Hunted

This week’s image is hot off the presses. We had an evening session at Edinburgh Zoo last weekend. As ever we had a lovely time. Being the evening the animals were out in force. I always make a little time for the red pandas, as ever not quite as much as I’d like. The wallabies and kangaroos were a particular delight. They usually sit around people watching (I also hadn’t noticed the kangaroos before. Being small and easy to miss!)

Apparently the big attraction was the dinosaur exhibit. Honestly its something of a mystery to me. Why spend out time looking at rubber animatronics when there are live animals exhibiting all manner of strange behaviours. The human who tried to pull away the fence of the lion enclosure to reach inside for example. Also the exhibit animals are pretty cool to watch, but the humans were the weirdest.

Anyway… The zoo has an exhibition of animatronic dinosaurs at the moment. As ever, the dinosaurs themselves are well executed. Feathers put in a good showing this time, which is always a plus. My favourite thing about these exhibitions is not the headliner models, but rather the incidental ones that are posed convincingly in the undergrowth to be noticed heart-stoppingly from the corner of your eye. Like the dromaeosaur in the photo. The ranger’s talk about them was entertaining. There wasn’t much in it that I didn’t already know, however I might spend a little more time learning about dinosaurs than is strictly reasonable. No it’s not work research. I have no plans to go there any time soon. Well apart from today…

Today had been going so well. Lovely sunshine. A wander through the woods. Not remote woods. The ones in the park by my house. We’d sat in a clearing and listened to the birds. I hadn’t realised that some of the birds were listening back. I hadn’t realised that would be a problem.

Some people are surprised to learn that dinosaurs are the ancient ancestors of birds. Or rather birds are the last remnants of the dinosaur clan. If you’ve seen a cassowary or ostrich up close you’ll understand. They’re obviously dinosaurs. Only a fool would dare to claim otherwise.

This thing was no cassowary. I had no idea what it was, and had no interest in stopping to check. If I could have said anything more intelligible than “aaaaah!” I’m sure I would have claimed it was a “Runawayasfastasyoucanosaurus.”

Well, I ran. We all did. Devil take the slowest, they say. I managed to keep the kids in front of me. I guess some instincts are stronger than survival. That’s great, but survival comes a terrifyingly close second. I swear I’d never ran so fast in my life. Great words for a grave-stone. A panicked laugh burst past my lips. Not actually helpful while fleeing in terror.

My breath rasped in my lungs and the laugh turned into a cough which turned into a trip. I landed hard on the path and, because I’m an idiot, twisted to see my foe instead of getting up and running again.

The dinosaur advanced on me slowly. I suppose to see if I was up to some trick. I wish. I remember being surprised by its white furry feathers and its demonic red eyes. Its tail wagged in a cat-like staccato as it closed in for the kill.

I’ve heard critics of the Jurassic Park movies complain that velociraptors are only the size of turkeys. Well let me tell you that that’s more than big enough, thank you very much. I’ve seen turkeys and my assailant was no bigger. It was much more threatening. And pointier. Particularly around the mouth area.

It stalked me carefully. Swaying from side to side as it approached. Like it was considering exactly how to go about eating me. I scrambled desperately away. Not a considered movement, just panic. Like a prey animal should. A noise rumbled in the dinosaur’s throat. It was like bird-song in some ways. Except the words would be “Fresh meat! Fresh meat! Fresh meat!”

I don’t know what malfunctioning part of my brain managed to grab my phone to take a photo of the thing. I guess that’s what modern life trains you for. Pics or it didn’t happen! Snapshots of doom. I wish I could say my next instinct was smarter. It was dumb luck that my hand found the stick. A stout one at that.

The beast pounced at last and I swung with my full strength and then some. I caught the creature squarely on the jaw. Teeth clacking sharply on empty air harmonised with a bony crunch. It raked me with its claws as it landed on me. I screamed, not in the manly way, and kicked it off me.

Sense returned and I tried to run again. My legs didn’t work properly and all I managed was a limping stagger, supported by the stick. I risked a glance and saw the dinosaur lurch away on unsteady legs. It had had enough.

So that’s why I walk with a limp now. That’s why I always carry a stick. That’s why its a heavy one.

If you ever go walking in lowland Scotland, beware. Here be dinos!

Starting somewhere

This week’s image hails from Bute, on Scotland’s west coast. Besides the usual praise due to a lovely new (to me) place, I was struck by how mainlandy the island felt. Normally when I head to the islands I find myself in a place that feels other in some sense. Bute felt more like home, I think. I write this with no judgement. I expect I need another visit, at least, to see what I mean by that.

