What I've Been Doing

First of all, here are some AI enhancements of line illustrations and engravings, a process that I find fascinating. Next here are some illustrations from some Bureau of Shadows stories: Agent Beth Castlemaine paints a picture Taken From Life (aka Through a Bluebell Dell) and an animation of Senator Lovett and Edna York in a railroad car (to be perfectly time appropriate they should be wearing hats).

To round it off, here is an animation of Dr. Gilpin at his alchemical efforts:

Behind the scenes, as it were, I am still preparing material for the script of Episode Seven of my proposed television series. It is still only proposed, of course; I'd like to get at least 10 episodes scripted before I even think about trying to shop it around. In the meantime, it is great fun. I find I haven't published Taken From Life here on the Niche yet. Maybe I should.

Dr. Gilpin at Work

Lest anyone get the wrong idea about Dr. Gilpin from the story of Athenor, I should point out that the alchemist was a really good guy and a great friend of Thornbriar and Bear. He was just not ready to think of himself as a father at the age of seventy. And he did come around in the end.

Athenor

Athenor, the little brass boy/homunculus from the chapter of the same name in Elf & Bear. If not immediately sentient upon creation, he became increasingly more so, although his creator, Dr. Gilpin, refused to acknowledge it, preferring he remain the simple tool/machine he was created to be. He was named Athenor from the alchemist's forge that he was made in, so you could say in a strange way Gilpin named him after his 'mother.' Of course, tragedy ensued as Athenor came to consider Gilpin his father, and the doctor refused to acknowledge his personhood, always calling him it. Only after the tragedy and heroic sacrifice did Gilpin finally accept him as his 'son.'

A Fine Bit of Magic

Using the figures from two seperate enhancements, I requested the AI to place them together in a third scene of my suggestion. And here at last we have the long imagined gathering of John Kraft. Bear, and Thornbriar. If this ain't magic, it's darn near close.

Correcting a Correction

I was so focussed on removing Thornbriar's 'mustache' that I didn't even consider the proportions of the characters. This is somewhat closer to the concept.

Elf & Bear and The Shadow Over Alben

All Enhancements, of course, of rather unsatisfying sketches. Thornbriar and Bear with John Kraft. Nathaniel Horsehair and Thelva Prynne. At last reaching some sort of apotheosis.

An Elf, a Bear, Another Share

Just after midnight the free ChatGPT became available, and I decided to implement a scheme that I had been plotting all day. That was to produce an Elf & Bear picture from a descriptive prompt alone, and to that end I had been honing the parameters of such all day. Above you can see the result; here is the prompt I used. I enclose in square brackets my only nitpicks.

“In a Hildebrandt Fantasy painting style, a brown Bear (7 feet tall) and an Elf (3 feet tall) sit in red overstuffed armchairs in a cozy drawing-room setting. The Bear looks cheerful and the Elf a little bemused. The Bear wears a long red and white muffler around his neck; the Elf has shoulder-length tousled black hair, [a longish nose, only slightly pointed ears,] a blue tunic, and brown boots. The room has [a burning fireplace,] bookshelves full of old books, and a side table laden with a gleaming ham, a steaming pot of tea, and a heavily frosted cake. The Elf holds a cup of tea, and the Bear holds a wooden mug of ale.”

The results were the closest I’ve ever come to an adequate representation of the duo.

Out of curiosity, and to be scrupulously fair, I ran the same prompt through Grok, which, though it gave me many more variations to chose from, were all more or less in this sort of bland style:

I grow ever closer and closer to subscribing to ChatGPT, if only to stop having to wait up so late for the free service.

Friday Fiction: The Flood (Part One)

 

Chapter Seven: The Flood

 

     "Have you filled up your pottles?" asked Thornbriar.

"Just about," the bear called back to his friend from where he crouched half-hidden in the undergrowth of thick, tangled bushes with only the big brown hump of his back showing.

