The Arcade in SL, September 2017

It’s the first of September, and once again, the Arcade is open in Second Life. It’s been five years now, and it’s still going strong!

I was in the first Arcade, and I’ve been in lots of them (but not all) since. I’m there again this time, with a bunch of Corn Dollies.

 

Corn Dollies Key image
The Corn Dollies Key

It’s all Marianne McCann’s fault. She was the one who begged for them. I was going to do this set a long time ago, and then got distracted, and only did one. I put that one in an Arcade set called Grandma’s Attic, which was really a whole lot of things that I had sitting around in my workroom, but had never really finished, or finished and never put up for sale. I have a lot of things like that, at any time.

But Mari never forgets, especially when it’s something she really wants, and so she kept nudging until I got this set done. If you like them, thank her!

There are 12 in the set, plus the reward.

Many of them are scripted; for instance, there’s one with a quilt, which lets you swap between 3 different quilt patterns. There’s one with a parasol, that lets you choose from 12 different parasol designs. There’s one holding a bird, that plays birdsong when you touch her, until you touch her again. There’s one with a working lantern that has all kinds of different options. There’s one with a bubble wand, that lets you toggle the bubbles on and off. There’s one on a swing that can really swing.

All of them let you change the colors of their skin, hair, apron, dress, and kerchief (or hair bows) separately, so you can have them look just the way you want.

You can also use your own pictures for the one with the quilt, or the one who is painting, just by dragging them over the quilt or picture that’s there.

The Reward is only available during the Arcade, and is copy/mod, no transfer, so you won’t be able to pick her up at any of the sales or trades. This is your only chance to get her, and only by playing the machine 25 times. She’s holding a jack-o-lantern that’s really a light, with all the options (including changing the light color and brightness.) It’s a bit early for Halloween, but it won’t be by the time the Arcade closes on September 31.

Corn Dollie Jackie, 25 play reward
The Reward you get for 25 plays!

So go ahead, and try your luck at my machine at The Arcade! All the dolls (except the Reward) are mod/transfer, and all of them are 1 LI at the size given. You can shrink them small enough to put in my dollhouse, or make them huge, although LI goes up as they get big (of course.)

While you are there, don’t forget to pick up the Birthday Presents! You’ll find them on the huge cake in the middle of the venue. Happy Birthday, Arcade!

Thoughts

I wrote this in January, and just found it. I didn’t post it then, and I don’t know, now, why I didn’t. I suspect it’s because I was sick, and none of it seemed worth posting. It was a rough winter, and spring; I was sick most of the time, until we realized that the constant coughing and exhaustion from all the coughing had more to do with ducts that were not cleaned before we moved in here than with my lousy immune system. (Check your ducts!)

The ducts are clean now, and have been for weeks. I’m no longer coughing. And, slowly, I’m trying to get back to writing. I haven’t been writing for a very long time. Like most of the other creatives I know, creating under these circumstances is surprisingly hard. So much for hard times yielding great art.

Anyway, here’s the piece I wrote so long ago. And my hope that I’ll be writing more regularly in the future.


It’s been a long, hard time since the last time I posted on this blog, and I have a horrible feeling that it’s just going to get harder for a while.

Like many other creatives, I’ve been unable to write. The one time I tried, the post before this, someone found it necessary to write a very long comment explaining to me that I didn’t actually mean what I said in that post.

They were wrong, of course. I did mean it. I don’t write things lightly, and I think carefully before I say anything, and even more carefully, including running it past at least one other person, before I actually post.

It’s taken me months to decide what to do about the comment. I’ve never just declined to post any real comment before. (I delete spam all the time, but that’s spam. You get plenty of that already, I’m sure.) But this time, although I thought about countering his points one by one, I’ve decided not to. It’s a waste of time and energy that I frankly can’t spare at the moment. So I’m just going to ignore it.

Instead, I’m going to post something I’ve been thinking about all day, as I sit here with the snow falling all around my house.

I have a friend in California. Okay, I have a bunch of friends there, but I have one I frequently exchange weather info with.

She is forever telling me that the sky is blue. That’s what she sees, when she looks out her window. She’s even sent me pictures to prove it.

I tell her that the sky is white, or sometimes light gray. That’s what I see when I look out my window. Featureless, unbroken light gray or white, from horizon to horizon.

Neither of us is wrong about what we are seeing. We’re both reporting it accurately.

Except I’m not really seeing the sky. I’m seeing clouds. All I’ve seen for days and weeks is clouds. I’m not sure I’ve ever seen this thing called “sun,” although I’m pretty sure I saw a picture of it once.

But the truth is, the sky beyond those clouds is blue. If I could see through the clouds, I would be able to see that it is.

Privilege is like that. I’m a cis white woman. I don’t have as much privilege as a white cishet man does, but I have quite a bit. From here, behind my privilege, we have always had equal rights, here in the US. That’s what it says in the constitution, in the laws, in the stories we tell ourselves about our country. Once, long ago, we had Jim Crow, but that was all swept away in the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s. It’s gone now. Heck, we had a black president!

People on the margins of society knew that was just an illusion. That was the clouds in front of the sky. In reality, a reality I never experienced from behind my bank of privilege, there has always been massive racism in this country. The laws changed, but the attitudes of the people didn’t magically change along with them.

Ask anyone who isn’t white.

People have been trying to tell us this, ever since the sixties. From where they are, where they are being systematically imprisoned, beaten, and killed, even by law enforcement, it’s obvious that it’s not anything close to over. From where they stand, it’s clear that they have to work many times harder to get a scrap of what we assume we have by right. They are refused housing, refused education, refused simple courtesy, their very humanity and right to exist is constantly questioned. Doctors assume that they have higher pain tolerance than a white person, even though there is no evidence of such a thing, so they aren’t given the same pain meds, if they are given any at all.

They are considered to be “over sexed” through no fault of their own, and so are treated as sexual predators when they are simply minding their own business. Their sexualization a part of white fantasy, not due to anything they have done. The law treats them as if they are adults the moment they reach puberty, if not before, while treating white men as if they are children, not responsible for their actions, when they are 27, or 35, or in their 40s.

At the same time, they are treated as if they can never become adults intellectually, no matter how much experience or education they have. Totally ignorant white people talk down to people of color, because of course they know more; they’re white!

They tried to tell us. They kept pointing it out. They showed us videos, they showed us evidence, they held marches and demonstrations, where they were met with policemen in riot gear.

And then the Election came, and the clouds of our privilege rolled back, and we glimpsed the reality behind them, just for a moment. We saw that yes, indeed, racism is still alive and well, and the evidence is really all around it.

We are stunned. They tried to tell us, but we wouldn’t listen.

So now, please, for our very lives, it’s crucial that we listen.

We might not have any idea how to navigate this world, but they do. It’s the world they’ve been living in for their whole lives. In their place, we might be so angry and spiteful that we wouldn’t lift a finger to help the white people who are now tasting the bitter draught they’ve been forced to drink.

They are better than that. They aren’t really interested in changing places with us; they know too well what it feels like to be in this position.

But they can’t help us if we won’t listen.

So please, please listen.

Show up to all the marches and rallies that you can. Our white bodies offer a level of protection for those with more melanin in their skin. Did you see the difference between the police at the Women’s March and those at any Black Lives Matter demonstration? There was no riot gear, no mace, pepper spray, or nightsticks. There were pink hats, smiles, high fives. That is one of the reasons we have to be there.

But don’t talk. It’s not about us. Besides, everyone has heard our white stories too many times to count. They all know what we have to say.

Instead, let them speak. Hand them the megaphone. They are the leaders here. They are the ones who know this territory. They have lived here forever, and know how to navigate in it.

Respect the sacred spaces of those who have other religions than you. If they kneel to pray, or draw up a sacred circle, or do anything that they are doing as a group, sacred or not, don’t barge in or through. You are not more important than they are.

We are all humans, together, trying to fight through the mire and work our way to a place of freedom where we can, finally, really, be equal.

Yes, when the Founding Fathers wrote “all men are created equal” they didn’t really mean “all human beings, no matter their gender, skin color, religion, or ethnic background.” We know that. But that’s exactly what we mean. We can fulfill their dream, and make it a reality.

It will be a struggle, and it won’t come without cost.

But if we can get there, it will be oh so worth it.

It’s worth fighting for. So let’s fight. As one, with respect for all and malice towards none.

I’ll see you at the demonstration. I’ll be the one listening, not talking.

Join me.

No Reconciliation

It’s happened. Trump is the president-elect, and Republicans hold both houses of congress and probably will soon have a majority on the Supreme Court, as well. The checks and balances are gone. Our worst nightmare is now our reality.

Not because they are Republicans and I usually vote for Democrats.

But because Republicans have tried for many years to strip away all protections for the most vulnerable among us. In fact, there is little doubt that they would love to strip away everything for everyone who isn’t a wealthy, white, straight, Evangelical Christian male.

Even now, Ryan is finalizing his plans to privatize Medicaid and Social Security, and totally repeal the Affordable Care Act. To gut food stamps, and to remove safety nets and protections for the poorest among us.

But it’s worse than that.

That is what we would have faced if some other Republican had won the nomination of his party, and had become president.

But it’s Trump, who boasts of his xenophobia and racism. Who glories in sexual assault and sees manhandling women whenever he wishes as his due. Who has deep ties to white supremacist groups, who are crowing that they are in power now.

Yes, he also lies pretty much constantly. He campaigned on a platform to “drain the swamp” in DC. He said he was an outsider, who wasn’t beholden to lobbies and special interest groups. He said he would end their influence. And he’s filling his cabinet with them. There is little doubt that he’ll renege on any promises he doesn’t find convenient, as he always has.

But he has proven through his actions, for more than 50 years, that he is, in fact, a racist. That he does, in fact, despise pretty much everyone. That he hasn’t a shred of empathy or human decency. That he has no intention of helping anyone but himself. Ever.

Since he was elected, just 3 days ago, the most racist, misogynistic, xenophobic and violent of his followers have taken his election as a license to do whatever they want to do to whoever they want. There are endless reports of attacks on women wearing a hijab, on Mexicans, on Asians, on blacks. There are thousands of stories of school children chanting horrible things, making walls of their bodies to keep out fellow-students who aren’t white, writing hateful messages on doors to safe spaces, on classroom whiteboards, on signs, on restroom walls.

These aren’t random acts. This is not a coincidence. They are doing these things in Trump’s name; writing it on cars and walls besides their hate filled slogans, screaming it into the faces of women as they rip their hijab, saying “If Trump can do it, so can I,” as they grab the genitals of their 10 year old classmates.

And while all this is going on, we are being told that we must reconcile our differences, and work together with those who would oppress us to unify and heal the country.

No! No we do not! No we should not!

We should never, ever, become complicit in oppression.

Compromise is a fine thing in many times and places. It’s great when a group of friends is trying to pick a restaurant, when a club is formulating bylaws, when workers and management are hammering out a contract.

But some things are simply not open to negotiation, and the basic humanity of all people is one of them.