The pictured building is now a Scottish Water pumping facility. Clearly, to me at least, the structure was originally supposed to be something else. For some reason, while we were on the island I was unable to find out any more than that. I did plenty of searches. As I encountered dead-end after dead-end my determination to solve the puzzle and learn its history increased. Well, until my kids needed me to engage with our holiday and get my nose out of my phone.

I had fully intended to write this with a plea for information but I tried one last web search first. The first link up told me everything. Ladies and gentlemen, the modern internet!

Disappointingly, when built in the 1930s it was a public toilet. In fairness, that’s more useful than some more glamourous purpose, but still. It would have been nice if the place had had a more exciting reason for being.

Anyway, enough truth. Time for a story…

Ailsa sat back on a boulder and brushed a stray strand of hair from her face. The sea breeze running up the firth blew it right back again. She turned her face into the wind and closed her eyes against the sun.

She’d done it. She’d built her Tower.

Well, kind of.

Under the laws of the Wizards’ Circle, no Tower could rise higher than its owner’s rank. As a first level initiate, Ailsa’s Tower could be no more than a single storey. Calling it a tower seemed a little silly. It was little more than a weird round bungalow. Indeed, most sorcerers waited until they’d reached the rank of First Degree Wizard. That was the tenth rank in the Wizards’ Circle. A respectable height for a tower. Of course, tower’s were supposed to be extended upwards over time. It wasn’t even that difficult to do, in principle. Nothing more complex than what Ailsa had achieved by herself. Without any master’s guidance even. True, she’d performed her magic over many days, whereas expanding an existing Tower would had to happen all at once or risk damaging the existing structure. The one rule on Tower extensions was that any new floors had to be added at the bottom.

Most sorcerers would wait, but Ailsa couldn’t. The location was critical and she wouldn’t risk another discovering it. Wizard Towers were traditionally built on sites of magical significance. Ley lines were so well known that even unmags, the un-magical, were well aware of them. Of course, unmags had no idea of their actual potency nor the uses for their raw power. Naturally, the major ley line junctions were now fully occupied. Some few traditionalists still fought bitterly over the last scattering of tributary streams. These were barely worth the effort and certainly not worth the bloodshed.

Modern sorcerers had turned to alternative sources. The Skyweb was gaining popularity. A counterpoint to the skein of power that formed the ley lines, the Web formed a network of magically conductive channels. In the sky, obviously. A Tower that reached into the Skyweb couldn’t tap power but it could move it. In massive quantities. It had led to a different type of magic. One that the ancients would barely recognise. It was fresh and exciting. Until a week ago, Ailsa would have given anything for a prime spot on the Skyweb. Not that she’d have needed to. The Web was relatively untapped. Unoccupied building sites outnumbered the members of the Wizards’ Circle by many thousands to one.

At Bogany Point Ailsa had found something else. An Emergence. Mythologically rare, an Emergence was a place where a magical phenomenon appeared. Theory claimed that the phenomenon was a balancing force sent into the world to right some iniquity. Of all the Thousand Towers, only three were said to be located at an Emergence. In the entire history of the Wizards’ Circle nothing had emerged from these places. Even so, they were the mightiest of the Towers. Wonders were worked there that defied understanding.

A few metres off the shoreline the water began to foam. Ailsa smiled as she turned to watch the kelpies churn the waves. White hooves broke the surface followed by three beautiful equine heads. One stranger and two familiar faces. The ones Ailsa knew had first emerged four days before.

By luck, she had been walking on the beach at the time of Emergence. The first kelpies to grace the world in a dozen centuries. They had burst from the waves so near to her that she had no choice but to meet them as friends and hope she wasn’t wrong. She hadn’t been. The kelpies had projected an aura of peace and contentment. They stood together on the shore for moments that seemed suspended from time. Heartbeats or aeons may have passed in stillness before the kelpies moved.

The taller had turned to the water. He stamped one great hoof in the waves. Oil and grit and detritus from decades of fishing and freight fleets rose above the surface. It all hung for a brief second then flew to the kelpie. The majestic horse gathered the filth into its mouth and swallowed them down. Black and brown hues coursed over the kelpies coat and swirled in a dirty maelstrom before dissipating.

The kelpies had departed after that. Back beneath the waves. That was the moment Ailsa had claimed the site and started building her Tower.

Now her single storey Tower was complete. For now. And her two kelpie friends had brought another. She wondered what balance they would correct and hoped that she was on the right side of it.

Supremacy

Its been a wee while since I went out and about with my camera so today’s image is from back in February when we went up to Spean Bridge. Sentences like that usually make me think about heading out into the (semi) wilds for a bit. However, the rain is rattling my window and I feel less inclined today.