     A pottle is a kind of thick round leather bottle with a cork lid.  A pottle will hold about two quarts of whatever you put into it, and what the elf and the bear had been putting in their pottles all morning were dewberries.  They had started out before five o'clock that morning and tramped far afield to get to where the dewberries grew, and now, at almost eleven, Thornbriar was topping off the last of his pottles with a final handful of the delicious, raspberry-like fruit.

     He picked a few last leaves and a bug or two out of the berries, then plugged the cork. 

     "That's the last of mine,” he announced.  "Meet me at the tree when you're done."

     "Almost finished," said Bear.

     Thornbriar walked to the spreading oak tree where they had set their loads of berries.  With satisfaction, he plunked down his last jar where all the other pottles sat like a clutch of brown eggs in the shade of the tree.  He rubbed his hands together in glee as he thought of the dewberry jelly, wine, and hot dewberry cobbler that they would prepare in the next few days.  He sat back in a comfortable corner between two spreading tree roots and pulled nearer to him the picnic basket they had packed that morning.  He began to rummage around in it.

     Outside the shade of the tree, it was blazingly hot.  As far as the eye could see were fallow fields, divided by hedges, with gigantic trees dotted here and there like oases in the desert.  Grasshoppers ticked through the high grass and bees tumbled from flower to flower.  At the bottom of the field, with a quiet chuckle and murmur of water over stone, flowed a large stream which was almost a young river.

     Bear came panting into the shady shelter of the tree's wide limbs, dust shaking out of his fur with every ponderous step.  He collapsed next to his friend, fanning himself and puffing and blowing as if he had just escaped some great danger.  He flung his last pottle down with the others as if abandoning an anchor that had almost dragged him down.

     "Woof, it's hot," he panted, tongue lolling.  "Did you save any food for me?"

     "I haven't even started," replied the elf, pretending to be offended.  "I think that we both need first is a cold glass of lemonade."

     "Then hurry up and pour us some before I die of thirst," said Bear, in a mock piteous tone.  "Just a drop and I'll get back to work.  I promise I will, governor."

     "Don't be such an ass, you lazy old thing," laughed the elf, pouring out a huge glass from a sweating gallon jar.  He passed it to the bear.  "Here."

     Bear took it in both paws and greedily stuck his nose in, gulping the tart, yellow lemonade in large drafts, until the glass was empty.  He sighed with satisfaction.  "That hit the spot," he said, licking his whiskers and holding his glass out for more.  "I may live yet."

     The next half-hour was devoted to the emptying of the picnic basket.  There were sandwiches of many kinds, from simple butter and jelly to deliciously squashy bacon, lettuce, and tomato.  There were pickles and salted nuts, deviled eggs and oatmeal cookies, and more cold lemonade and root beer in a tinny jug to wash it all down.  When the last crumb and drop had been devoured, the two friends sat back stuffed, feeling less inclined than ever to heft their load of berries and leave the shelter of the friendly tree.

     "I guess," said Thornbriar, stifling a yawn.  "I guess we'd better get going soon."

     "Yes, I suppose so," said Bear drowsily, a moment later.  "What time do you think it is?"

     There was no answer.  Thornbriar was asleep beneath the wide brim of his blue hat; his breath whistling in and out of his long, pointed nose.  Bear waited idly for an answer, not noticing that his friend slumbered.  In a moment, he too nodded off; softly rumbling several tones deeper than the drone of the busy honeybees that still moved dreamily through the heavy, hot air.

                   ***********

     Bear was deep in a dream about chasing a butter-and-honey sandwich as big as a barn door.  He had caught the sandwich and was beginning to eat it, when it seemed he was surrounded by a gentle whisper of soft applause, like many hands clapping.  He looked around but could see nothing.  The applause grew louder and louder, and suddenly he felt something cold and wet plunk directly onto his nose.

     With a snort and a jerk, he was awake.  But the clapping sound was still all around him.  It was a muddled second before he realized that the sound was rain, pattering on the myriad leaves above him.  The old tree was so high and thick that only the occasional drop found its way to the ground beneath.

     The bear reached over and nudged Thornbriar.  "Hey, wake up," he said.  "Wake up!  It's starting to rain."