On this, there can be no compromise. Black lives do matter, as do trans lives, Muslim lives, the lives of the mentally ill and physically unable, the lives of refugees and immigrants, the lives of the poor, the lives of deaf people, retarded people, fat people, gay people, and people of uncertain gender. All these lives, the lives of all marginalized people, no matter why they are marginalized, are every bit as important as the life of the whitest, wealthiest, straightest, most handsome, well-educated, Evangelical Christian man walking down Wall Street in an immaculate $3000 suit with a genuine leather briefcase in his hand.

This is a truth that I will not budge from. There can be no compromise, no unity, when the price of unity is to agree with white people that non-white people are simply, by their nature, inferior. That they are genetically biased towards violence, crime, deceit, and ignorance.

No.

Not just no, but hell no!

Only when the people currently in power agree that those they have relegated to the margins are actually as worthy and important as they, themselves, will I be happy to compromise and work for unity. When the humanity of every single person on the planet is fully acknowledged, and those currently in power agree that the vulnerable must be protected, I’ll be more then delighted to work together with them to protect the weakest and heal the nation.

When they acknowledge that American isn’t (and never has been) a white, Christian nation, but is instead a richly diverse land inhabited by people of many colors, backgrounds, religions, philosophies, and cultures, and that all of them are equally valid and equally deserving of respect, as long as they’re not seeking to oppress anyone, then I’ll gladly extend my hand in friendship, and settle down to work out ways to best help all of us.

But until then?

I’ll fight them tooth, nail, wallet and keyboard. I’ll stand against their tyranny and oppression, for that’s what it is. I’ll not give an inch, a millimeter, or a single micron.

I will not, and I cannot.

Because they are just flat wrong.

All people are created equal, and there should be liberty and justice for all.

Princess Irene – Short Story

Another Short Story, this time from a collection about princesses. Hope you like it!


Princess Irene

by Robin Wood

Princess Irene loved flowers.

Her mother and father, the Queen and King, had huge flower gardens at the palace. There were beautifully kept beds of gorgeous blooms from all over the world. There were hidden nooks sheltered by sprays of sweet-smelling shrubs, and holding worn wooden benches where you could sit and rest. There were fountains of purest marble, white and cool as snow, where bright water splashed down to amuse brilliantly colored fish. There were towering trees with spreading canopies that sheltered choirs of hidden songbirds. There were arbors and pergolas cloaked with flowering vines, with delightful swings where you could feel as if you were about to touch the crystal blue sky.  There were winding paths, and open walks, and even a formal maze of strong-smelling boxwood with tall golden gates so no one could enter alone and unwatched, and be lost for hours or days.

You would have loved those gardens as much as Irene did, I’m sure.

She was about your age, and she liked nothing more than playing in those gardens. When it rained, and she was forced to sit inside, with nothing to amuse her (except, of course, all her books and toys and magical trinkets,) I’m afraid she would get quite cranky.

“For you see, Nettie,” she would explain to her nurse, “none of them are alive a bit. It means nothing to any of them whether I care for them or not. Not like the flowers. When I love them, they love me back.”

“I love you, little Princess.” Nettie would say, “come, cheer up. The rain won’t last much longer.”

“I know, Nettie.”

And Irene would smile bravely, give Nettie a hug, and try to be cheerful, as a princess should; but her heart was not in it.

(You should not imagine, by the way, that Irene was one of those unfortunate princesses who was given over to her nurse to raise. Her mother and father loved her dearly and spent as much time with her as they could. But it takes a lot of work to run a whole kingdom, and someone had to watch Irene when her parents couldn’t.)

The day this story starts wasn’t rainy, though. It was one of those glorious days you get sometimes is the spring. There had been rain, just the day before, and it had washed all the dust and clouds out of the sky, so it was such a brilliant blue it made you ache to look at it. All the leaves were shining from the rain, with that vibrant, tender green that you only get in the spring. The birds were busy impressing each other with their very best songs, and the air was full of brightly colored butterflies, dipping and soaring over the banks of cheery daffodils and heavenly pink and purple hyacinth.

On a day like this, no one could resist going out, least of all Princess Irene.

Truth to be told, Nettie longed to be in the gardens almost as much as Irene herself, so as soon as breakfast was over, they were out the door.

Now, Irene loved all the flowers, of course. But as much as she loved them all, she had her particular favorite. Can you guess what they were?

Not the roses, although she did love them for their bright colors, soft petals, and beautiful scents. But roses also have thorns that are liable to stick your fingers when you pull a spray close to sniff. And that, as Irene explained, is not as friendly as one could hope.

Not the prize dahlias, although they were gorgeous, with their hundreds of petals on blossoms nearly as large as Irene’s head. Because, she would explain, there was something about them that made you suspect they were a bit too proud and full of themselves.

Not even the violets, although she loved them dearly.

Her very, very favorite flowers were lily-of-the-valley. Do you know them? With their white bells on slender stalks, just waiting to chime for dancing fairies? With their sweet scent, like dreams of angels? With their glossy green leaves that almost hide the shy flowers?

There was a great bank of lily-of-the-valley in a hidden corner of the garden, where things were allowed to run a bit wild. Someone had planted some there long ago, perhaps as long as a hundred years before, and they had propagated and spread and planted themselves among all the tree roots in that shady spot, filling it with heavenly scent and bright white bells, like a million bits of glory shining under the trees.

That morning, Irene ran to the spot as fast as her little feet could take her, skipping and laughing for pure joy.

She ran so fast that I’m afraid she left poor Nettie quite behind, for Nettie wasn’t exactly young any more, not was she as slender as she had been, and preferred a slower pace.

So Irene was quite alone when she came to her flowers, and plunked to her knees, crying, “Good morning, my lovely ones!”

Except, it turned out that she was not quite alone after all! Because someone answered her!

“Good morning yourself!”

The voice sounded very kind, and there was a laugh in it, so Irene wasn’t really scared. But she was startled.

She jumped to her feet, and whirled around to face the speaker.

And who do you think she saw?

There was a woman in a green apron kneeling among the lilies, with a trowel in her hand, and dirt on her fingers. Her red-brown hair was streaked with white, and her skin was brown and freckled from the sun. She had wide greeny-brown eyes, a wide nose with a wart, and a wide smile. She looked kind, but she was also the least pretty person the princess had ever seen in all her whole life.

Irene realized she was staring, and caught herself, giving her best court curtesy, for a princess is always unfailing polite to everyone, no matter who they are. Unless, of course, she forgets.

“Pardon me,” she said, “but you rather startled me. Ummmm… Who are you?”

The woman smiled wider, and little laugh crinkles appeared around her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Princess Irene. I didn’t mean to startle you. As you can see,” gesturing at her apron with her trowel, “I’m one if the gardeners here.”

Now, this startled Irene even more, because she knew all the gardeners; from Mr. Morrison, the head gardener, through all his staff to little Tommy Seaburg, who was just a beginning apprentice, and was only allowed to weed the paths in the less-frequented corners.

She was a great favorite with them, and often stopped to chat with them, and ask questions. She was even allowed to deadhead some of the flowers, if she was very careful. (That means to cut off the old, faded blossoms so the plant will replace them with new, bright flowers.)

But she had never seen this woman before in her life.

“Are you new, then?” she asked.

The woman chuckled, a low sweet sound like water chuckling in a brook.

“Oh no, Princess,” she said. “I don’t think anyone could say that.”

“I’ve never seen you before! What is your name, please?”

“Ah, but I’ve seen you, many a time. And you may call me Mag.”

“Please, Mag, why have I never met you before now? I thought I knew all the gardeners.”

“You never needed me before.” said Mag. “And I’m sure you do know all the regular gardeners. The garden I tend is a bit… different.”

“Different how?” asked Irene, very puzzled. She would have been quite alarmed by now if Mag hadn’t looked so very kind and friendly, the conversation was so strange.

Mag cocked her head to one side, and looked up at Irene. “Let’s just say that you are one of the most beautiful flowers in my garden.”

Irene felt her mouth drop open. “Me? But… I’m not a flower!”

“Irene! There you are!” Nettie called as she came up the path behind the princess. “Talking with the flowers again, my love?”

“No,” said Irene, “I was talking with … ” but her voice died as she turned to introduce her nurse, for even as she gestured to the gardener she realized there was no one there. They were quite alone with the lilies.

***

Irene was very quiet that night. She had a lot to think about.

She asked her mother, the Queen, if they had a gardener named Mag, but her mother was quite sure they did not.  She asked her father, the King, and he called Mr. Morrison, who assured them there was no such person employed in the gardens.

That worried her mother enough that she called in Mr. Braithwaite, the Butler, who was in charge of all the people who worked in the palace; but there was no Mag, or anyone who fit her description, anywhere on staff, in any capacity.

Nettie insisted that there had been no one there, so eventually they decided that Irene had been imagining it.

Her mother was troubled, because Irene was generally a truthful child. But there was nothing much she could do except post a few extra guards to watch Irene’s room as she slept. So she did that, and then went to her own bed.

But Irene did not sleep. She lay awake, watching the stars outside her window, and thought and wondered.

The next morning, she was a bit cranky and out of sorts, which is not to be wondered at, since she had had so little sleep. (That is one of the reasons it’s so important to get enough sleep every night.)

She didn’t much want her breakfast. The toast, she said, was burned, and the eggs were runny, and the jam tasted “weird.”

She didn’t want to wear the dress that Nettie laid on the bed for her, and she didn’t know which dress she did want.

When it was time for her lessons, she told Sir James, her tutor, that doing sums was stupid, and that General Barton had deserved his famous defeat for being so dumb.

In short, she was as short tempered and unlike her normal, sunny self as she could be.

After lunch, everyone finally gave up, and sent her out to the garden to play, and see if the fresh air could improve her temper.

So out she went, and wandered sullenly along the paths, resenting the extra guards and the lack of Nettie, who had a headache, and had declined to accompany her.

She wandered here and there for a while, too tired and unhappy to care where she was walking, until she found herself back among the lilies-of-the-valley.

And can you guess who was waiting for her there? Yes, that’s right. Mag!

Mag was kneeling among the flowers, exactly as she had been the day before, busily digging up clumps of lilies, carefully separating them, and then replanting them with room to breathe between them. As she planted each one, she poured water on it from a blue earthenware pitcher, humming the while.

Irene stared at her with eyes as round as two teacups, and then looked back down the path at the guards. They were a respectful distance away, watching her and chatting to each other. It was plain they saw nothing alarming.

Irene turned back to Mag, but she just continued with her working and humming.

“Can they even see you?” she blurted out

“I shouldn’t think so, and good afternoon to you, too, your highness.”

Irene blushed. She knew she had been rude all day, and she didn’t like it, but she didn’t seem able to stop.

“Good afternoon, Mag” she said as politely as she could. “Who are you?”

Mag looked up at last, and clicked her tongue. “Oh, my poor princess. What a state you have worried yourself into. I told you who I am yesterday.”

“Yes,” Irene said impatiently, “except you don’t work here. No one has ever heard of you!”

Mag raised one eyebrow. “And that means I don’t work here? There are thousands who work in these gardens that Mr. Morrison doesn’t know. All the bees and earthworms, the butterflies and squirrels, the toads and birds. All working to make the gardens beautiful, and Mr. Morrison doesn’t know a one of them.”