The place we stayed was not much to look at. It’s main architectural feature was the panoramic windows looking out toward the Nevis range. To be fair, a view like that can’t really be competed with. To my surprise I was equally delighted by the bird feeder in the garden. Well, the visitors to it anyway. The goldfinches were easily recognisable. To my wife, anyway. I don’t know how she knows these things. It took us rather longer to identify the siskins. In retrospect their striking yellow-green and black markings should have been a giveaway. Then again, I’m not much of a bird-watcher.

Watching these little guys jockeying for position it was easy to be drawn into their drama. Remember, these fearsome warriors are among the last surviving dinosaurs.

Gretchen slipped between raindrops as she closed on her foe. Stealth was key. Goldfinches, the ancient enemy of her people, were larger and stronger. If it spotted her she wouldn’t stand a chance. Her one chance: strike fast, hit hard, grab what she needs and get out. A risk, but what choice did she have? Time was running out for her kind.

As she understood it, it wasn’t about malice. Goldfinches didn’t have an evil empire bent on dominion. They were scraping a living too. Everyone was feeling the pinch. Which didn’t make it any easier. Goldfinches were the problem only because they were here. Wrong place at the wrong time. But if it wasn’t them it would be someone else. No doubt some bigger bird was leaning on the goldfinches in the same way they were edging out Gretchen and her siskin family. The enemy of my enemy… well, truth be told they’d probably be my enemy too. That’s the way of things.

She flapped hard and stooped into a curving dive. A move she’d practiced hundreds of times with her sisters. If she popped up fast enough she’d knock her target from its perch. Not much, but it would gain her a few valuable seconds to snatch some food and bring it home. Enough to survive another day.

Her approach was good. Everything was perfect. Then it wasn’t. Gretchen didn’t know what had given her away. A stray splash of rain on her wing? A freak reflection? Sheer random bad luck? It didn’t matter. The goldfinch had spotted her.

The beast turned its snapping beak toward her. Raking talons slashed out.

Gretchen spread her wings and flapped hard. One beat. Two. She halted millimetres from her opponent.

The goldfinch screamed a challenge. “Come and take it if you dare!”

Gretchen yelled her twittering response. No meaning. Just raw desperation. She’d leave with food or not at all.

Time for alternative tactics. She pulled hard soaring above the goldfinch. It shrieked at her to stay away. Foolish creature. It assumed she was leaving. No chance. She feinted forward. Goading the goldfinch into moving.

It took the bait. “Back off!” it screeched. “My food.”

As if it could eat the whole lot. Greedy thing.

The goldfinch leaped into the air. Two powerful wingbeats and it was on her. Gretchen twisted aside. She couldn’t match the goldfinch’s power. Nor its straight line speed. Out-manoeuvring was another story.

The goldfinch lunged and she flitted aside. Its talons ruffled her tail feathers. Too close. Another feint. Another evasion. The goldfinch was on her tail now.

Gretchen’s heart pounded as she jinked wildly. She screamed defiance with her scant spare breath. This was taking too long. She couldn’t keep this up much longer.

Then: the most beautiful sound. A chirp of victory! Under cover of her dizzying flight her sister had darted in and snatched some food.

“You did it!” she trilled. “Go sister. Go now!”

Gretchen darted in herself, snatching a handful of food and fleeing.

Around the feeder stand. Double back. Through the weather vane and under the frog statue’s fishing line. Into the hedge. Safe at last. The goldfinch was too big to fly here. At least to large to fly quickly. She’d done it. Her family would eat. Live to fly another day.

Dawnfire

I’ve read that good fiction was a combination of the exotic and the familiar. Personally, I’m not sure that this is the ‘secret sauce’ that by itself makes fiction good. I suspect that most of the magic is in the interplay between specific exotics and particular familiars. (Side note – I’m now imagining the fussiest black cat. Okay, I’m done. Back to work…)

Cue this week’s image. There are probably few things more familiar than the view from your own window. This time I felt there was an element of the exotic too. I’m not certain I was entirely awake when I took this, so the image being at all usable was something of a surprise. (Also that there was a sufficiently clean spot on the glass!)

The photo is essentially presented as taken. I messed with the exposure a little, and cropped out a couple of (almost) identifiable car registration plates. Other than that, this is what I and my camera saw that morning. It inescapably put me in mind of dragons, so they will of course feature in the story. It strikes me that today’s booming fantasy market actually render dragons somewhat familiar, whereas a sky like that over Scotland is distinctly a rarity. So perhaps what comes next will turn out alright, even if the weighting of the components is backward.