     The elf started up in alarm, rubbing his eyes.  "What the--" he cried, springing to his feet.  "Oh, great," he said.  "Just great."

     The two friends looked at the rain.  It was falling in a silver curtain all outside the perimeter of the tree and was so thick that the nearest trees and hedges were only blurry shapes.  The sky was uniformly dark grey, as if an iron bowl had been clapped down over the earth.  From far away, came the deep, warning brool of summer thunder.

     "We'll never get the berries home through this,” said Thornbriar.  "We'll just have to wait here until it lets up."

     "I don't know,” said Bear thoughtfully.  "It looks like its setting in to stay for a while."

     The elf hauled out his pocket watch and popped the lid.

     "It's a quarter past three," he announced.  "If it hasn't let up by five, we’ll head for home and do our best, rain or no rain."

     "Agreed,” said Bear.

     The next hour or so was spent in little scraps of conversation; the elf tidying up the picnic basket over and over again while Bear hummed the same three tunes, both of them cautiously keeping an eye on the endlessly falling rain.  As it grew later and later, it got darker and darker, and the clouds showed no sign of moving on.

     At almost five o’clock, there was finally a lull in the rain.  It didn't actually stop, but it was reduced to a few drops driven by a high, freshening wind.

     "I guess it's now or never,” said Thornbriar.  "We'll have to make a dash for home."

     "Right," said Bear resolutely, hitching up his pottles.  "Are you ready?"

     The elf grabbed his own load of berries.  "Let's go."

     They started at a fast pace and struck out for the valley pass.  It was hard going, because the paths had all been churned into squelching mud by the pounding rain, and the extra burden of the heavy pottles slowed them down.  As they hurried along as best they could, they saw ahead of them a frowning wall of black clouds rushing inexorably over the low hills, quivering with lightning and sweeping the country beneath it with a torrent of falling water.

     "We'll never make it,” gasped Bear.  "When that hits us, we won't be able to see.  And there are streams flooding all around us.  One false step..."

     "I know, I know," said Thornbriar.  He desperately looked around, then pointed.  "Look!  Isn't that a house over there?"

     Far off to their left, they could just see the wet glint of a slate roof on one of the low foothills.

     "Looks like an old shepherd's hut,” said the bear.  "It ought to be abandoned at this time of year."

     "I think we can just make it,” said the elf, turning from the muddy path and setting out towards the hut.  "We can wait out the storm there, if we must."

     The pair hurried through the wet, whipping weeds and tall grasses, running with determination and fear.  Every now and then, Thornbriar cast an anxious glance up at the lowering storm front to gauge its progress.

     They had reached the foot of the hill and started to climb when the rain struck, as suddenly and fiercely as a wave.  They groped blindly uphill the last few yards.

     Thornbriar had nearly run into the hut before he finally saw it; its gray, rough stones almost invisible in the slanting rain.  He dashed the water out of his eyes and located a door.

     "This way!" he yelled, and Bear nodded blindly, following his friend's voice.  The elf felt his way along the wall until he reached the door, then, finding it by feel alone, he grabbed and turned the latch.

     The door burst open, and Thornbriar lurched inside.  The bear followed a few seconds later; water streaming from his fur onto the bare slate floor almost as if he were a small rain cloud himself.  He threw his pottles down and shut the door against the howling wind.

     "Brrr," he shivered, automatically shaking himself like a dog and scattering water everywhere, including onto the elf, who had just removed his hat and cleared the water from his eyes.

     "Hey!" he said.

     "Sorry,” said Bear, thumping down onto a dry spot on the floor.

     "It doesn't matter, I guess," said the elf.  "I can't really get any wetter, I suppose."

     "It sure is dark in here,” said Bear, straining his eyes around the hut.  "Can you see anything?"

     "Hang on," said Thornbriar.  Elves have good darksight, but in the last, dying light of the heavily overcast sky which glinted feebly through the window,  even Thornbriar had a difficult time making anything out.  After a moment, he managed to get a match and candle stub from his tinderbox (which, mercifully, was still dry) and struck a light.

