"The one who tells the stories rules the world."
Hopi Proverb

Flight to Flower Vale,
Being the Fourth Quarto of the Zîniath
An Inworld novel featuring the Protector Uwin

Author's Comment on Excerpt One

The genesis of my novel was Grade 7 Religion class. Or it might have been Math. Mother Cable, a four-foot-nothing powerhouse who could wither you with a glance was the teacher, at any rate, and she taught both. Her presence is inextricably tied with memories of that classroom. Bored, I would stare dreamily out the window. The red-bricked Montreal General Hospital, across the road and up the mountain a ways, dominated the view. Like all hospitals, it was a jumble of mismatched wings added on over the years as the building's needs grew. The utilitarian blocks created all sorts of intriguing geometric shadows and levels. From my classroom window, I could glimpse part of gravel-covered roof, but an adjacent and taller wing blocked the rest of the view. What mysterious world existed on that rooftop, in the lee of the main structure and just beyond sight? How to get up there? Thus was my novel born.

Excerpt One
CHAPTER 01-I

"I saw the mystic vision flow
And live in men and woods and streams,
Until I could no longer know
The stream of life from my own dreams."
George William Russell, "Unity"

The Door between the Worlds was an ordinary fire door: heavy, metallic, with a bright red box glowing above it. The box was engraved with runes in some foreign tongue, but it would take more than Fladren's skill to divine their meaning, though he would never admit such to his escort.

He didn't need to. They saw only the small pile of pebbles. No door. No runes.

But, trusting to the wisdom of the King's Wizard, they had obediently piled the prescribed number of magical stones into small cairns at all the junctures of all the leylines on the Eastern Plains from the northeastern hills of the chameleon-like Earth-People, to the great capital of Cedartown. Whichever door was the one the Maid-Child chose, it would be suitably primed and ready.

The Prophecy, proclaimed Fladren, stipulated unequivocally that the Maid-Child would come. And his careful studies irrefutably revealed that she would come from the East, with the sun. The Earth-People had supplied the red-specked stones that would power the spell that would bridge the worlds and enable her crossing. Only one thing remained to do. He, Fladren, the King's Wizard, must span the gap between his consciousness and that of the Maid-Child, and impart the instructions to her mind. This working would require great care and precision.

He decided not to conduct the delicate meditation in the capital, where so many eyes watched his every movement and waited upon his successes (the price of fame), but in the green prairies of the Eastern Plains, where naught but wild horses, rabbits and grouse habitually ranged. The Captain of the King's elite forces -- the Protectors -- had protested this location as being foolhardy and difficult to secure, particularly on the eve of war. They finally reached a compromise. Fladren could enter trance at his chosen site. The King's Personal Guard would mount watch over him, under the direction of an officer of the Protectors (which set more than one of the regular officers to grumbling). And for added measure, the secretive Earth-People, who but rarely ventured into the realms of the surface-dwellers, offered to bless and consecrate the chosen spot beforehand. After fasting for seven days and seven nights, Fladren lay down on the green earth, and allowed his breathing to slow, dropping into progressively deeper trance states as he cast about for the Maid-Child's mind, confidant that he could reach her, and draw her hither to save his world.

Chaos! Fear! Suffocation... and oh, such pain! Despite his best effort, nothing had prepared him for the utter and absolute mayhem which greeted him as he slipped gently (he thought) into his chosen host's mind, becoming one with her thoughts and her feelings...

Choking! Blindness! Cold and wet. Sticky! Exercising more control than his school of training would have considered ethical, he forced his host's eyes open, so that he might see. Nightmarish shapes, angular and jagged, swam murkily before his/her eyes. Cold! It was so bitterly cold! Water? He/she seemed to be trapped in a cavern of some kind, partially submerged in foul-smelling, viscous fluid that was quickly rising beyond chin-level. Another wave washed over him, causing renewed choking. His host struggled ineffectually, causing lancing pain through her lower limbs and a shower of stars in her brain, but she did not desist. As another wave washed over her, he commanded her to pause, for a moment, until he could reconnoiter further. They seemed to be trapped in the roiling belly of some monstrous iron snake or dragon. Perhaps some sea-beast from the ancient legends, though the water was not salt. But it was black and oily, fouled by the acids of the monster's belly. And it appeared that the envelope of breathable air was shrinking with each contraction the monster made. Regardless of other possible injuries, soon, in a matter of minutes, the air would be exhausted, and then nothing would stand between them and drowning.

Drowning! He/she was drowning, he realized, even as his/her/their life-blood ebbed from a dozen different wounds. His shock at this discovery caused his control to weaken momentarily, and his host began to struggle again, straining towards the shrinking cushion of air. But she could not reach it. Her legs were firmly pinioned by what felt like huge shackles. For a moment Fladren almost lost his own self-control in his outrage. Why had this child been chained to this hideous monster? Then he realized that every movement, every struggle, caused even more of her precious life-blood to pump from her many injuries, and he seized control once more, commanding her to desist.

If she does not get air, she will drown, he thought. If she struggles further, she will bleed to death. He was a Wizard, skilled in Healing. Artifice and illusions were not his purview. And even if they were, could he even cast such a spell, suspended as he was between two worlds, two consciousnesses?