There’s an old saying: ‘Red skies in the morning, shepherds’ warning.’ It used to puzzle me. Other than the rhyming, I couldn’t see any sense in it. What were the shepherds being warned of? Like a young Pandora, I wanted to know. Fearless to open the box and discover the monsters within. Confident in my ability to defeat them as needed.

Foolish boy that I was. Had I been willing to learn the lessons of mythology, or history, it turns out, I could have known. For all the good that would have done anyone. Perhaps that other saying has some truth. You know, the one about ignorance and bliss. Then again, probably not.

I was lucky that first time. Lucky as so many were not on that fateful January morning that is now known as The Rising. The last sunrise that I enjoyed. On that day, unknowing I enjoyed what I thought was just the interaction of sunlight and clouds. If only!

Then, as now, I valued the Dawnfire for its rarity. Obviously for very different reasons. These days it is a warning to prepare for a difficult day. At least we get warning. An opportunity to take action. We paid a high price for our knowledge. I’m thankful every day that we don’t squander it.

This morning the Dawn Watch is mine. The eighty-third Watch since the last Dawnfire. This morning the skies were painted in flame so bright that I wouldn’t have needed my curtains open. So bright that if I hadn’t been on watch I wouldn’t have slept through it anyway. The dragons were coming.

I unlocked my phone. The Fire Guard app was already open. I tapped the big red button and waited while it scanned my face. Milliseconds stretched to aeons as it checked that I hadn’t pocket-dialled the general alarm.

All along the street a tidal-wave of activating sprinkler systems began soaking homes. I could see blue lights flashing through every set of closed curtains as a siren-call summoned everyone from their beds.

Our own warning lights strobed redundantly in every room as I turned to make sure my children were getting up. It never ceases to amaze me how teenagers will try to sleep through anything. Even the threat of dragon fire.

At the foot of the stairs I witnessed the rarest of sights. My eldest, fully dressed and ready. In one hand she carried a bag of board games. In the other, her e-reader and a couple of paperbacks.

“Morning Dad.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Is your mum up?”

“Yeah.” She chuckled. “She’s trying to wake Jill .”

I rolled my eyes. “See you out there in a bit then,” I said. “Don’t lock me out.”

She smiled and headed out to the shelter. Locking doors on Dawnfire mornings was illegal, but we wouldn’t even if it was allowed. Homelessness was mercifully rare around here, but anyone caught out would always be welcome in our Fire Cave.

I headed upstairs to enter the fray with this morning’s other mythical being – the slumbering teen.

The Slow Path

We met these fine folks at Edinburgh Zoo earlier this year. Before I went in I was disappointed that the Brilliant Birds exhibit had been removed. Exactly as advertised the birds in that previous incarnation were indeed brilliant and something of a favourite of mine. Particularly the Lilac Breasted Roller which served as a tangible reminder of my honeymoon from eras past.

To my surprised delight the Sloth exhibit was if anything even better. I especially enjoyed the contrast between the smooth fluidity of the sloths and the caffeine-addict zippiness of the Hairy Armadillos who share the building.

The thing that fascinated me about the sloths was they way they moved. I had been anticipating ponderous slowness. The dull torpor of a stupid beast that can barely motivate itself to move. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Strangely there’s nothing ponderous about them. Sloths move with a remarkable fluidity reminiscent of tai chi practices. (Not mine, mine were terrible!) More recently this was brought to mind by a staff-spinning tutorial by @michelle.c.smith who tells us, “Slow is smooth and smooth is fast.” Naturally I’m going to take that idea and run right out of the box!

Movement in the shadows was the first sign of trouble. At least the first that Mo spotted. He continued unhurried along the branch. His friend Fe was waiting. Like all sloths, Fe had an abundance of patience but that didn’t mean he wanted to delay.

Deep within the canopy above a hint of golden fur flashed briefly. Mo knew what that meant. A Jaguar. Well, he’d deal with that in due course. No sense in detouring. The end would come in its own time. As with all things, Mo saw no point in hurrying it along.

The branch he was on thinned as he moved further from the trunk. His progress made it bend smoothly until it crossed a branch from another tree exactly where his claws landed. Gibbering monkeys would have swung across. They might even have leapt. No finesse. Mo transferred flawlessly to the other tree and his previous carrier swished back up revealing another glimpse of his pursuer. It would not be long now. Still Mo continued on his way.

Fe’s home tree was in sight now. A mere three transfers away. It occurred to Mo that he might want to meet the jaguar before he got there. Having a friend by him for that encounter might be a comfort. On the other hand, bringing trouble to Fe’s door was hardly the act of a friend. The serene flow of his left arm slipped past the path he was on and stretched to a higher branch. The transition was so smooth it was as if he’d always planned to take that route. He reflected that perhaps he should have. This new course would intercept the jaguar far from where it had obviously intended to strike.