     By its slowly growing glow, the two friends could make out the interior of the little hut.  It was only one room, maybe twenty feet by twenty feet.  The walls were mortared stone, with one window covered with a semi-transparent, horn board.  The roof and floor were fitted slate, and opposite the door was a rough chimney, a pile of wood, and little else, except for a few hooks on the wall. 

     "At least we can get a fire going and dry out,” said Thornbriar cheerfully.

     He walked over and stuck the candle on the mantlepiece and began piling the wood onto the grate.  After a few touchy moments, he got a fire going, and its rosy glow soon filled the little room.  The elf took from one of his pockets a reel of fishing line and strung it from hook to hook on the wall, so that it hung near the fire.  Then he placed his wet clothes along it to dry them out.

     Outside the rain still fell steadily, and the wind howled down the chimney.  Blasts of lightning shattered the air and sent rumbles of thunder that the two friends could feel even in the stones of their temporary shelter.

     Eventually, as clothes and fur dried, they began to relax and feel that they had well escaped the ferocity of the storm.  They began to talk and tell stories and reminisce about old times.  Thornbriar lit his pipe, and Bear consumed one of the pottles of berries.

     It was past three in the morning before the worst of the thunder finally seemed to be over, and they lay down to sleep.  Bear instantly dropped off, but Thornbriar lay a long time with his head propped against the warm, furry flank of his gently snoring friend, gazing up at the roof, while outside the rain fell on, quietly but steadily.

Notes

This chapter of Elf & Bear has a long and storied history. It began as a playing when John and I were on the swings and was originally a story about Charlie Brown and Linus at camp and the flood which they escaped. Looking back, it may have been (unconsciously)influenced by the climactic flood in Baked Beans for Breakfast, though I could swear I had forgotten it at the time. The more conscious influence was our epic escape from camping and the rain and tornado that trapped us down by the river. The idea of 'The Flood' was also the inspiration for an entire proposed book in the Fellowfeel series, The Sundering Flood (shades of William Morris!).  

That country area where we camped was also the inspiration for the dewberry picking. Dewberries are " ... closely related to the blackberries. They are small trailing (rather than upright or high-arching) brambles with aggregate fruits, reminiscent of the raspberry, but are usually purple to black instead of red. The plants do not have upright canes like some other species, but have stems that trail along the ground, putting forth new roots along the length of the stem. The stems are covered with fine spines or stickers. Around March and April, the plants start to grow white flowers that develop into small green berries. The tiny green berries grow red and then a deep purple-blue as they ripen. When the berries are ripe, they are tender and difficult to pick in any quantity without squashing them. The berries are sweet and often less seedy than blackberries." - Wikipedia. They are a seasonal and regional delight, and the fruit is usually gone by May. They are gathered with many a bramble sting and with stained fingers, so they tend to be a hard-won, ephemeral pleasure. Dewberry jelly is the preferred method of preservation.  

Harlequinade: Friday Fiction o' a Sunday

 

Harlequinade (or Chapter Five: The Doll)

Spring was in full force.  All through the valley the fields were covered with greens of every shade and shape, from tiny willow buds of the palest to dark, rank leaves of milkweed.  In the woods the ferns were uncurling new fronds and tiny new spring leaves were already gathering the shade under the close-grown trees.

          Birds of every kind, from sparrows to wrens to crows, starlings and swifts returned in huge flocks, and were busy sorting out territories and new nests.  Out of burrows and holes and caves, all the animals who had laid low during the winter were stirring forth, sniffing out old familiar ways and finding out what had changed while they slept.

          Down under hill the elf and bear were not idle.  Thornbriar had ordered an all-out spring cleaning, to turn up the last musty corners of the old year, and had spent almost all morning busily scrubbing, sweeping, sorting, and scraping.  Bear assisted, mostly by helping move the heavier furniture and by preparing strengthening snacks, a talent in which he showed some skill and which he took every opportunity to demonstrate, even when Thornbriar wasn't hungry.  This never caused the bear any trouble, because after the elf rejected it he cheerfully disposed of whatever tidbit he had whipped up himself.