Irene sat on the ground, too tired to stand, but determined to get a straight answer. “You aren’t a bee or butterfly. Now who are you?”

Mag smiled. “I might be. Not everything looks the way you expect it to. But you are right, and I can see you are too tired to tease. I am a gardener, as I told you, and you were given into my care by your great-great grandmother, who was a good friend of mine.”

Irene just stared at her. “But that would make you more than a hundred years old!”

Mag just smiled.

“And why did I never see you until yesterday?”

“I told you yesterday. You didn’t need me until now.”

“How do I need you?”

Mag smiled fondly at her. “You need me to tell you something important, so you’ll know it when the time comes.”

“Is something going to happen to the kingdom?”

“Oh my, no, although it speaks well of you that your people are your first concern.”

Mag put down her trowel and wiped her hands on her apron.  “Our personalities are formed from the little decisions we make, day after day.”

Irene blushed. “Mine haven’t been good today,” she said.

“No. But anyone can have a bad day.  It’s your usual decisions, and your decisions about what to do about your bad decisions, that form your personality.

“But sometimes we have an unusual decision to make. And that can set us down one path or another. Paths can always change, but the farther you travel, the harder it becomes.”

“When you are faced with the decision, you will know which path is right, if you listen to your heart and your internal compass. But sometimes it’s difficult to do what’s right; it can seem very risky. Wrong often seems easier in the short term.”

She picked up her trowel again, dug a hole in an empty corner, then carefully uprooted a clump of lilies.

“Tell me, little princess, how do you feel when you are here, with the lilies of the valley blooming all around you?”

By now, Mag’s quiet voice and the birdsong had soothed Irene enough that she felt relaxed and sleepy. The world seemed unreal and dreamlike to her.

“I feel safe,” she said, “Happy and calm and quiet. It’s so peaceful, like nothing bad can happen here, and all my problems are far away.”

Mag nodded. “Lilies of the valley are one of your Centers of Strength.”

“Centers of Strength? What are those?”

“Things and places where you are the most like yourself. The world can be a very confusing place. Most people cope with it by changing who they are a little, from place to place and time to time. For instance, you’re kind of afraid of Mr. Braithwaite, right?”

You remember that Mr. Braithwaite was the butler, and was in charge of all the servants in the palace. He was very tall, and very narrow, and very strict. Unlike most of the servants, he didn’t much like the little princess. But then, he didn’t much like anyone, really; not even himself. He was inclined to look down his very long nose at Irene, and he “tolerated no nonsense.” To be honest, Irene wasn’t ‘kind of afraid’ of him. He scared her silly, and she tried to avoid him as much as she could.

So, faced with this question, she blushed, and said, “Yes. More than a little, really.”

“When you come across him in the palace, how do you act?”

Irene thought about the last time she’d seen Mr. Braithwaite. She had been walking back to her rooms after a lesson with Sir James. He had just given her the list of principal exports of the kingdom to memorize, in order, and she’d been making up a song to help fix them in her head, and singing it quietly to herself. And then suddenly the butler was in front of her, with that expression on his face that said he utterly despised her.

The song had died on her lips, and she’d blushed and looked down. She knew he didn’t approve of princesses acting less than courtly.

“Umm… I get quiet. I try not to move, and not to draw attention to myself. I hope if I’m stiff and proper enough, he won’t say anything, and I’ll be able to just sneak away.”

Mag looked at her kindly, as she poured water from the pitcher into the hole she had made. “Yes,” she said, “You become quite a different princess from the one you are with me, or with your parents, or with the cook.”

Irene squirmed uncomfortably. “I guess I do. I just never thought of it like that before. Is it terribly wrong?”

“Oh, sweetness, it’s not wrong at all. It’s perfectly natural, and most people do it. Most of the time, it doesn’t hurt anything for you to pretend you are invisible when you see Mr. Braithwaite. But sometimes, it’s important to remain who you are, even when you are frightened or unsure.”

She put the lily tenderly into the hole, and brought the earth up around it, pressing it firmly down against the clump of roots, so it would be securely grounded in its new home.

“In times like that, you need to know that you can carry your Center of Strength with you.”

“Carry it with me? How?”

“Why, you just imagine that you are here. You have a connection to this place. In a very real way, it’s part of you. The secret is that you can move your mind and heart to places where you have connections, even when your body is far away. Just picture in your mind the lilies blooming, and the feelings of warmth, and strength, and peace, and love, that you have when you are here, and you’ll find that you can face the things you need to face.”

“It’s that easy?”

Mag laughed, as she patted the earth around the transplanted clump, which looked now as if it had always grown in that spot.

“Not easy, no. Not the first time, anyway, although it becomes easier the more you do it, like anything else. Say ‘possible’. It is possible to face things when your heart and mind are holding to your Center of Strength that might seem impossible if you didn’t know that secret. Can you remember that?”

Irene nodded.

Mag smiled kindly at her. “Then, for now, why don’t you go back inside, apologize to Nettie and Sir James, and take a nap. You’ll feel much better for it.”

Irene smiled, and got to her feet. “Thank you, Mag, and I hope I wasn’t rude when I first saw you here.”

“Well, you were, a little. But I understand.”

“Then I’m very sorry, and I’ll try to do better in the future.” and Irene curtsied very prettily.

“Beautifully done, and I accept your apology. Have a good nap, my little flower, and remember that I love you.”

And Irene grinned all over her face, yawned hugely, (remembering to cover her mouth) and went back inside.

The very next day, after her lessons with Sir James, Irene was in her room alone. Nettie’s headache had turned into a cold, and she had to stay in bed. The extra guards had been sent back to their regular duties when Irene had been her normal, cheerful self at dinner the night before. So she was completely by herself, and trying to figure out how to hold the ribbon just so and hold the picture of the flowers in the right position and glue them both down on the get-well card she was making for Nettie with only two hands, when she heard a noise in the hall.

She ran and opened her door, and saw that it was Flossie, industriously dusting one of the little tables that held cut flowers, just down the hall from Irene’s rooms.

Flossie was one of the servants, but she was just Irene’s age, and very friendly and fun to play with. Except, most of the time, she was working and couldn’t play. Mr. Braithwaite had told Irene more than once, quite firmly, not to bother the servants when they were working. Still, she only needed her help for a minute, just long enough to apply the glue. So she whispered, “Flossie!”

Flossie looked up, and winked at her, not stopping her dusting for a moment.

“Please, Flossie, I need your help for a minute,” whispered Irene.

At the exact same moment, Mr. Braithwaite spoke from down the hall. “Flossie, you are needed in the kitchen.”

“Not now,” said Flossie, who hadn’t heard him and was replying to the princess. “I’m dusting!”

“How dare you!” thundered Mr. Braithwaite, and in a flash he swept past Irene’s door, and grabbed the hapless Flossie by the elbow.

She went pale, and dropped the duster. “Mr. Braithwaite!” she squeaked! “Sir, I… I… I… ”

Mr. Braithwaite shook her, as she grew paler still, and her eyes got big and round. “I will not tolerate this kind of impudence and disrespect! Who do you think you are, saying ‘no’ to me?”

“Sir! I didn’t! I would never! I was… ”

“Do you think I’m deaf, girl? You distinctly told me ‘no’.”

Irene felt sick. For a moment, she was strongly tempted to quietly close the door, and pretend she had never heard Flossie in the hall. But Flossie would be in bad trouble, and might even lose her place in the palace. It would be wrong to sneak away. But Mr. Braithwaite was so scary, especially when he was like this.

She remembered Mag, and remembered her Center of Strength. She pictured the sheltered corner so hard she could almost smell the lilies of the valley.

And she stepped into the hall.

“Pardon me, Mr. Braithwaite.”

He whirled, still holding the drooping Flossie by the elbow. “What do you want.”

Irene leaned back into the feeling of the lilies, and remembered that she was, after all, a princess. “I’m sorry, Mr. Braithwaite. But Flossie was telling me ‘no’, not you.” she swallowed hard, as he glared at her.

“I’m sorry. I know it was wrong of me, but I had just asked her to come into my room and help me with something. She knew her duty, and was refusing to leave the dusting. I don’t think she heard you.”

Mr. Braithwaite stared at her, unmoving for a moment. Then looked back at Flossie as if she was something he’d scraped off his boot. “Is that true?”

“Ye… yes sir. I would never think of refusing anything you told me to do, sir.”

“Then go to the kitchen, you’re needed there.” He gave her a final shake and released her.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” and Flossie bobbed her head and was gone, without even retrieving the duster, which lay, forgotten, beside the table.

“As for you,” Mr. Braithwaite looked at Irene with much the same look he’d given Flossie, “If I have to tell you one more time not to interfere with the servants, I will be forced to speak to your parents.”

“Yes, sir.” said Irene.

Mr. Braithwaite gave her a final glare, turned on his heel, and stalked away.

That was when Irene got the shakes. She closed the door, crept back to her table, grabbed her favorite doll, Lily, who had been “helping” and curled up around her.

“Not easy” she whispered to her doll. “Not easy at all. But possible. I did it.” She felt a small grin beginning to grow, deep inside her. “I did it, Lily. I really did. I did the right thing, when the wrong would have been so much easier. But I know I did, and Flossie knows, even if Mr. Braithwaite never forgives me. But he didn’t like me anyway, and I did it!”

Then from deep in her Center of Strength, she heard Mag’s voice saying, “Yes, you did. I’m so very proud.” For a moment she thought she felt a warm, loving hand, patting her shoulder.

And then it was just the sun, streaming through the window.

The End

Marissa’s Story

Sorry it’s been so long since I’ve posted a story. As some of you know, I’ve been down with some kind of virus for weeks and weeks, and got behind with just about everything.

I’m trying to get caught up; so here’s another of  The Dreamweaver’s Tales.


Marissa’s Story

by Robin Wood

Once upon a time, in a far distant corner of the multiverse, there lived a little girl about your age, and her name was Marissa.

She had curly black hair, and soft brown skin, and bright gray eyes. And she was brave and passionate, which means that she cared a lot about things that were important to her.

She lived with her Mommy, and Daddy, and Granny, and brother, and a dog, and two cats, and eleven chickens, and a fuzzy gray donkey named Graymalkin, in a big ramshackle farmhouse.

The house was just shabby enough that no one scolded if you shuffled your feet. Or if you accidentally made a mark on the wall, when you got a little too enthusiastic with a pan in one hand. But the family kept it clean and comfortable, and that’s what matters.

Every weekday she walked a mile to her school, which was a big building, built all of red brick with white trim, and wide windows that let in the sunshine. There she learned all the things the grownups thought it was important for children to know.

She learned how to read, and write, and do sums, and multiply on her fingers. And she learned the history and geography of her country, and the other countries that the leaders of her country thought mattered. And she learned singing, and knitting, and magic; for magic is everywhere in that corner of the multiverse, and everyone has to learn how to use it.

Well… One bright day in early spring, Marissa was walking home from school. It was one of those days when the snow is mostly gone, except in the cold shady places. The crocuses and windflowers were just poking through the leftover leaves from the fall before, and the first shy butterflies were coming out of their chrysalises, and marveling at the wide, wide world. The sun was streaming through the trees, and the air was full of birdsong.

