love can trot off a cliff! But my mother and father keep throwing tedious balls, never-ending garden parties, and harp recitals in order to throw posses of princesses at me. I'm running out of places to hide from the royal hordes hunting me in my own castle. The situation is getting insufferable.
How can I convince my parents that I'm perfectly content to remain a nocturnal beast of nightmares for the rest of my life?
-Happily Cursed
RE:
Dear Happily Cursed,
Hexes are a tricky business (I much prefer just incinerating my enemies with a blast, it's a far more straightforward approach to vengeance).
I am impressed you've been able to revel in your birth curse and claim it as part of your identity. You could always run away from your castle, and join a traveling circus as a horrifying curiosity until you reach age 18, thereby sealing your fate as a half-monster forever more.
However, if you make this choice, beware of humans: they are less accepting of those who do not conform to their particular ideal of normalcy. Not all monsters bare their fangs.
Good luck!
-Madame V.
INK of Others
Thanks to my mother, I was properly obsessed with J.R.R. Tolkien’s stories years before The Lord of the Rings films came out. In fact, I must confess that I once wrote filmmaker Peter Jackson a letter petitioning him to create a movie adaption of The Tale of Beren and Lúthien. I believe I mailed it to New Zealand with a postcard of Gillette Castle as that was the most legendary edifice I could think of in Connecticut, which is where I was living at the time.
To my utter surprise and joy, one day an email from a Ms. Emma Dougherty from “WingnutFilms” appeared in my inbox. I don't know if it is a form letter response as I am sure many other fans wrote with their own ideas, but I still treasure it! I’ll never delete it, ever:
Dear Peter Jackson,
Please consider my outline for why you should helm a film adaptation of the tale "Of Lúthien and Beren" by J.R.R. Tolkien, meticulously bolded and randomly italicized for your convenience:
Sauron, the Early Years: Who wouldn’t pay to see Ole Flaming Red Eye playing the part of a ravening vampire AND a werewolf? Not the swooning sparkly kind or brooding fur ball sort, but a shape-shifting fiend that is also the principal lieutenant of the demonic overlord of all evil, Morgoth. Need I say more?
There’s so much more: Move over, Tristan and Isolde! It’s time for the ultimate love story about star-crossed species. Beren is a "baseborn" human and Lúthien is the daughter of an Elven king who wants to kill her mortal beau off quickly. Cue the impossible quest: basically, to steal a jewel from the crown of the devil in the land of hell.
Helen of Troy’s face launched a thousand ships. Big deal. Lúthien Tinúviel was the “fairest of all the Children of the World.” Even Lúthien’s lovely descendent Arwen Evenstar was reputedly but a pale likeness of her beauty in comparison.
There’s a crazy Rapunzel/Quasi-Invisibility Cloak scene. When Lúthien is imprisoned in a lofty tree house by her father to keep her out of the action, she uses sorcery to grow her hair fantastically long and escape. She then recycles her hair into a shadowy, sleep-inducing cloak so that she can rescue Beren from a torturous death in Sauron’s prison.
Lúthien orders Beren to shut up when he tries to steal a silmaril on his own, and employs her sirenesque singing skills to beguile the lord of hell (okay, Angband) into hypnotic slumber so that Beren can nick a jewel from his crown. Can anyone say girl power?
There’s an epic smack down between the gargantuan wolfhound Huan, a noble canine granted the ability to speak only three times in his life, and Morgoth’s pet Red Maw, “the mightiest wolf” ever to terrorize the earth (think White Fang meets the Hulk).
When Luke Skywalker lost his hand to Vader, it was the most awkward family reunion ever. But when Beren’s hand is bitten off by Red Maw with the stolen silmaril still in his fingers, he loses the right to ever marry his beloved Lúthien. Now that’s tragedy.
Romeo and Juliet stay dead. Beren and Lúthien die and are revivified by an Elven God!
Such shiny jewels, preciousssss. Come on, what’s the glory of the One Ring or the Arkenstone against the three Silmarils, a trinity of jewels whose faceted luminosity ultimately destroys the elves with the toxic jealousy generated by their radiance?
This story is begging to be told on the silver screen, and I know you are the director who can bring it to life. Besides, you already have a built-in fan base, millions strong.
Serendipitous wishes,
Your fan and Tolkien’s
*Yeah, someone still needs to make this crazy stelliferous story into a movie . . .
Faerie Era Exclusive!
Character
Interview with Iffy
Magic’s very own Calico by Sadie St.
Elle-Maid of the Faerie Era, the premier news folio in the Faerie Vale.
St. Elle-Maid: Catnip, kitten? I like to offer all my guests their
favorite comfort food before we delve into their deliciously deep, dark
shocking sec—
Calico: I’m not a cat. I’m a feline shape shifter.
St. Elle-Maid: Of course you are! Your pedigree records show that your grandfather was the illustrious Puss n' Boots. So why didn’t you inherit his magic boots, hmmm? A little cat-fight, in the family, perhaps? Do tell.
Calico: My Granddad never said a cross word to me in my life. Or maybe, anything. I was the youngest out of twenty litter mates, you see, so—
St. Elle-Maid: Oh, what cruel scandalous neglect, you poor thing! Now for some questions from our readers. Lalania from Carolai asks: “If someone played with your hair, would it spark?”
Calico: Nobody plays with my hair.
St. Elle-Maid: What a shame, kitten. On a scale of 1 to 10, how damaging are you to household furniture?
Calico: Don’t call me “kitten.” Seriously, is this a real interview?
St. Elle-Maid: Of course it is, kit—alico! Now, as a descendant of the Noble line of Feles, you automatically inherited one magical article of clothing on your 15th birthday, correct?
Calico: Sure, I did. But it wasn’t a gift, just an excuse for my family to kick me out on some absurd game to go “help a mortal.”
St. Elle-Maid: I believe it’s called a “fairy tale quest.” You pick a worthy human and help make all their dreams come true—
Calico: I call it traditional stupidity.
St. Elle-Maid: Oh, really? Because that’s not what recent events would indicate. According to our reports, you’ve been associating with a certain Primrose Goodwing, a whimsical little sprite obsessed with happy endings everywhere, and for everyone—
Calico: I’m not talking about Prim.
St. Elle-Maid: I feel like you’re fighting me. You’re not being very cooperative.
Calico: All right, you want an exclusive? Fine. Here’s your exclusive: Most of the articles of clothing in the House of Feles have lost their power. You’d think that I could conjure up a castle or an army of ten thousand soldiers in the blink of an eye, right? Wrong. The spells woven into the threads are so old that I can barely muster up a breakfast feast. Would you like a plate of elderberry cream tarts?
St. Elle-Maid: Yes, please! And don’t be stingy with the cream filling.
Calico: I never skimp on the cream. I’m a “cat,” remember?
After a brief stint studying shrieking at the Banshee Academy of Dramatic Wailing, Sadie St. Elle-Maid earned her Silver Quill chronicling the Dryad Wars of the Avalon apple groves. She has headed the Character Interview section of the Faerie Era for two centuries now and is widely regarded as the supreme expert of magical catology.
*Thanks for reading! If you'd like my free newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday, you can subscribe to my Substack account here.