          “You know, Bear,” the elf said, as they paused for a little tea break.  “I don’t know what to do with half of the junk that’s laying around the house.  Besides everything I’ve accumulated over the last hundred years, there’s stuff crammed around here that’s belonged to my family that I’ve inherited, or just had dumped on me.  I suppose I’ll just have to put some more of it in the box room.”

          The bear swallowed a huge cup of tea in hasty interest.  “The box room?” he said curiously.  “Where’s that?  I’ve never seen it.”

          “I suppose not,” said Thornbriar.  “I’ve tried to forget it myself.  You know that big wardrobe in the back passage?  Well, behind that is a door, and behind that door is a little room I use for storage.”

          “Do you think we could go look in it?” asked Bear.  “It sounds interesting.  I love pawing through old relics of the past.”

          “You make it sound more exciting than it is,” yawned the elf.  “But since I’ll probably have to put another box of junk in, I guess you’ll get to have a peep.  Well, let’s get a move on and finish before I run down.  Otherwise I’ll never get going again.  Hand me that broom, will you, old fellow?”

          The rest of the day was spent with dust and cobwebs.  By the time the sun was starting to set every piece of wood glowed with polish and every piece of brass glinted like a new penny.  The pair sat tired and dusty, but happy, next to a box filled with things deemed as clutter but too good to throw out yet, like a cuckoo clock that had somehow lost its cuckoo; a large pewter vase that Bear had dented trying to swat a wasp, and a chess set lacking a few key pieces.

          Thornbriar let out a happy sigh.  “Now all we have to do is stow this away and we’re through.  How do ham and cheese sandwiches sound for supper?  I’m really too tired to try any cooking more elaborate.”

          “That’d suit me down to the ground,” said Bear.  He grunted and got up, then reached down for the box, hefting it with a rattle.  “Well, the sooner we get going, the sooner we eat.  I’m still pretty curious about that room.”

          “Oh, very well,” said Thornbriar, as he heaved himself out of his chair with a sigh.  “Let’s get it over with.  But I tell you not to get too excited.”

          The elf reached over to a lamp and with a particular twiddle of his fingers ignited a small, silvery flame.  The two made their way to the long hall in the back, stopping in front of the looming, old oak wardrobe.  It reached almost to the roof and was fully five feet wide.  Its doors were ornately carved with woodland scenes in which deer, elves, and fauns cavorted underneath a smiling sun.

          Bear sat down the box of junk and Thornbriar placed the lamp in a handy niche in the wall.  “You take that end,” he said, pointing to the left, “And I’ll take this.  You push and I’ll pull, and when the wardrobe is clear of the door, you give a holler.”

          “All right,” said Bear, setting his shoulder against the stout oak frame.  “I’m ready.”

          “On the count of three,” said the elf.  “One…Two…Three…Heave!”

          The bear strained his muscles and gave a mighty shove up and forward.  The elf took a step backward and suddenly yelped as the wardrobe came down on his booted foot.

          “Hurry, hurry, lift it up again,” he said through gritted teeth.

          The bear lifted again and Thornbriar staggered back under the weight of the enormous piece of furniture.

          “I see the door!” cried Bear.  “Get ready to set it down!”

          “Right!” said Thornbriar, hastily retracting his toes.  The wardrobe came down with a thump, rocking a little on its clawed feet.  The elf leaned against it for a moment to catch his breath, then walked around to where the bear was sniffing at the dusty, cobwebbed door and its brass knob, green with disuse.

          “Phew!” he snorted.  “We’ll need a broom here.”

          The elf went around the corner, fetched the broom from the kitchen, and hastily brushed the door down.  Then he got a little stool, set it next to the doorway, got on it, and reached high up to the sill.  After a little groping he brought down a dusty key, cut with elaborate teeth.

          “Here we are,” he said, hopping off the stool and putting the key in the lock.  For a moment it resisted his efforts, then with a dry “click-clank” the key turned.

          “Come on,” said Thornbriar, picking up the lamp.  “Get that box and let’s go in.”