Marissa was very happy that day. She had earned a golden asterisk on her spelling test. (Did I remember to tell you that the children there have spelling, like the children here?) And she had learned a new song, all about daffodils. So she was on her way, half dancing from sheer joy, with her cheery red book bag on her shoulder, singing about daffodils. And every now and then, she made a daffodil bloom on the side of the road, just for fun. (They were only illusions, and would fade in an hour, but that didn’t matter.)

Then she turned a corner, and what did she see?

There was a boy, about her age, sitting on a rock with his head in his hands, and crying as if his heart would break!

“Oh little Boy! Oh, dear! What is wrong?” cried Marissa. “Why are you crying?”

“I can’t help it.” said the boy, lifting his tear stained face. “I lost my mittens, and if I go home without them, I’ll be in terrible trouble.”

Well… First, Marissa thought, ‘He’s awfully big to be crying for a pair of mittens.’ And then she thought, ‘Silly boy, why didn’t he just put them in his pockets?’ And then she thought about how she would feel, if her mommy had made her wear mittens that day, and she had lost them, and was going to be in terrible trouble. And she realized that she would feel sad that the mittens were lost, and angry with herself for losing them, and scared of the trouble, if it was going to be very terrible. And she felt tears coming into her own eyes.

She walked up to the boy and patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t cry!” she said. “I’ll help you, and maybe we can find them again, and everything will be alright.”

“Oh, will you?” said the boy, jumping off the rock. “I’ve looked all over, and they just aren’t there!”

“What do they look like?” asked Marissa.

“They’re blue, with red fishes on the backs, and white fishes on the palms.” said the boy.

“What were you doing when you last knew you had them?” said Marissa.

“I was walking along, and I saw a patch of egg flowers,” said the boy. “And I just had to let the birdies fly.”

I should tell you what egg flowers are, because we don’t have them here. They are early spring flowers that have masses of white blooms, with the palest of pale blue veins. And when they finish blooming, the seed pods look just like blue robin’s eggs with red speckles. When you squeeze the pods, they burst open with a pop! And release a cloud of tiny seeds with sparkling, iridescent “wings” that float up and up into the sky. Children like to pop the seeds; and they call that “letting the birdies fly.”

“You had your mittens then for sure?” said Marissa.

“Yes, I’m sure I did, because my fingers where too clumsy to pop the ripe eggs with my mittens on, so I had to take them off, and… Oh!”

And the boy ran back down the road to the place where the egg flowers were nodding their white heads in the breeze, and what do you think he found there?

That’s right! A pair of mittens. Blue ones, with red fishes on the backs and white fishes on the palms, right where he had dropped them.

“Thank you!” he said to Marissa. And now he wasn’t crying, he was smiling, as bright as the sun.

“You’re welcome!” said Marissa. “but all I really did was help you remember. Ummm … next time you take them off, you might want to put them in your pockets.”

“Right!” said the boy, and he went off whistling.

Well… Marissa was even happier after that, because it always makes us feel good to help others, doesn’t it?

But she wasn’t home yet.

She kept going along, more than half dancing now, and a little way down the road she turned another corner, and what did she see?

A young woman, holding a sleeping baby in one arm, and a big glass jar in the other, with a very distressed look on her face.

Marissa had just helped one person, so she thought perhaps she could help another.

“Hello!” she said. “Is there something the matter? Can I help?”

“Oh, hi little girl!” said the young woman. “I came out to collect some of this birdsong for a quilt I’m making, but it’s too cold to put the baby down on the ground, and I need both hands for the spell.”

Marissa had never heard of a spell like that before, but when magic is everywhere, you get used to unusual things.

Well… First, Marissa thought, ‘Silly lady! Why didn’t she just carry the baby in a basket?’ And then she thought about how she would feel if she had gotten all excited about the birdsong, and grabbed a jar and the baby and run outside without thinking. Because as good and brave as she was, I have to admit that Marissa often did things without thinking them all the way through first. And she realized that she would feel worried for the baby, and disappointed that she might miss the chance to gather the birdsong, and upset with herself for not thinking it through. And she realized that when you’re upset with yourself, the last thing you need is for other people to point out your mistake.

So what she said was, “I can hold the baby for you while you get the birdsong, if it won’t take too long.”

“Oh, would you?” said the young woman. “I would be so grateful! It will only take a minute or two.”

So Marissa moved her cheery red book bag so it hung down her back, and wouldn’t be in the way, and she held out her arms for the sleeping baby.

The young woman put the baby in Marissa’s arms (and I have to tell you, he was heavier than he looked) and made sure that his blanket was tucked warmly around him.

Then she opened her glass jar, and started the spell to collect the birdsong.

Collecting birdsong, by the way, doesn’t lessen the song you hear in the air, any more than recording it does here. And it was fascinating to watch.

As Marissa struggled to hold the baby gently and securely, (and it wasn’t long before she was wishing that she had thought to sit down somewhere before she took him,) the young woman sang a few long, slow words, and the birdsong near her hand became solid, like glittering multicolored threads, that somehow still held all the music, and beauty, and joy of the bright song and crisp day. The young  woman fed the threads into the glass jar, and it wasn’t long at all before the jar was full of glorious filaments.

“Thank you so much!” said the young woman. And she put the jar down on the ground, and took her baby back, settling him into her arm. (He never woke up, but just kept sleeping peacefully.)

“You are very welcome,” said Marissa, handing her the jar full of softly glowing threads. “It’s going to be a splendid quilt!”

The young woman laughed. “It is, isn’t it,” she said, “Thanks to you! Well, I need to get home. Goodbye!”

“Goodbye!” said Marissa.

As soon as the lady was walking away and couldn’t see, Marissa shook out her arms so they would stop aching. That baby had been heavy! But her heart was lighter than ever, and she resolved to find that spell and learn it, although it was probably too advanced for her to do quite yet. And she went on her way, three quarters dancing now.

But she wasn’t home yet.

She hadn’t gone much farther, when what did she see?

An old, old man, standing in the road, and looking sad and worried.

I should tell you that at that spot there was a little stream that curved toward the road, chuckling as it pretended it was going to tap the path, and then curved away again. The road, as if it were playing with the stream, threw out a side path that hopped over the stream by way of a tiny humpback bridge, and then wandered off down a shady glen. But the bridge was so very, very small that whoever built it hadn’t bothered to put any railings on it.

Well… Marissa had helped two people, and thought perhaps she could help a third.

“Hello!” she said. “Is something wrong?”

“Hello, little girl,” said the old, old man, smiling at her. “Not wrong, exactly. But my legs aren’t as steady as they once were, and the bridge here has no railings. It would be fine, if it was level, but as you can see, it’s not. And I’m not quite comfortable venturing over it.”

Well… Marissa didn’t have to think much at all to know how she would feel if her legs were all wobbly and she needed to cross that bridge! She would be scared that they would give out part way, and she would take a tumble, and get a dunking too! And then she’d still have to get home somehow, all wet and bruised!

“Oh, let me help!” she said. “You can lean on me, and I’ll make sure you get across safely.”

“That would be most kind!” said the old, old man. “You are a thoughtful child, aren’t you?” And he smiled at Marissa.

So she put her cheery red book bag over her back again, and stood next to the old, old man. And he put his hand on her shoulder, and together they walked over the bridge.

When they were safely on the other side, Marissa said, “You’re sure you’ll be okay now?”

“Right as rain,” said the old, old man. “The rest of my way is as level as can be. Thanks again!” And off he walked, as jaunty as it’s possible for such a very old, old man to be.

Well… Marissa’s heart was as light and bright as the sun, and she really did dance all the rest of the way home to her Mommy and Daddy, and Granny, and brother, and dog, and two cats, and eleven chickens, and fuzzy gray donkey named Graymalkin.

And that night, after she had been tucked in bed, but before she fell asleep, she heard a musical humming sound, like this, HummmmMMMMmmmMMMMmmm. Her eyes flew open, and what did she see?

There on her pillow stood the most beautiful fairy you could ever imagine! She was only as big as Marissa’s hand, and she shone all over, like the sun shining through leaves. She had two gorgeous wings springing from her shoulders, shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow. She was fanning them gently, which was making the humming sound, and as they moved they left trails of light.

Marissa held her breath. She had never seen, never even dreamed, of anything half so lovely. Because, you see, even in that corner of the multiverse, where magic is everywhere, fairies show themselves as themselves only a little more often than they do here.

“Hello, Marissa!” said the fairy. “You were very good and kind today.”

“Oh! I was? How did you know?” whispered Marissa.

“I know, because I was all the people you met today. I was the boy who lost his mittens, and the young woman with the baby, and the old, old man. And no matter my guise or trouble, you went out of your way to help me.”

“Oh!” whispered Marissa. “But … how?”

The fairy laughed, with a sound like silver bells. “I’m a fairy! We can be anyone or anything we like. You never know when the stranger you see is really one of us.” And she smiled at Marissa.

“You never once thought about reward, and you didn’t say the unkind things you thought. Those are both important.”

“But I did really get a reward,” whispered Marissa. “I felt really good, inside.”

The fairy smiled. “That’s why they say that kindness is it’s own reward,” she said “but I’m a fairy, and I like to give people who help me something a bit more substantial.” And she held out a tiny book. “This is the spell to collect birdsong,” she said. “Keep it safe until you know enough magic to work it, and someday, your weaving will be famous throughout the world.”

And with that, she fanned her wings until they got so dazzling bright that Marissa had to close her eyes. When she opened them, the fairy was gone. But she still held the little book tightly in her hand. She opened it and looked inside, of course, but one glance showed her the spell was really too advanced. After all, she was only about your age. But she knew she’d be able to work it one day.

So she slipped out of bed and put the little book safely with her most precious treasures. And then she climbed back in between her covers and snuggled down.

But as she drifted off to sleep, she couldn’t help but wonder…

Why had the fairy’s mommy made her wear mittens on such a warm spring day?

The End

The Arcade September 2016 Round is Open!

It’s that time again, and The Arcade is open for the September round.

Items from the R(SW & YKFK Gacha machine at The Arcade in Second Life
R(S)W Playful Pastimes 2 – Arcade Sept. 2016

Marianne McCann and I have collaborated on a set of Retro toys for this round. (I did the mesh, and she did most of the textures. Mari also did the animation in the plane. We both worked on the scripts.)

If you’re a resident of Second Life, you can visit our Gacha Machine at The Arcade, and try your luck! It’s just L$50 a try, and everything is mod/transfer.

All of the items do something. The tops jump onto their tips and spin when you touch them. Touch them again, and they fall over. Or just wait, and they’ll fall over by themselves after a bit (because this isn’t a dream.)

When you touch the handheld pinball games, you hear the plunger, and the ball rolling, and then the ball appears in one of the slots. It’s exactly like really playing it! (Or as close as I could manage, in SL.)

The sliding puzzles scramble or solve themselves with a touch.