Mo could see the jaguar clearly now. A lesser animal would startle when confronted with a predator. Particularly one so close. Mo was not such an animal. An outside observer might be fooled into thinking Mo simply hadn’t spotted the huge murder-cat. That or he was too stupid to panic. Foolish thinking indeed.

Its cover blown the jaguar moved into attack position. Where a foolish observer would see fluid, feline power, Mo saw only effort. A creature exerting itself to make reality bend to its will. The jaguar pounced.

What happened next the foolish observer would ascribe to luck. If the foolish observer had the good fortune to record high-speed video, and the sense to review it another story would emerge.

While the cat’s muscles bunched to spring, Mo completed his preparations. His weight shifted, subtly altering his balance on the branch. The hunter sprang, claws extended and teeth bared, toward its prey. But in the blink it took to cross the distance the prey, Mo, wasn’t there. His skewed balance had allowed him to pour himself upward, seemingly defying gravity. In the vital instant of collision, Mo was above his attacker. His trio of grasping claws effortlessly snagged the jaguar by the neck. Mo twisted in a natural continuation of his movement.

Upside down and surprised, the Jaguar missed its grip on the branch. It fell from the high canopy without even time to snarl in alarmed panic.

Mo’s circling motion blended smoothly back into his steady flow along the branches to his friend’s home tree.

Cold Revenge

While on holiday recently near Fort William, we happened upon these fabulous ruins. I think it’s Inverlochy Castle. To be honest I wasn’t paying enough attention. A lost opportunity, perhaps. I’ll have to make more effort when I happen to go that way again. Annoyingly, it means I have no interesting facts to share about the real place. I’ll have to fall back on imagination instead.

The image, and the place inescapably remind me of one of my (very embryonic) works in progress. Perspectives on Revenge has a somewhat experimental writing style, part of the reason it hasn’t yet seen the light of day. Don’t worry, I wont subject you to that today. I’m really not ready to unveil that particular oddity yet. Today’s story doesn’t follow the plot, nor the characters of that other story. Perhaps, it might capture something of the tone of it. We’ll see.

Ice crunched under my steps. Nothing moved here now. Perhaps nothing would ever again. That should seem like justice.

Is it though? Yesterday I would have said so. While the fires of my hate rose as high as those I’d set within the castle. Then, my mind was filled with revenge. There had been no place for anything else within me. Now, in the crisp cool of morning, I was less certain.

Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t forgiven anything. I will never forgive. He burned my village to the ground. All because we’re different.

He claims we are dangerous. Sorry, claimed we were dangerous. Past tense. That’s one thing that the Baron and my people have in common. My people are no more and now neither is he.

His claims were false. Translated to your language our name for my people meant ‘The Peaceful Ones.’ By our arts we can know each other’s minds. When that is the case it is hard to distrust another. Disagreements become harmony when we know the other’s truth. And yet the Baron saw us as a threat though there was no evidence to earn us that label.

Long ago my grandmother told me: “When encountering the unknown, there are two kinds of men. Both fear and both will move mountains to remove the source of that fear.”

“That’s only one kind, Gran,” I responded.

“Ah, but it is two. The first seeks to remove the fear through understanding. The other seeks to remove the thing that is feared. You must always strive to be the first kind of man. The other kind you must avoid.”

Well, I have let her down at last. How I wish she were here to scold me. Until last night I did not understand the Baron. By his actions he taught me to fear him. By the destruction he wrought. The people he exterminated in his own ungrounded fear. I met him last night and understood him at last. Greed, and spite, and fear. That was all I found within him. So I took my revenge.

Yet here in the cold morning air, as I look at the fruits of my vengeance, I feel no satisfaction. No release or relief. I burned the man’s home. Took everything away from him, as he had done to me. But I see and I care. I grieve for the poor unfortunates who, through my choices now have no home, no work. A community in ruin.

I turned away from the castle. The neighbouring village was in turmoil. Their lives had been ruined by my rage. I watched as they began to rebuild their lives. That was something that we had in common. Perhaps that would be a good place to start.

The Sky’s Twin

This week’s photo was taken from the top of the Glenfinnan Monument looking out over Loch Shiel. Obviously, go there given the chance. In my opinion the view speaks for itself, except to say that my photo doesn’t do it justice. There’s also a lovely walk by a famous viaduct for those of us into that sort of stuff.

Within the monument is a steep and winding staircase leading to a narrow hatch that lets you out onto the parapet which is dominated by an imposing statue of a highland warrior. Due to the weird placement of the hatch I had a heart-stopping moment of being stuck at the top. Learn from my mistakes: leave your backpack at the bottom!