          Bear did as he was told and followed close behind the elf, peering over his shoulder as he led the way.  It was a large room without any windows, and boxes and parcels were piled up all around the walls and in aisles along the floor.  The air was dry and musty and smelled of earth.  There were dark corners where the light of the lamp did not reach.

          Bear set down his box on what was apparently the newest stack close by the door.  As he did so he noticed a pile of what seemed to be paintings, covered by an oilcloth.

          “What are these?” he asked, going near and laying a paw lightly on them.

          “Pictures of my relatives,” said the elf.  He brought the lamp closer and twitched off the tarp.  The first painting in the stack showed an elderly dignified elf dressed in a complicated combination of robes and armor, standing in front of a red curtained window.  In one hand he held a rolled-up scroll.

          “This is my great-great-great-great-granduncle.  He rose to the highest position ever held by any Thornbriar.  He was Lord High Protector of the Seal.  And no cracks about what did he feed it,” he added to the disappointed bear as the joke died on the bruin’s lips.

          “Humph,” said Bear.  “He seems a serious kind of fellow.”

          “Oh, he was,” said Thornbriar.  “A pretty powerful enchanter, too, I understand.”

          For the next few minutes, they flipped through the pictures, the elf explaining each to the fascinated bear.  Finally they came to the last one, a double-portrait of Thornbriar’s parents.

          The elf stood looking at it for a long time.  “I think I’ll hang this one up again,” he said quietly.  “Come on, let’s take a last quick look around and then close it back up.  I’m dying for a meal.”

          The two poked and pried for a while longer, Thornbriar explaining what was in some boxes and Bear peeking in them if what he heard interested him.  Scattered around were pieces of furniture, dusty old armor, and other odds and ends.

          “Here, what’s this?” asked Bear.  He pulled out a strange little iron chest from where it lay beneath a battered old chair, covered so thickly with dust that it almost couldn’t be seen.

          “Let me see,” said the elf, bringing the lamp closer as the bear dusted the chest with one paw.  “Oh, that’s only Great-Grand-Uncle’s iron box.”

          “Really?” said Bear, picking it up and shaking it.  “What’s in it?”

          “Oh, I don’t know,” said the elf.  “It’s been in the family for years and years.  I can’t say I remember it ever being opened.”  He looked at the dusty piles around him and wrinkled his nose.  “Well, bring it along if it interests you.  As for me, I’m ready to eat.”

          The two left the room, Thornbriar carrying both the lamp and his parents’ portrait, and Bear following with the heavy old iron box underneath one paw.  Once outside the door, the elf re-locked it and put the key back where he had found it on the dusty sill.

          Heaving and groaning, they moved the wardrobe back into place.

          They retired to the kitchen, where Thornbriar began to prepare their supper.  While he sliced bread, ham, and cheese for their sandwiches, Bear sat at the opposite end of the kitchen table, wiping off the iron chest with a damp dish cloth.

          “Where’s the key?” he asked.

          “There’s no key,” said Thornbriar absentmindedly, as he sawed through the thick brown loaf of bread.  “Or if there was one, it was lost long ago.”

          “Well, what’s in it, then?” said Bear crossly.  “You might have told me before I dragged it out.”

          “I was thinking of other things,” said the elf.  “You were the one who was so interested.  And as for what’s in it, I don’t know.  As I said, I’ve never heard of anyone opening it.”

          “Never been opened!” exclaimed Bear.  “Why ever not?”

          “I’m not really sure,” said the elf, stacking slices of golden cheese on a plate.  “I have a vague recollection of being told not to mess with it or try to open it when I was a child.  I suppose they thought I might break whatever it is.”

          The bear looked determinedly at the box.  “Well, I’m going to open it, somehow or other.  I have a good feel for locks.”

          “You’re welcome to try,” said Thornbriar, getting up and bringing the smoky-smelling ham on a platter over to the table.  “But after supper, okay?”

          The bear set the mysterious box aside, and the two hungry workers began to eat with relish.  By the time the last crust had been devoured, Thornbriar was yawning and heavy-eyed; so tired that he was almost unable to move.