If you wear the plane, your avatar holds it up in the air. If you touch it, you get a really cute kid voice making a plane noise, so you can run around pretending the plane is flying.

The ray gun water pistol is the most fun! If you wear it and go into Mouse Look, you can shoot a cascade of water at your friends! The disks on the front of the gun also light up and spin when you’re in Mouselook, so everyone knows you are ready to douse them at a moment’s notice.

If you play the machine 25 times, you get a special Reward; a tin Police Box Bank.

Tin Police Box Bank - Reward for playing the gacha machine 25 times
R(S)W Playful Pastimes 2 Reward – Arcade Sept 2016

There’s no other way to get it, and it’s only available during this round of the Arcade, so if you want one, you have until September 30. Unlike all the rest of the things in the machine, the bank is copy/mod, so you won’t be able to buy, beg, or borrow one from anyone.

When you touch the bank, you’ll be able to hear the coins dropping into it. There’s also a script in the Instructions (in the Object Contents) that lets you turn it into a tip jar, if you want to.

So that’s part of what I’ve been up to! Hope you enjoy it, and if you’re in Second Life, I hope to see you there!

News – August 15

What a month! As you may have noticed, I haven’t posted in a while. There are two reasons for that.

The first is that I came down with a ferocious bug. I ran a high fever for a week or so, and then spent the last month coughing like mad. A lot of people in this area got it, and it seems that it takes most somewhere between a month and six weeks to recover.

I’m about finished with it now (I hope) but as you can imagine coughing until you are so short of air that you lose vision and your chest muscles cramp up doesn’t leave a whole lot of energy to do anything that’s not vital.

Since very few people actually read this blog, I’m afraid it fell into the “not vital” category. I’m sorry, if you are one who checks here regularly. Thank you so very much, and I didn’t mean to let you down.

The second reason is that I agreed to teach a series of four Photoshop tutorials at my local quilt shop, Bits ‘n Pieces, during the month of August. Of course, that meant that I needed to plan lessons, and I quickly realized that I needed to give the students a transcript and detailed illustrations with explanatory text and arrows on them. Which took more time than I expected to put together, although I did find an incredible tool to take screenshots on the Mac, called ScreenShot PSD, that lets me arrange all the windows, menus, and cursors however I need them after taking the shot! If you have a Mac, and need screenshots for tutorials, I highly recommend it. It’s even free!

At this point two of the lessons have been given, the third is in the can, and the fourth is written and (mostly) illustrated. Another day or two should take care of finishing it up.

Just in time to set up for The Arcade in Second Life! I knew I’d be short of time this round, so Marianne McCann offered to do textures, and I took her up on it. But I still need to do all the keys, promo, and set-up work, so that should keep me busy the rest of this week, since the first day of setup is less than a week away.

After which, I have Plans.

Which brings me to the stories. As far as I can tell, only a few people are reading them, and no one is interested in supporting them on Patreon. (Except Lauren and Michael. Thanks, you guys!) So my question is, do you want me to keep posting them here? If you do, I’ll be happy to. But it does take time, and seems kind of silly if no one cares. Please let me know in the comments if you want to read them here.

I think that’s everything. With any luck, my life will get back to normal soon!

Take care, and thanks for reading!

Dorie’s Cottage

This story will eventually be in a collection tentatively named “The Dreamweaver’s Tales.” I have several of them done; this is the first.


Dorie’s Cottage

by Robin Wood

Once upon a time there was a young girl who lived in a mostly-forgotten house at the edge of a mostly-forgotten village tucked away in a mostly-forgotten corner of a great kingdom.

It wasn’t mostly-forgotten by the people who actually lived there, you understand. They saw it every day, and called it home, and everyone they loved lived there. They weren’t about to forget it.

But the mapmakers, carefully drawing towns on parchment under the watchful eye of the King’s Master Cartographer, mostly forgot to put it in among the little triangles that showed the Great Eastern Forest.

The historians, recording Incidents of Interest on snowy paper in their careful round hands mostly forgot it, because things they considered Incidents of Interest tended not to happen there.

Even the Traveling Merchants, with their brightly painted wagons and bolts of exotic cloth and expensive spices from Distant Lands mostly forgot it, because the people who lived there would come to the see the displays and marvel; but they didn’t have coin to actually buy.

So Dorie, for that was her name, lived alone in a tiny cottage on the outskirts of Little Hambleton with her papa.

Her papa was a kind man, and he worked hard, but they had very little because the plot of land that had been left to him by his father and his grandfather before him backed up into the mountain. There was a bit of level land in front of the cottage, about the size of your living room, and from there it rose in leaps and slides and cliffs with hillocks on them mostly straight up into the clear air.

It was so steep that if you went into the front door of the cottage, took seven steps across the room to the ladder, climbed up into the loft, and scrambled out of the window next to Dorie’s bed, you would be standing on the ground.

It was land fit only for raising goats. So that’s what Dorie’s papa did.  But so did most of the other people who lived in Little Hambleton, so there wasn’t much call for milk, cheese, or wool; and Dorie and her Papa were quite poor.

That didn’t bother them so much. Everyone they knew was poor.

But there was something else that bothered Dorie’s papa quite a lot. You see, Dorie was very pretty, with soft black hair, a winning smile, and a laugh like the chiming of silver bells. But her eyes were as white as the snow that fell on the mountains in the frosty winter. For Dorie was quite blind, and always had been.

Which is where the problem lay. Not because she was blind, although that did pose certain difficulties. But because when she was very small her papa, who sometimes had more imagination than good sense, had started lying to her. And now he couldn’t stop.

He hadn’t meant to lie. He had only meant to make her smile. But now he was stuck.

It had started innocently enough. She had been very glum one day, when she was about three years old. She had been sitting at the table, kicking her heels and scowling, and her papa had been at his wit’s end trying to cheer her up. At that moment, the sun had broken through the clouds, and a ray of light lit the table right next to Dorie’s little hand.

“Oh, Dorie-my-dear,” her Papa had said softly, “if you open your hand and move it just a little, you can catch a sunbeam!”

She did, and felt the warmth against her palm. “Oh Papa!” she whispered, enchanted, all gloom forgotten, “I caught a sunbeam!”

Her papa had been delighted, and so encouraged to see a smile on her little face that he couldn’t help but embellish it, just a bit.

“A sunbeam with a rainbow in it!” he agreed.

“A rainbow!” breathed little Dorie. “Where did the rainbow come from, Papa?”

Her papa, at a loss, found himself telling a bigger lie to prop up the first one, as usually happens.

“Oh, from the stained glass in the window.” he replied.

“We have stained glass?! I never knew that! What is stained glass, Papa?”

Her papa could not disappoint that little face, turned so eagerly towards him. So he invented a beautiful stained glass window, with roses and lilies, and a cloud breaking over a mountain and sending fingers of light down to caress the crystal stream that was so realistic you could almost hear it chuckling over its bed, tucked tenderly in its little valley.

That’s where it started. But that’s not where it stopped.

As time went on, he invented more and more.

The faded curtains, worn nearly threadbare, became iridescent drapes of the softest gauze. The ancient quilt on Dorie’s bed became a marvel of pattern, color and design. The newspapers pasted on the walls to cover the bare boards became rich wallpaper.

He invented carvings all over the beams, where Dorie could not reach, and described them so well that all the flowers, leaves, squirrels, butterflies, and strange, capering forest gnomes were alive in Dorie’s mind. She knew their names, and exactly which ones were above her at any moment.

In Dorie’s sightless eyes, the cottage glowed with light and color. The bare rocks behind the house, which she was forbidden to climb because they were too steep and dangerous, were covered with wild roses, climbing in her place. She ate off of plates with a delicate glaze, that changed colors as the light hit them. The thatched roof was patterned with different colored straw, and had straw animals marching along the ridgepole. The house itself was painted glowing white, as pure as driven snow, with green shutters where painted birds frolicked among curling vines.

In short, Dorie thought that she lived in a kind of fairy cottage, tucked against the most picturesque of mountain sides.

This caused some confusion in Little Hambleton.

For instance, once young Dorie stroked the calico in the Mercantile, and asked what color it was. When Se Flourie, the kind woman who ran the store, told her it was red and white, she sighed and said, “that would never go with the iridescent gauze we have in the windows.”

Se Flourie thought about the gray rags hanging in the cracked windows that faced the street, and was totally confused.

When little Geoff handed her a bouquet of flowers, she asked, “Are they as pretty as the roses that grow behind my lovely cottage?” Geoff looked at the cottage, gray with age, and spotted with peeling paint, its shutters hanging askew and the thatch in need of repair. He stared at the bare bones of the mountain, with never a rose in sight, and shrugged, completely confused. Then he ran off without a word, because he couldn’t find a single one to say. (Which, truthfully, confused Dorie in her turn.)

When Bobbin Hamsin offered to give her a kitten, and she told him she had to reluctantly refuse his kind offer, because she was afraid kitty would tear the silks of their coverlets, he was very confused, and not a little hurt that she would mock him so.

Eventually, they all decided that young Dorie was not only blind, but “not quite right.”

Her papa heard the whispers, but was too ashamed to tell them what was really happening. He couldn’t face the thought of his neighbors disapproval, or of Dorie’s reaction if she learned she really lived in a hovel. So he went on telling lies to everyone, hoping he would not be found out, and growing more unhappy as the years went by.

Things continued like this until the summer that Dorie was 12.

One bright day in late June, when Dorie happened to be at the Mercantile trading goat cheese for sugar, Vonnie Merlsin burst through the door, red faced and panting.

“Se Flourie! Se Flourie!” he cried, gasping for breath. “There is a Healer come to Greater Hambleton!”

Se Flourie gave a little yip, and dropped the sugar scoop, nearly spilling the precious grains all over the counter. (She was lucky, and it all landed on the brown paper she was going to use to wrap it.)

“A Healer, you say? Just down in Greater Hambleton?”

“A Healer?” Dorie whispered, clasping her hands tightly together, just above her heart.

She didn’t need to ask what a Healer was. Everyone knew.

But you might not, so I’ll tell you.

In that country, there were sometimes, very rarely, children born with the Gift of Healing. As babies in their cradles they could touch a bruise or cut, and it would heal instantly. When they were old enough, another Healer would come to their homes, and take them to the legendary Hospice. No one knew where the Hospice was; but everyone knew that was where the children would be taught all the anatomy and physiology they needed to develop their Gift. When they were old enough, they would leave the Hospice and wander all over the Kingdom, going from city to town to village to outpost, healing everyone who came to them.

They could heal practically anything but old age and heartbreak. Any wound. Any illness. Any deformity.

Even blindness.

There hadn’t been a Healer anywhere near their nearly forgotten corner of the kingdom in almost 20 years.

But now there was.

Word spread through the village like a hot summer wind. By nightfall, Dorie and her papa had been outfitted by their neighbors, with better clothes and a borrowed wagon so as not to shame Little Hambleton in front of the Healer.

They spent a restless night, Dorie in a maze of anticipation, her Papa in despair as he knew his lies were about to be revealed.

The next morning, when the mountain peaks blushed pink with dawn while night clung to the valleys like a sleeper reluctant to roll out of bed, they set off.