The host body shuddered and gasped, coughing to momentary consciousness, swallowing a great gulp of oily water as she did so and heaving convulsively, sending dazzling darts of pain dancing behind her eyes.

Quiet, he told his subconscious, you are not here in flesh. It is not your lungs that threaten to burst; nor your wounds that seep precious life-blood into the river. Your body is being watched by loyal servants of the King who would risk their very lives to keep you breathing. But his calming words did not reach the host body, which continued to squirm against his psychic presence as life bubbled from her lungs. Through her eyes he watched as she reached a shaking, bleeding hand upwards towards her face. With her fingers he felt the shard of glass that pierced her forehead, just above the eyes, and the blinding cascade of light which greeted her probing fingers as they inadvertently jarred it.

Nay, Child, he commanded ineffectually. Did they not know, in this World, that stirring such an injury could aggravate it beyond repair? He must act swiftly if he were to prevent her from accidentally delivering her own death thrust.

Grimly, he realized what must have happened. The Child, being virgin, had been sacrificed to the iron monster by her people -- and the beast now lay in ruins, slain by some noble knight errant. In the violence of its death throes, if had tumbled into the river, its prize still clutched between its great claws.

Fladren/the Child coughed again, surrendering the last remnant of oxygen to the river, starbursts of the most exquisite pain bedazzling his vision. Quiet, he said again, with the force of all his personality behind the command. Do not move! We are One. You will not drown while we are joined. But you must waken, Child, for time grows short.

For a brief while his mind wrestled with that of his host, and was met with a weak physical struggle as she tried, in vain, to be rid of the foreign consciousness. Were his errand not so urgent, he might have paused to study how a mere child, so close to death, could even muster the strength to fight his presence, much less be aware of it. As it was, all he could do was note the phenomenon, to be considered later. If that were possible.

Fladren had not been altogether truthful to his host. While it was true that she would not die while they were joined and he alive, there was every possibility that the sheer intensity of her experience would overwhelm him. In which case, they would both die. It was for this reason that his corporeal body lay so carefully guarded: to safeguard him against the hazards of such astral adventures.

Then with an abrupt gasp she suddenly surrendered and allowed him to take control. Her pain was enormous, crying out for surcease. The arrow in her brain was agonizing.

Nay, Little One, you must be strong and withstand this. Waken, we need you, he said with as much conviction as he could muster, acknowledging as he exhorted her that he himself would have gladly himself have given into sweet death to escape such pain. Dark velvet awaited. He/she/they had but to relax, together, and surrender to it.

Nay, Little One, he repeated again, as much for himself as for her. He could sense her lifeforce ebbing, seeping out into the greasy water with each throb of her heart. Ignoring the pain, he concentrated on channeling his own vibrant energy into her, pouring in as much strength as he calculated he could spare... and still survive. We will not let you die, Child, though it seems the easier way. Fight! You can survive this! You must!

Another coughing fit wracked the small body, this time filling the remaining cavities with the cold, slick water, the last few millimeters of air burbling out into the icy, inky night.

Dimly, Fladren could see the light of underwater fires -- how did they do that? -- bobbing through the wreckage of the iron dragon, then the blackness descended upon them both, claiming them in its embrace.

Author's Comment on Excerpt Two

I agonized over which excerpt to use for this section. Finally I selected two different sections and sent them to four friends, asking which they would pick. The answers were very telling, and an analyst of the thought-patterns of sci-fi writers would have a field day. My three sci-fi writer/Clarion alumnae friends all chose the excerpt below. My non sci-fi friend found it quite disturbing, and chose an excerpt that was far lighter in tone, and traditional in narrative.

But "disturbing" is exactly the response I wanted. So readers, be warned. This is not for the faint of heart. As for those who think all epic quest stories are like Tolkien (though I would be most honoured by such a comparison), I hope this gives them pause.

Excerpt Two
CHAPTER 07-B

"The seed is already planted..."

Now, the seed had sprouted.

At first she didn't believe it. She had escaped once to fly with the stars. And though blind now in this timeless place of not-being, she had been sure it had hesitated, doubtful. In that doubt she had found strength.

So, apparently, had the seed.

First, it had rooted, sending sinuous suckers to burrow into her brain and to drink from her mind. They burned as they wormed their way through her skull. But it was a familiar pain, like that of calluses ripped too soon from a gymnast's palms.

Later, it had sprouted; and the sprouts had stung like wasps as they hooked their tiny barbs into her veins, metastasizing throughout her body, impregnating her with an unquenchable itch.

She could feel it within her, roaming unhindered, co-opting her blood, her organs, to sustain its life. She resented it, but it only laughed at her, and flourished. After a time, it was so much part of her that she couldn't tell where she ended, and it began. Perhaps she had always only been thus: a pot of soil for this alien entity to grow in.

You are nothing, it said, but what I make you. You see nothing, but what I show you.