Anyway… On to the story.

There are places in this world where you can reach another. If you know how to find them. Well, not really places, strictly speaking. Moments in space-time, to put it in modern terms. My Grandmother used to tell me that they happened at certain locations at particular times where thin places in the worlds lined up. Then, for the lucky, or the diligent, it is possible to see through these cosmic windows. To witness somewhere else altogether. Not somewhere here on Earth. Not even a different planet. Somewhere Other.

As with ordinary windows, it is possible, for the truly bold, to not just look but to go through to this Other. My Grandmother always warned me against that.

“Like most windows, climbing out is frequently easier than climbing back in,” she would say.

I left it at that. A lifetime of looking beyond this world to the Other had made Gran wise. Even if it had not, her word was to be obeyed. Not through force of personality, or any manner of violent compulsion. It was simply that if Gran said it, it would be so. Not a force of nature so much as a fact of it.

The first time I saw into the Other was on the shores of Loch Shiel. The wind ruffled my hair. Tugged at the trees. Yet somehow the surface of the Loch was flat and still. The hills were reflected sharp and crystal clear. The sky was mirrored in its pristine surface. It was the sky that gave it away. In the depths of the Other sky the sun burned bright through the thin ripple of clouds. My own sky was bright and white, but the disc of the sun was hidden.

Once I knew to look that was not the only disparities. The trees of the Other were of subtly different shape. Their leaves were in unfamiliar hues. Though the buildings were the same their inhabitants, while passing as human at first glance, were clearly not upon a second viewing.

Flying high in that Other sky were not birds. At least, their silhouettes were wrong. Elongated necks and tails. Wings that were more bat-like than avian. I felt sure, though I could not see closely enough, that instead of feathers I would find scaly skin.

I hurried to the water’s edge keen to have as close a look at this new place as I could find. On arriving I was at first disappointed. None of the wonders that I’d seen at a distance were meaningfully closer. The trees, the people, everything of interest was still far away in that Other world. I turned away, meaning to head back to my earlier vantage point.

I had taken only a step when I heard a distinct ‘plop’. I whipped around to see the end of the splash of water landing on the shore. Despite that, the surface of the loch remained undisturbed.

Movement caught my eye. One of the flying creatures lay on the bank. It stood and staggered, falling back to the rocks. A dragon. No larger than a kestrel, but a dragon no less. Sensing its distress I ran to it.

Close in I could see my instinct about the scales was correct. The glorious, pitiful creature shivered under our weaker sun. Here in our world the scent of ice was on the air. There in the Other the snow line was higher up the mountains. Ours was a cooler land than the dragon was comfortable with. I sensed its distress somehow. It didn’t have long.

I picked it up and cradled it to my chest. The creature squirmed and wriggled into my heat. I hugged it closer and wracked my brain for what to do. Only one solution presented itself. I turned back toward the water. Gran’s warnings rang in my mind’s ear as I stepped forward. But there was no other way.

I stepped into the water and fell through into the Other.

On the Other bank, the heat of the sun quickly dried my clothes. My dragon friend fluttered its wings and took to the sky once more. I turned back to the loch again, torn between exploring more and returning to the safety of my own world. A cooling breeze swept over me. The surface of the loch rippled. The reflection of home broke up and when the waters stilled it showed only the sky of the Other. The decision was out of my hands. I was now an accidental explorer of this foreign land.

Descent

During a recent wee break up by Fort William we happened upon a rock and mineral museum. It’s way more fun than it sounds. (Although I suppose its possible that I’m way less fun than I’d like to think!) This week’s story prompt image is of one of the many fascinating exhibits: naturally forming bismuth crystals. Apparently the iridescent colours are from a coating of oxides, and the ‘stepped staircase’ structure is just how the crystals form.

It must be astonishing to dig in the dirt and find a lump of this stuff. To me there’s something inescapably alien to it — perhaps the computational core of some sophisticated device, or maybe its a 3d map of a city on some distant planet. This week I might have trouble emerging from the warm-up exercise that has become my story-prompt-of-the-week.

Jack nudged my shoulder again. More insistently this time.

“Seriously, mate.” He punched my shoulder again. ” You’ll want to open your eyes for this. Promise.”

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for the terror that was bound to greet me once when I unclenched my eyelids. Opposing instincts raged against each other turning my insides into a fragile foam of excitements. At the best of times I’m not great with heights. I get dizzy standing on the stool to reach the top shelves of the school library. On the other hand, we were descending to an alien city on a distant planet!