Greater Hambleton was nearly 17 miles from Little Hambleton, in a wider, and therefore richer, fold of the valley. By the time they reached it, the sun was well up in the sky, and the lines of people waiting to see the Healer snaked around the Headman’s house, into the Village Square, around the well a couple of times, and then meandered down a side street. There was a boy with a hand cart doing a brisk business selling sweet buns, and several girls with buckets and dippers earning pennies refreshing the thirsty crowd.

By the time they finally were ushered into the room where the Healer sat, Dorie and her papa were both nearly sick with excitement and fear.

“Good afternoon,” said the Healer. She sounded very tired to Dorie. “Ah, you are the patient,” and she took Dorie’s hands. Her grip was soft yet firm, and her hands felt very hot. “Blind since birth?”

Dorie’s Papa cleared his throat. “Yes. Her mama had a hard pregnancy, and a long labor. She didn’t survive. And when my precious daughter opened her eyes for the first time, they were as you see them.”

The Healer drew a long breath. “Close your eyes, my dear,” she said, “and sit here on this stool.” And she guided Dorie to a low stool and helped her sit down. Then she moved behind her, and covered both Dorie’s eyes with her hands. Slowly her hands grew hotter, until Dorie was afraid they would burn her. Then there was a sharp, short pain, and something in her eyes moved. And then, for the first time, Dorie’s world was flooded with light!

The healer moved her hands, and Dorie’s papa started to cry. “Your eyes are the color of walnuts!” he sobbed. “Just like your Mama’s.”

Dorie blinked, and looked at the Healer. She looked kind, but tired, and she was older than Dorie had expected. Her hair was streaked with silver, and there were lines in her face.

“Oh, thank you!” cried Dorie, and tears filled her eyes as well. “How can I ever repay you!?”

The Healer gave her a tired smile. “Just be kind to everyone you meet.” She said.

She turned to Dorie’s papa. “You should stay in the village tonight. It will take your daughter some little while to adjust to her vision. I believe there are several barns that have been opened to travelers, or you can camp in the meadow if you would prefer. The weather will be fine all night.”

Dorie’s papa bowed to her. “Thank you. Thank you. I have no words to thank you.”

Then he took Dorie’s hand and led her away. Behind them, the young mother who was next in line, holding her ailing baby, slipped into the room.

Dorie’s papa dropped the coin the village had given him to give to the healer into the pot by the door, and added the fine cheese he had prepared as a gift the night before, and then they were back in the street, where the shadows were lengthening into twilight. The whole thing had taken less than five minutes.

There was still a line, but now the people in it were getting ready to settle into their places for the night. The Healer would not work after sundown, as everyone knew, but she would start again at dawn.

Dorie’s heart was as light as a hummingbird that night. She kept pointing things out to her papa, all joyous and excited. “What is that color? Is that what clouds look like!? What kind of flower is that? Look! That’s a bird, isn’t it? Listen to it sing! I never knew they were that small! Oh! Oh! Is this a sunset? It’s more glorious than I ever imagined!”

But over and over, she would tell him that she could not wait to see their pretty little cottage for herself! And she would describe it to him, in loving detail, just as he had described it to her.

His heart grew heavier with each word. He started, several times, to explain. But he simply could not bring himself to do it. He was afraid to quench her joy, and see the light go out of those beautiful brown eyes. Eyes that were so very like her mother’s.

So he said nothing. He smiled, as well as he could, and tried to share in her delight. He told her which names went with what colors, and answered her eager questions, and dreaded their eventual homecoming.

She was still just as excited the next morning, as they set out on the return journey. And he was just as reluctant to break her happiness.

Finally, about a mile from their village, he made one final attempt. “Dorie,” he began.

She turned to him, eyes sparkling. “Yes Papa? Oh, Papa, why do you look so unhappy? Is something wrong?”

For the first time, her brow grew troubled, and he could not go on. He told himself he could not deprive her of a single moment of joy; she would know the truth soon enough.

So he smiled. “It’s nothing. Just that Little Hambleton is right around this next curve in the road.”

“Oh! At last!” She breathed. And in her excitement she stood up in the wagon, impatient to see her village, and her fairy cottage, for the first time.

And then they were there, and the whole village turned out to welcome them, and the children were jumping with joy, because pretty Dorie could see!

She laughed her silver laugh, and looked all around. “But where is our cottage?” she asked.

Little Geoff (though he was not so little now, being the same age as Dorie,) flung a careless hand towards an aging hovel huddled into the mountain, as if it was too weak and tired to stand on its own.

“It’s that one, there.” he laughed, “hard against the mountain! See it?”

Dorie turned pale, and sat down very suddenly. “Yes,” she whispered. “I see it.”

Se Flourie looked at her shaken face, and her father’s unhappy one, and her shrewd mind suddenly put all the pieces together.

She grabbed the horse’s bridle, and led the wagon to the door. “Go home, you lot,” she said. “Can’t you see the child is tired? It’s all a bit much for her. She can see all of you tomorrow. She’ll be seeing everything for the rest of her life. Now give her some space, and let her rest.”

And she lifted Dorie off the wagon seat and whisked her into the house.

Inside, Dorie shrank into herself as she looked at the  gray, ragged curtains. The cracked, dirty glass in the window. The newspapers on the walls. The threadbare quilts. The house beams adorned with nothing but cobwebs. The bleak and cheerless house that was her home.

“How could he?” She whispered.

“What did he tell you?” asked Se Flourie.

“He said there was stained glass. Iridescent gauze at the windows. Carved beams.” Her voice rose as she went on. “He said it was white with painted shutters. He said there were roses! He said it was beautiful!! It’s a dump! I’ve wanted to see it all my life, and there is nothing to see!”

She turned to her Papa, where he stood miserably in the doorway, with his hat in his hands.

“How could you!?” she yelled. “You lied to me! You made me look like a fool!”

“I….” He coughed, and then looked up, tears streaming unnoticed down his worn cheeks. “I don’t know. I’m so sorry. It made you smile. It made you happy. Watching you believing it, I could almost believe it myself. I had so little to give you. I..” He shrugged. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Se Flourie watched them, and her kind heart broke a little, and then firmed in resolve.

“Don’t you see, Dorie? He gave you a beautiful place to live, your whole childhood.”

“He gave me a lie!”

“Yes. And it was wrong to lie. He should have told you your beautiful cottage was only in your imagination. It would have saved some confusion and hurt feelings. But don’t you see? He imagined beauty for you, and he gave you that gift.”

“But it was so real to me! I could draw that window now!”

“Sweet girl, you are very smart,” said Se Flourie. “You must have known at some level.”

“I didn’t! How could I?”

“Think, child. Did you ever smell roses? Did you feel the patterns in the glass? Did you feel silk under your fingers when you touched your quilt?”

Dorie covered her eyes, and sat very still. She loved her father dearly, but this was betrayal of the deepest order!

But as she sat there, she knew she could hear the wind whispering through the cracks in the wall, as it had whispered her whole life. She could remember lying at night and listening to the slow drip where the roof leaked. She could smell the dust and decay all around her. She knew she had never smelled roses. She sighed, as she realized that she had known.

“But I wanted so badly for it all to be true,” she whispered. “I believed it with my whole heart, to make it true. But it doesn’t work that way, does it?”

“No,” said Se Flourie. “It takes more than just believing and wanting to make our dreams and wishes come true. It takes a lot of hard work.”

Dorie dropped her hands, and stared at Se Flourie. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, my dear, that you can make it real. You said you can draw that window? So draw it! We’ll have to start with a good scrub, but unless I miss my guess, you can live in a pretty cottage. Oh, maybe not the exact one your papa imagined for you, with stained glass and silk coverlets and iridescent gauze at the windows. But anything a good cleaning, new paint, and honest calico can do for you, you can have! I need help at the Mercantile. I’m not as agile as I once was. And I’ll pay you with cotton and paint.”


So Dorie wound up living in the prettiest cottage in the village after all. Although most of them are prettier than they were. It turned out that she had quite a talent as a painter. So many of the village homes have painted shutters, and paintings on the walls.

Dorie’s, though, is the one there, with all the roses and lilies in the yard, and the cat curled up on the window sill. The white one, with the green shutters that have painted birds frolicking among the flowering vines. You can tell it by the fancy thatching. She got that in trade for painting flowers and squirrels on the thatcher’s shutters.

If you go inside, you’ll see pretty calico curtains hanging at the shining window. There are all kinds of fanciful things painted on the beams. They may not be carved, but Dorie knows all their names, and can tell you their stories. On the beds are the prettiest patchwork quilts you have ever seen.

And hanging on the wall, just where it catches the evening sun, is the most exquisite painting with roses and lilies, and a cloud breaking over a mountain and sending fingers of light down to caress the crystal stream that is so realistic you can almost hear it chuckling over its bed, tucked tenderly in its little valley.

It might not be as splendid as the fairy cottage that existed in Dorie’s imagination when she was growing up. But as she would tell you, it’s much cozier!

These days, her papa walks around whistling all the time. He is also much in demand as a storyteller, although he is careful to make sure his listeners know the stories spring from his imagination, and nowhere else.

Of course, it took a few years to make all this happen. It takes time, as well as hard work, to pull something from the Realm of Imagination into the Real World.

These days, when Geoff comes courting, Dorie can see the beautiful bouquets he brings for her. And she never compares them to her roses, although she could, because she loves Geoff nearly as much as he has always loved her; so his flowers are dearer to her than any others. Not even the fairy roses of her imagination can compare.

Because his flowers, like his love, are real.

The End


Hope you liked it! As always, I welcome any comments or feedback. Thanks!

Sanctuary

When the world seems to be coming apart, when all the news makes us cry, when it just seems too horrible for words, we all need a place of Sanctuary.

I’m not talking about a physical place we can go to escape, although that’s nice if you happen to have one.

But we can all do some work to give ourselves a place to regroup, internally. It’s not perfect, and it won’t magically make everything alright, but it’s worth doing.

Here are some steps you might want to consider, if you’d like to build a place where you can go to weather the storm.

1. Do Not Despair

I can’t emphasize this enough. It’s of paramount importance. Despair is tempting, but it saps your strength, breaks your will, and destroys your spirit. Fight it.

Like other negative emotions, it’s a signal that there’s something deeply, deeply wrong.

The thing is, despair never rights that wrong. Despair gives up. It’s tempting, because it means you can stop fighting for a bit, and we all get so tired that we just want to stop fighting.

Instead of despairing, just stop fighting for a while. Give yourself a breather. That’s perfectly alright, in fact, pretty much necessary. Take an intentional break. All soldiers need a bit of R&R from time to time, so don’t feel you’re not entitled to some. Take whatever time you need.

But while you’re doing that, hold in your mind that others are still fighting, and you’ll fight again a different day, or perhaps a different battle.

The arc of history is long, and sometimes it really is 3 steps forwards, and 2 back; but that’s still progress, and it does bend toward justice.

There will be light after the storm. The dawn will eventually follow the night. This, too, shall pass.

Do not despair.

2. Notice the Good Stuff

When things get really bad, it’s easy to overlook the small, wonderful things that are happening all around us. There’s a tendency to think that, for instance, who cares if it’s a beautiful day when people are dying?