It showed her something then, seizing her vision and dragging it west and north, vaulting a benighted, snow-capped mountain range and plummeting with gut-wrenching speed into a large, torch-lit encampment. Many beings - soldiers? --were gathered around a hill where a ceremony of some sort was in progress. Yet, they were creatures unlike any she had ever seen before. Taller in stature and broader in shoulder, their skin - what she could see beneath their armor and cloaks -- seemed to be covered with scales, like a lizard's. At first, she thought they had the heads of eagles and other predatory birds. Then she realized that their helmets were merely fashioned to look like birds of prey. Their eyes, some green, some amber, glittered through their elaborate armor with an unsettling mixture of cunning and malevolence.

My army, laughed the thing within her. One of many. But I did not bring you here to see this, but to feel. Look!

Unwilling but unable to resist, her attention was turned and focused on the torch-lit promontory that abutted the rockface. Three white-clad and hooded officiants stood before a stone altar, in the center of a ring of seven fires. Their eyes glittered like ice but they remained motionless as the eagle-people drove seven fettered and gagged individuals into a semi-circle before the altar.

For a moment, the priests remained motionless, flickering ghosts against the mountain. Then, with a slow grace that was almost dance-like, they raised their right arms and, as one, pivoted towards the smallest prisoner, pointing.

The eagle-heads bustled into frenetic activity. While two seized the boy and manacled him to the altar, two others attached hooks to the remaining captives' leg bonds and signaled into the darkness beyond the circle. Quick as lightening, their feet were yanked out from under them and they were hoisted, upside down, onto dark scaffolding she had not noticed before, above the fires. They were left to dangle there, faces in the hot smoke, to suffer... and watch.

Look! The thing that controlled her forced her to watch as the youngster writhed impotently on the altar, tears glistening on his cheeks. Then one of the priests inserted a knife beneath the child's fingernails, and one by one, slowly, pried them loose.

There was no sound with this vision. She didn't need it. She could feel each incision as though it were in her own skin, and hear each heart-breaking scream in her mind.

When we meet in person, said the thing within her, this child's pain will be as nothing compared to what I have planned for you, for your defiance.

But I have done nothing, she protested.

Not yet. For now, watch! And feel! And learn fear.

It forced her to look, and look, and feel every iota of the boy's pain. First his nails. Then... other things. The cuts were shallow, but precise and painful. Never deadly. They took turns at their work, two cutting, while the third captured his blood in an iron chalice, chanting some incomprehensible but hideous rhyme all the while. She could not hear it, but the thing within her shared each syllable, until her very heartbeat echoed each hideous word. And though she could not see their faces, she knew they were smiling, delighting in their craft.

When, finally, mercifully, the child passed out, the two cut him free from the altar, and she thought for a moment his torments were over.

It was soon all too clear why he had been cut free. As one of the priests revived him, another summoned four eagle-heads from the shadows. Each creature took a small limb in hand and, as effortlessly as she would have separated a chicken wing, they pulled. With a soft plop that resonated through her mind, arm separated from shoulder, leg from hip, and the boy's screams reverberated through her skull and down each channel the alien had burrowed into her flesh.

Their chant, now redolent with evil, increased in volume and speed and her own heartbeat was spurring it on!

The alien within laughed.

The chant rose in pitch, rose in volume, rose in intensity and her very own blood sang along. Then one of the priests dashed the flagon of blood against the rockface and, with a final, scalding crescendo, the incantation stopped.

You are a part of this.

No.

Look.

They returned the boy to his companions and suspended him .upside down above the hungry flames, close enough for him to see each dancing embers, but not enough for him to burn too quickly. He continued to scream his silent scream, and when the next victim's voice was added to his, and the chant begun again, and she thought she could bear watching no longer, the smoke from the seven fires began to behave most strangely.

It changed color. Or rather, acquired color. At first grey-white against the murky sky, it began to thicken and blush, turning a delicate pink and then, as the mutilations continued, deepening to a violent crimson. As it grew thicker, it changed direction, no longer rising but rather twisting along the ground, winding around and between the priests and their victims like some kind of ghastly, air-born reptile. Finally, it snaked across to the blood-smeared cliff-face and began to knit itself together into an ensanguined obelisk. When it had reached the height of three men, it reached out and over, descrying a wide archway before returning once more to the earth.

It looked nothing like the Door Between the Worlds, but with the knowledge of the thing within her, she knew she was witnessing the creation of a similar portal between two places.

The first, and most elaborately armored, of the soldiers stepped up to the crimson arch. He paused a moment, drew himself up, stepped confidently through, and disappeared into the basalt. His men followed quickly, marching four abreast. Ten, twenty, thirty... Was she witnessing an invading army?

Then, from nowhere, the music came, and she was back in the place of not-being, the vision gone. It was like a sparkler from the Fourth of July, but green. It lit her up from within and filled her with a delicious luminescence that flowed through her like corn syrup, dissolving the alien infection and soothing the abrasions it had made. Where it passed, it left tingling warmth, not unpleasant, that rocked her with its gentle pulse.

This state might have lasted for seconds, or years. Then the music changed; the pulse quickened. And the corn syrup no longer coated, but scoured. Where it had tingled pleasantly, it now felt like rubbing alcohol poured over a raw wound. And she wondered whether this was how the boy had felt, when they had started to peel off his skin.