I’ve been waiting for this since my big sister’s trip six years ago. I’d just started school that year and I barely knew about extrasolar planets let alone alien civilisations. I got to stay up extra late when she got back so we could all see her holo-vids from the trip. I’ve been obsessed ever since.

I cracked my eyelids open. My big mistake was keeping my face firmly pointed floorwards. I’d forgotten that our, horrendously named, drop-pod had been cleverly designed with an invisible floor. Sure it made for better views. It was then that my brain caught up with my eyes. I entirely forgot my crippling vertigo as I absorbed the sunlight sparkling off the expanding cityscape below me.

The glittering shapes below seemed impossibly intricate. By comparison even the fanciest Earth buildings were mere grey cubes. Then I realised the true scale of what I was seeing. Glancing at the readouts on my seat’s armrest I could see we were still over a hundred kilometres up. To call the city below us enormous would be the understatement of the century.

Jack’s fist bumped my shoulder again. “Breathe, mate,” he whispered.

Grudgingly I found the attention to wrestle my lungs back into action. I shot my friend the briefest of looks. A flick of smile to say thanks for making me look.

We drew closer and I began to see movement, deep within the soaring structures. The sun began its dip (I know that’s not what happens, but you get my meaning) below the eastern horizon, which was weird in itself. As darkness swept across the cityscape below millions of lights flickered on as the world beneath me carried on the business of being civilised.

At five kilometres out our chairs gently tipped backwards. Our deceleration burn began and I was pressed into the seat cushions. Robbed at last of the view that a short while ago I’d been sure I hadn’t wanted. My bereft eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Tears of… no idea how to sort through the melange of emotions I felt. Anyway, the tears swept back to tickle my ears. My universe had just become incomprehensibly bigger.

I risked a glance at Jack. His face was similarly wet. My hand found his and we both turned back to the ceiling. My breath shuddered as we slowed to a final stop. The seats slid silently back upright. The doors hissed open and a waft of sweet air invited us onto an alien world.

Racing the Sun

Arran is one of my favourite places in the world. It treads the delightful line between familiar and novel. Evidence, perhaps, that we go there far too often. After all, there is so much world out there to see and I have experienced a pathetically small sample. Despite this I am firm in my belief that Scotland is the best place on Earth. In the interests of scientific rigour, I must try to prove myself wrong. I doubt I’ll manage.

This week’s picture is looking inland from the beach at Brodick. We were taking a post-dinner stroll, having skilfully duped my parents into putting the kids to bed. I remember a feeling of deep calm that evening. Something to recall when the now all gets too much. Naturally, I plan on completely ruining that with what follows.

Looking at the photo, I want to write something idyllic. A beautiful romantic scene or even a moment of peaceful solitude. If only my skills lay in that direction. Understand that it’s not for want of trying. When I read back such scene’s there’s nothing wrong with them. They just fail to engage in any way whatsoever. So instead I’ll chuck in some magic and monsters. Oh for a gram of artistry!

As a side note, the monsters in question are my own variant on brollachans as used in The Fall of Witches (The Wizard and The Imp Book 2), which I hope to release later this year. This story is otherwise unrelated to the series.

Shadows lengthened alarmingly as I crested the last rise. Soon they would be large enough for my foes to manifest. Adrenaline fought to quicken my feet but I couldn’t let it. Though my destination was in sight the shortest path was not smooth. A wrong step now would be worse than fatal. A stumble would mean disaster for us all. The enemy must not lay hands on any of the Keys.

I am the East Guardian of the Island Keys. There are four of us, obviously, and four Keys to match. The Keys harness the natural magic of the Island and present a shield against The Darkness. If that’s news to you then further explanations about the Keys and The Darkness are for another time. That’s a much longer conversation. If you already know, then you also know what was at stake.

Sanctuary lay ahead: the lights of home battled against the glow of the sun setting behind the hills. A fight they would soon win. Woe betide me if I hadn’t reached them by then.

I slid down the bank towards the stream and my eagerness nearly cost me dearly. My foot snagged on a rock and I tripped. I was in the water before I’d regained my balance. Loose slipping shingle gave way to sucking mud and I staggered into the shadow of the far bank.

Goosebumps prickled my skin as I heard the sound I’d been dreading. From deep within the shadow before me came a hissing like wind from a tomb. Twin pinpricks of red flared into being less than a metre ahead of me. Then another pair. And another. They were here.

I bolted for the last glimmers of sunlight and as I reached that temporary safety I felt the rush of air from the outstretched claws that missed by a hair’s-breadth. I waded down stream desperately for the shallow bank. Sand beneath my boots once again and I took off at a run. There was no time left for caution.