But we need to notice the sunshine and flowers, as well as the horrible things. That will help keep us balanced.

Yes, a lot of bad things are happening. There’s cancer, and racial and political bias that’s turning deadly, and global problems that seem overwhelming.

But there are also children taking their first steps, and kids making gifts for homeless people, and people helping other people in ways large and small, every day.

Make a point of noticing all of those things, too. it gives you a more balanced view of the rich cacophony that is the world, and it really helps.

3. Turn off the Media, and Get Crafting

Once again, this sounds corny, but it’s true. Taking a media break, and making something with your hands instead can help you regain an even keel.

There have been a number of studies that have shown a correlation between crafting and happiness.

I’ve found this to be very true in my own life. When I carve out time to sew, knit, or do one of the other physical, hands on crafts, I’m calmer, more relaxed, and happier.

It’s not just being creative; all I do is creative stuff (and occasionally housework.) But there’s a difference between writing, or working with 3D apps on the computer, and actually handling beautiful fiber and fabrics.

When I’m touching real materials, I can lose myself in the color and texture, and the meditative, repetitive, sensory-rich experience. It’s healing.

If you don’t craft, you might want to try it.

4. Spend Time with Friends

Too many of us are too isolated, too much of the time. Try to arrange some time socializing with people you enjoy. Don’t talk about the things that are bothering you, if you can help it. That can be valuable, too, but it can also just make things worse, by focusing on all the bad stuff.

Instead, spend time doing things that make you laugh. Tell bad jokes, dance, play games, eat good food, celebrate the fact that you are alive, because you are, even if you’re not always sure of that.

Share the good things that are happening to you, or the good things you’d like to have happen. Focus on the present moment, and how great it is to be together.

Life can be sweet. Enjoy it.

5. Do Small, Unexpected Things for Other People.

One of the things that I found long ago will send me “spiraling down the funnel” is thinking too much about myself, and my own perceived inadequacies. My helplessness in the face of global unrest. My inability to do anything to “make it all better” when someone I love is hurting. My powerlessness to stop pain.

Especially when a group I’m a member of is the target, when I feel that everyone wants me to just cease to exist, it’s very easy to slide down into despair.

I learned that when I’m feeling that way, the quickest way out is to stop looking inward, turn around, and look outward instead.

Don’t focus on my own ineffectiveness, or indeed on my own anything. Just ignore all of that. It’s not about me. Even when my group is the target, the person saying that we don’t deserve to live isn’t saying that about me personally. They don’t even know I exist. They are simply venting their spleen, and announcing to the world their own fears and perceived inferiority.

People who are happy and comfortable with themselves don’t pick on others. People who aren’t afraid of “others” don’t need to make sure “others” are kept far away.

So, turn your focus outwards. You can’t fix the problems of the world; no one of us can, although together we just might be able to. But don’t worry about you, and don’t worry about the world. It’s too big. We can’t grasp it.

Instead, just do something you can do, to brighten a few moments for one other person.

You’ve been crafting. Give someone a pair of mitts when they’re not expecting it. Slip a flower onto a co-worker’s desk. Smile at people you meet on the street. Tell the teller in the bank you appreciate her hard work. Offer to help, when you see someone who might need a little help.

It really takes very little to brighten someone else’s day, and it makes you both feel better. The more of this you do, the better you’ll feel, and the more ripples of kindness you’ll send out into the world.

The more people who do this, the more the kindness and love will combat the hate and fear. This is how we’ll win, eventually.

6. Meditate

You probably already know this, but meditation can help with all kinds of conditions, from stress reduction to alleviation of pain (both physical and mental,) to helping chronic medical conditions.

If you’ve never tried it, you might not realize how very simple it actually is. Forget about being perfect, and it’s something that anyone at all, anywhere, can do. Even those of us who aren’t physically able can manage this one.

There are tons of different kinds (even knitting can be meditation, really) so find the ones you enjoy the most.

Your mind will wander, because it’s a mind, and that’s what minds do. So when you realize it’s doing it, just smile at it, and start again. No judgement, no harshness, no upbraiding yourself for not “doing it right.” There is no “doing it right,” so you’re doing fine.

The link above is to a page on the Mayo Clinic site that lists a number of types and methods of meditation, or you can just google around, and find some to try.

It helps.

Do these things, and you’ll find that you have inside yourself a sanctuary that will shelter you from the worst of what’s happening in this time of change and upheaval. Because of course, that’s what’s going on in the world right now. We’re simply living in a time of rapid change, and rapid change is often very uncomfortable.

Every bit of work we do to promote equality also erodes privilege; it pretty much has to.

To those of us who enjoyed that privilege and didn’t recognize it as privilege, this can feel like oppression. Things that we’ve always taken for granted, as just the way the world works, aren’t working that way any more. This is unexpected, and the unexpected is frightening. To those of us in this position, the world is spiraling out of control. Those of us who feel this way want to put on the brakes, to stop the change, and so we lash out. It’s a perfectly natural, understandable reaction.

It won’t stop the change, because the change is needed.

People will eventually adjust, and come to embrace equality.

But it’s going to be a struggle, I’m afraid.

It’s very important that we all find sanctuary and balance, no matter which side of the struggle we’re on.

It will enable us to approach things calmly, without fear. Which will, of course, make the whole thing much less painful for everyone.


Picture Attribution; This is a detail of an image I made in 2002. The whole image is in the Prints part of this site.

Each More Beautiful

A fairytale by Robin Wood

I’m one of 12 princesses, each more beautiful than the last.

Sounds great, doesn’t it? Except that “more beautiful” is a relative term. It would be just as true to say that I’m one of 12, each plainer than the next.

My youngest sister, Eleanor, is lovely, with golden curls, dimples, and bright blue eyes. In fact, the youngest four are all really quite stunning, in their separate ways. The three before that are fairly pretty as well. Megan, Princess number five, is just ordinary looking; nothing special, but nothing untoward. Juniper, number four in line, has an unfortunate squint (she will not wear her spectacles) and unruly hair. Grace, the third oldest, is sadly knock-kneed, but happily her dresses hide it. She also freckles and somehow manages to look rumpled most of the time.

Jasmine is the oldest. You’d expect her to be the plainest of all, and I suppose if your idea of beauty is based entirely on softness and femininity you’d think you were right. She looks exactly like our father the king, but without the beard. She inherited his regal, beaked nose, his height, and his breadth across the shoulders, as well as his straight dark hair and piercing blue eyes. Like him, she’s slender and athletic, and inclined to stride about bellowing. She’s also going to inherit his crown, so really, her looks aren’t terribly important. She has plenty of suitors.

I’m Gayla. Second oldest. And I’m a mess. I’m as tall as Jasmine, but also what our mother the queen describes as “heavy set.” She means fat. On someone shorter, as I’ve had explained to me many, many times, it might be considered plump or cuddly. On me, because of my height, it just looks formidable, and unladylike. I’m not at all athletic, so our father has explained to me that there’s no reason for me to be so tall. I’d love to be shorter, but somehow it’s been years since I’ve managed it.

I also have wiry mud-brown hair that knots itself into tangles and escapes from all attempts to control it. My eyes aren’t any particular color, and they’re weak, necessitating the use of spectacles (which I wear.) I have freckles. And a wart next to my nose. And I’m clumsy.

There are 12 of us because our father the king really, really wanted a son and heir. But that didn’t happen, and by the time my mother the queen had had 12 daughters in 14 years, my father realized what story he was stuck in. Privately, I think he’d also grown so fond of Jasmine he wanted her to have the throne, not some hypothetical son of unknown character.

I’d figured out that we were going to be 12 Princesses by the time I was 10. I’d also realized that I was going to be the one that never married. At the time, I was delighted, because I had very little use for boys; I found them loud, stupid, obnoxious, mostly sticky, and with a tendency to laugh at things that weren’t funny.

So I decided I’d grow up to be Court Magician instead, and help our kingdom that way.

That would have worked out better if I’d had some magical aptitude. I was great with potions, but not so hot with the magic itself.

When I was 11, I decided that I’d become a great scholar and historian. My vast pool of knowledge and incisive decision making would save our kingdom in its darkest hour.

But history bored me to tears, and although I loved books, and would read for hours at a time, the books I loved were fiction; especially fantasy stories about places with no magic, and no monarchy. Which weren’t exactly prime material to learn anything that would be useful in the real world.

At 12, it was my ambition to excel at strategy and tactics. I would be a great general, renowned throughout the continent, and opposing armies would quail when they heard my name. I blame that on General Wain, who my father the king employed that year to teach us older girls about the Art of War. I thought he was devastatingly handsome, and cut a dashing figure in his bright uniform, glittering with gold embroidery and so many medals they could have doubled as armor.

It certainly wasn’t because I like war. On the contrary, when I see someone in pain it hurts me, too, and I do whatever I can to ease it and make them feel better. I can’t even kill a bug. There’s not a chance that I could order troops into combat.

I was 13 when Eleanor was born, and my mother the queen said “enough.” In my mind, that pretty much sealed my fate.

In a world like ours, where Destiny and Magic are the most powerful of the Natural Forces, I figured that meant I was just a placeholder. It was clear that Eleanor was going to have some kind of adventure and wind up marrying a hero, and the rest of us would be the 11 Princess who weren’t the youngest.

So we grew up.

We learned all the things that young princess are taught, including Statecraft, and how to rule a kingdom. Even Eleanor had to learn that, because her Hero might also be a Prince. As both our parents, the king and queen, were fond of telling us, it’s immense help to a king to have a queen who is well versed in all aspects of statecraft, including trade and taxes. I’m afraid I didn’t pay much attention, though, because I knew I’d never need it. Jasmine excelled in it, because she was going to have to rule after our father the king, which delighted him.

None of us could actually get engaged until Eleanor had had whatever-it-was, of course. But as the years went on it seemed that the palace was always full of various princes, courting one or another of us, or just hanging around. There’s no lack of small kingdoms like ours, which means lots of alliances and treaties. There’s nothing like a marriage to cement peaceful relations between kingdoms. I never doubted that Megan and even Juniper would wind up marrying some prince or other.

Grace has a lovely singing voice, so I assumed some blind harper would probably snap her up.

Which left me as the only one with no prospects at all.

By the time that Eleanor was 16, and it was reasonable to think that her adventure would happen soon, I was  29. Jasmine had taken over a lot of the State duties for our father, and I was helping with judgements and so on, but I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to do with myself once Eleanor was settled. Most of the younger ones had “understandings” with various princes by then.

I liked all the princes, which was good since a lot of them might wind up being my brothers-in-law, but I mostly sat back and watched rather than joining in. I mean, really, who would want to dance with me? If I stumbled, and I probably would, I might lurch against him and crush him like a bug! They asked, but I knew they were just being polite, so I always refused.

Instead, I concentrated on being happy for the younger ones, and tried not to think of myself too often.

Then it happened, right on schedule.

My parents noticed that Eleanor, who had always had a complexion like a blush rose, was getting paler and paler. She stopped eating, and started mostly playing with her food. She was tired and listless all day, and sometimes her bed looked as if she hadn’t been in it all night.

My father the king knew exactly what to do. He’d been preparing for this for years, after all. As soon as he realized that this was finally it, he sent one of his councilors to check on her in the dead of night. Sure enough, she was missing; but the door guard swore that she hadn’t left the room, and she wouldn’t say where she’d gone, or why.

He sent out a proclamation that very morning, announcing that he would give the hand of a princess in marriage to anyone who could solve the mystery.

All the princes who had been hanging around lined up. A fair number of young, unmarried men who weren’t royalty did, as well. (So did a few who were not young, but after a hurried consultation with my mother the queen, they were disqualified. The proclamation was amended to read “young men (under 35 years of age.)”

I expected Eleanor to perk up. After all, she’d been waiting her whole life for this. But I caught her peeking between the curtains at the line of men signing up for their chance, with tears in her eyes.

“Eleanor?” I said, as softly as I could. “Come to your Gayla,” and I held out my arms. She came, and leaned against me, crying her eyes out. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She burrowed into my shoulder, and then mumbled, almost too softly to hear, “I hate Destiny. Hate it, hate it, hate it.”

I sat down on the bench next to the window, and took her onto my lap. Great girl that she was, I was still much bigger, and had no problem at all cuddling her as if she was still six, with a banged up knee. “Don’t you want to have your Adventure?”

She sat up, and glared at me. “No! It’s stupid! Just because I’m youngest, I’m going to have to marry one of them.” she spat it out like a curse. This girl, who’d spent her childhood dancing around, singing and teasing the rest of us about her Adventure, no longer wanted any part of it! I have to admit, I was stunned.

She collapsed against me again. “Oh Gayla! I wish I was you, not me!”

“Me!?”

She nodded, sobbing. “You’ll never be forced to marry someone you don’t like, while your True Love is out there.”

Oh. “Eleanor,” I said, as softly as I could, “Have you met someone you want to marry?”

She nodded. I handed her my handkerchief. She blew her nose.

“Are you sure that he’s not out there in line, in disguise?” After all, that’s what I would have done, if it had been me in love with a princess. This was the chance for anyone to win her hand, and our parents the king and queen wouldn’t be able to object, no matter what.

“He can’t be.” She sniffled.

“Why not?” I asked. “Oh Eleanor… he’s not a vampire or something, is he?”

She smiled sadly, and shook her head.

“Is he under an enchantment?”

She sat up and looked at me, as serious as I’ve ever seen her. “Can I really, really trust you?”

That hurt, but I tried to hide it. “Oh dear heart! Of course you can!”

She held up her little finger. “Pinky swear?”

I hooked it with mine, without a moment’s hesitation. “Pinky swear!”

She looked up and down the hallway. When you have 11 sisters, you learn to be cautious.

“He lives in an underground kingdom, and the gate only opens when the moon shines on it.”

“Ah.” My father the king didn’t want to waste any more time than had already gone by. He’d been waiting too long, and he wasn’t a patient man. So all applicants had to be signed in today, the same day as the proclamation, although from the looks of that line it would take weeks for each of them to have their night.

Unless the answer was found before that, of course.

“Okay. This is what we’ll do,” I said. I had her total attention now.

“If this batch all washes out, then our father the king will have to open the competition again, and your beau can nip out while the gate is open, wait for the morning and the new proclamation, and be first in line.”

She nodded mournfully. “But what if this group doesn’t all wash out?”

“I don’t suppose that you could just go without seeing your prince for a few weeks?”

Her eyes got huge, and she clutched her heart. “I couldn’t!”

“Not even if it meant that you’d be able to marry him eventually?”

She started to cry again, and shook her head.

“Then I’ll see to it that all the ones in this group fail. A sleeping draught is easy enough to make. If they’re asleep, they can’t very well follow you when you sneak out at night.”

She gave me a tentative, watery smile. “You’d do that for me?”

“To see you happy? Of course I would.”

So that’s what we did.

For the next two weeks, I fixed a sleeping potion every night, and every night I’d give it to that night’s prince (or whoever) as he got ready to wait and watch on the couch in Eleanor’s room. Every night, it made him super alert for the first 10 minutes or so, and then he’d sleep soundly. Once he was snoring, Eleanor would creep out, see her prince, and sneak back in.

Every morning, the poor prince (or whoever) would stand before the court, and admit that he’d seen nothing; just the princess laying there. Some of them said she was there all night, and some admitted that they weren’t able to stay awake, but none knew where she went. Only a couple were dishonorable (or desperate) enough to make up stories; but they had no evidence, and broke down under cross-examination.

Eleanor still looked wan, because she still wasn’t getting any sleep to speak of, and she was still not sure that our little ploy would work as we hoped.

In the meantime, all the princes kept hanging around, as they had for years, except now they were joined by an odd assortment of other young men, from the traditional soldiers and woodcutters to the occasional clerk or farmer. We even had one artist, a tall, handsome fellow, who painted little miniatures of all my sisters and thrilled them to bits. He offered to paint mine, too, but I didn’t want one. You wouldn’t either, if you were me. He was fun to talk with, though.

I did what I could to make them all feel comfortable and welcome. My father the king was at his most jovial, since the Long Wait (as he put it) was coming to an end. My mother was a little on the frantic side, as she prepared for a dozen weddings all at once. She was convinced that the rest of us would be married within the week, once Eleanor was “taken care of.”

For those two weeks, all went well, and I was sure it would continue to do so.

Then it was the artist’s turn.

As I handed him the potion, he asked me, “What’s this for?”

None of the others had asked; they all seemed to assume that I wanted my sister married as quickly as could be, so I would be on their side, of course.

For a moment, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Then I said, “I just thought you might want something to drink.”

He reached out, and took the goblet, examining it carefully. Then he looked up, and pinned me with his gaze. “Do you bring this to all the suitors?” he asked.

I smiled. “Of course!”

He nodded. “Of course.”

I watched while he drank it, but the room was dim, and his clothes were covered with stains and blotches from all the paint. I never noticed him dribbling it down his chin, and into his smock.

He handed me back the empty goblet, and I smiled, told him to take care, and left.

My heart was lighter than usual, because the moon was waning. The next night there would be no moon, and it would be safe. More fool I.

The next morning, as usual, we all assembled in the throne room.

Eleanor looked worse than ever, because she knew that she wasn’t going to be seeing her love for a day or so. I was on edge, although I didn’t know why. My other ten sisters were getting impatient; they’d hoped to have this settled by now. The rest of the court was enjoying the show.

The trumpets sounded, the double doors were flung open, and the artist walked up to the thrones with a huge grin on his face. My heart fell to my slippers.

“Well?” my father the king bellowed. Not to be alarmed. He usually does.

The artist gave a sweeping and courtly bow. “Your Majesty, I have solved the riddle!” And he proceeded to lay out the whole thing. How as soon as the moon rose, my sister got out of bed, and tapped on the wall, opening a secret door. How she crept out, and he followed. All about the meeting with a prince dressed in white velvet, moonstones, and pearls. How they whispered vows of undying love, and spoke of the gate being closed except when the moon shone on it. He even had a tiny piece of the prince’s cloak, which had gotten caught on a bush, and tore off as he rushed to get back inside before the gate closed at moon-set.

As he spoke, poor little Eleanor got paler and paler. When he held up the scrap of white velvet, with tiny moonstones sewn to it, she was as white as it was.

Everyone in the court could tell that the story was true. There was no sense in denying any of it.

My father the king sighed, took her hand, and held it out to the artist.

“You have solved the mystery, and her hand is yours,” he said. I don’t think he was happy. He did love her, the most beautiful of his daughters, and she was obviously heart broken.

“Sire,” the artist said, “Your proclamation stated that I could have the hand of any of the princesses.”

My father the king blinked, and said, “You don’t want Princess Eleanor?”

He shook his head. “No sire. I have no wish to break a maiden’s heart.”

Eleanor smiled like the sun coming out. “Oh thank you!” she cried. I don’t think anyone has ever been so delighted to be rejected, before or since.

My father the king let go of her hand, and she quickly withdrew it. “I don’t understand! Would you rather have another of my daughters?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes, sire, I would.”

“Well, which one?”

There was a rustle among my sisters. He was just an artist, although he was very handsome. I could tell that some were hoping it was them, and some were hoping he’d choose someone else, because of their “understandings.” Jasmine’s jaw muscles bunched, and I knew she was thinking that he was going to claim her, and through her, the throne.

But he smiled, and looked right at me. “Princess Gayla,” he said.

I sat there, stunned, while the room erupted in cheers.

Jasmine and Grace, sitting on either side of me, nudged me. I got to my feet, and stumbled over to my father. He took my hand, smiling as if it would crack his face, and put it in the hand of the artist. He’d scrubbed his hands well. There was only a hint of paint left, around his cuticles.

“Why me?” I asked, under the noise of the crowd.

He smiled fondly at me. “Because you’re the kindest.”

“But I’m so ugly!”

His eyebrows shot to the top of his forehead, and he stared at me. “Why would you say that? You’re lovely!”

I just stared back, thinking that perhaps he needed spectacles too.

He smiled. He has a wonderful smile. “You’ll make a striking queen, as well as a kind one.”

I smiled ruefully back at him. “Oh dear. I’m afraid that it doesn’t work that way. You have me, but not the title.”

“Oh, right! I was forgetting.” He grinned, and winked at me.

“Your Majesty!” he had to bellow almost as loudly as my father the king to be heard. But the crowd quieted as soon as he had.

“Yes?”

“I have a confession to make.” He let go of my hand, and ripped off his old paint-stained smock.

You can guess what happened next.

Sure enough, under it he was wearing a doublet made of cloth of gold, with emeralds sewn in an intricate pattern all over it. “Art is only a hobby of mine. I’m really Prince Giles, heir to the kingdom of Luxinstan.”

I thought the cheering had been loud before. The court pretty much exploded at that. I mean really, hats were tossed, the trumpeters each started to play a different fanfare for no particular reason, children were shouting and jumping up and down. It was just bedlam. After all, Luxinstan is the largest, richest kingdom around here, and my father had been trying to set up an alliance with them for ages. Being allied through marriage pretty much meant that there would be peace in this corner of the world for the foreseeable future.

So my mother was right. She did have to arrange a duodecuple wedding, (which was probably less work than 12 separate ones, but still.) Eleanor married her Prince, and was glowing so brightly she was practically luminous. They got married here, and also in his kingdom, because, as she said, anything worth doing was worth doing more than once. Jasmine married the prince she’d picked out to be her king nearly a decade before, and all the others married the princes they had understandings with. Even Grace married a prince, not a blind harper after all.

It turns out that looks aren’t everything, although Giles still insists that I’m not lacking in that department.

But I do wish I’d paid a bit more attention during Statecraft lessons. Life is a weird, unexpected journey. You never know what you’re going to need.


So, that’s the new story promised every-other-Saturday. I’m sorry there’s no picture for this one. I’ve been pretty sick, and didn’t manage to make one. 🙁

I hope you like the story! If you want to keep ’em coming, please consider joining my Patreon. Thanks!