I tripped again as the sand gave way to heather. An error that saved my life. A burning bolt of red energy lanced through the space where my head had been. By then the only sunlight left was reflected from the underside of clouds. Dim enough that the fiends could venture beyond the deep shadows.

I paused for long enough to snatch a signal flare from my belt, light it and lob it over my shoulder. Moments later I was rewarded with a shrill scream of pain. If luck was on my side that would buy me another 20 metres or so. I scrambled to my feet and took off.

30, as it turned out. I left the beach and my boots gripped more surely on the solid turf that led to my door. My heart leapt. I was going to make it. Against the odds I’d outrun the brollachans.

No such luck.

The shadows in front of me condensed like a black fog. Four pairs of red eyes burned like hate as they formed and focussed on me. Behind them the protective lights of home seemed dim and distant. As one the brollachans lunged for me. Their outstretched claws were like compressed darkness and dripped with distilled hatred.

My arms flew up and I fired my Flash-Gun. The intense light blasted a hole through my foes. It wouldn’t last long before they reformed. I took off over the grass before the recharge whine of my weapon had even begun. Seconds later I reached the floodlit safety of home. My enemies screamed their frustration into the night.

The aging room

This week’s image is hot off the presses. I took the photo in the Dalwhinnie distillery warehouse just a couple of days ago. It is actually the first such room I’ve been in. As a life long non-drinker, distillery tours are an unusual joy for me. Some years back I accompanied my wife on a tour of the Arran Distillery at Lochranza. We were the only people on the extended tour so we had a good long session exploring the ways of Scottish Malt Whisky. The tour guide showed me the trick of pouring a few drops on my hands then rubbing them together until almost dry before cupping over my face and smelling.

The experience was fascinating. The honeyed notes of the particular whisky I sampled first brought me back to my youth in which my grandfather used to send over tiny glass vials of ‘liquid honey’ from Malaysia. I was excited to discover that as the whisky residue dried on my hands it offered different scent profiles – a reasonably simulacrum of the varying taste profiles you would get on drinking it. From that moment on I’ve been hooked and take the opportunity for a tour whenever fortune allows. Despite that, it’s the first warehouse I’ve made it into.

Back to Dalwhinnie. The packed earth floor, dim lighting and amazing scentscape of the warehouse was wildly evocative, as was the vast array of oak barrels. I snapped a few shots on the off chance that one would provide fodder for the story-trove. I will admit to tweaking the image a bit – the colour balance was a little too stark for my liking, and I wanted something more suggestive of flame-lighting for a more magical atmosphere. Otherwise its basically untouched.

Cauldron stepped lightly across the barrels. His sensitive feet picked up echoed vibrations as their counterparts landed. Each one a spectrum reflecting the composition of the contents. He stopped at one. The vibrations had seemed… wrong. Lowering his face to the cask he tasted the scent. Carefully. Only fools drew deep breaths of a potion while it was maturing.

With a hind-foot he spun a complex knot of silk to mark the barrel before moving on. That one would need more attention later, but there were many potions approaching maturity. Any of them might need his attention or be spoiled beyond use.

At the end of a block, he cast a web to the low ceiling and swung across the narrow aisle. He had balked at the wasted space, but Malachite had insisted. While the task of attending to the potions naturally had fallen to Cauldron, it was not beyond the realms of probable that someone else might have to. Malachite certainly couldn’t go clambering over the oak vessels. Even if he could, his steps would not capture the wealth of information that Cauldrons eight highly attuned feet could.

The hairs on his legs rippled in the still air, disturbed by the currents of magic that underran this well chosen location. The site was not on a ‘ley line’ or any new-age nonsense like that. Though, he supposed, it was the real-world equivalent. There were places in the world where the current of magic surged closer to the surface than in others. This site, where the Court of the Tower of Magic had built its potions vault, was one of them. Though Nyree and Malachite regularly debated at length about the underlying pattern of emergence points, Cauldron knew that they would find nothing. Their appearance was as random as webs spun by his tiny cousins while exposed to various psychotropics.

Whatever the reason, there was magic here. Traditionalist as he was, Cauldron had searched for a convenient cave nearby. Nyree had simply summoned her power and built an underground warehouse. It was better in every sense: exactly where the magic was most potent and usefully shaped to store the maximum number of casks. Despite recognising this, part of him still yearned for the charm of a hidden cave.

The thrum of magic subsided and Cauldron tapped a complicated rhythm on the barrel beneath him. The vibrations came back strong and lively to his clawed feet. This one would be ready soon. He deposited a silk marker and continued on his way. The Court would need the contents of these barrels in the days to come. He hoped they would be enough.