          “I’m going to hit the hay,” he said sleepily.  “I’ll just leave the dishes for tomorrow, I guess.  Unless you’d like to do them?”

          The bear looked at the crumb-covered cutting board and the couple of dirty knives and felt slightly guilty about his comparatively light duties that day.  “Of course I will,” he said.  “And then I might see if I can crack this chest.  You go on and get some rest, old fellow.  You’ve done a good day’s work.”

          Thornbriar walked to his bedroom in a drowsy daze.  He barely managed to get out of his dirty clothes, wash his face, and get into his sleeping cap and nightshirt.  He sighed as he snuggled down into the cool, clean sheets and fell fast asleep.

 

 

          Thornbriar was dreaming.  To the elves, dreams are more like places within that they visit, and the elves are always aware that they are there inside the dream.

          Now Thornbriar was walking down a long, long corridor, lined with doors on either side, doors of every size and shape.  He knew that somehow, for some reason, he was looking for one particular door.

          He passed dozens.  Some he recognized.  Here was the front door of his house; there an arch of a ruined castle he had once visited; next a door in Dr. Gilpin’s house.  None of these, however, was the one he wanted.

          He came to a slow stop in front of a rather plain door.  It was in two parts, upper and lower, cross-beamed, with two simple but graceful long iron handles and matching hinges.  He stood staring at it a moment before he remembered which door it was.  He reached out slowly and pulled the handle.

          As he passed through the door and into the room beyond, he had the strange feeling he was experiencing things as two people; both the adult he now was and the child he had been.  He was aware both of what he had known and felt as a child and what he knew and felt now, so while the young Thornbriar entered the room happy and carefree, the older Thornbriar felt a sudden pang as he walked into his mother’s kitchen of many years past.

          She was there, as she was so often, among innumerable jars of spices and bins of ingredients; a happy, red-cheeked elven lady with merry eyes like a cricket, dressed in one of her dark green gowns, stirring batter in a large crockery bowl.  The older Thornbriar walked up to her lagging a little behind the younger Thornbriar, who ran ahead eagerly to stick a finger into the mixing bowl.

          “Hi, Mom,” that young one said.  “What are you making?”

“Buttercups, dearie, buttercups,” she said.  “Buttercups with a little lemon icing.”

While she handed him a dab to taste on the mixing spoon, the older Thornbriar caught up.  He tasted again the batter, gone now for centuries, that his mother always made in spring.

          It is the great sadness and comfort for elves that all their past is remembered exactly, and there for their dreams to access.  Thornbriar looked around wondering, why this room?  why tonight? when suddenly his eyes fell on the iron chest.

          The younger Thornbriar was trying to open it by sticking a fork into the keyhole.  The chest was sitting where it always had when he had been a child, wedged away on a lower shelf.

          His mother turned from her cooking and gave a little cry when she saw what he was doing.  She rushed over and grabbed him up away from the box.

          “No, no, no, sweetie,” she said.  “You mustn’t mess with it, you know that!  Don’t ever try to open that chest.”

          “Why, Mommy?”

          “There’s something very nasty your Great-Grand-Uncle locked up inside, and we don’t ever, ever want it to get out, you see?  While it’s in there, it’s safe.”

          “But what is it?” asked the little elf, round-eyed.

His mother heaved a deep sigh and sat him down on the tabletop.  “Ah, Thorny, there are so many wicked things in the world, and I really don’t like to tell you about them,” she said, as she briskly straightened his clothes.  “But just to be sure you don’t mess with that, I will.  Do you know what a necromancer is?”

          “No, Mother.”

          “Well, it’s a particularly nasty type of wizard.  A long time ago there was a necromancer who made what’s in that box to help him do awful things.  Anyway, eventually he died, but the thing didn’t, because it had never really been alive, you see?  And it went around making mischief, and no humans could kill it because it was so clever and quick.  Finally, your Great-Grand-Uncle went and caught it and locked it up safe.”

“Why didn’t he destroy it?”

“He meant to someday if he could find the right spell, but he never did.  The box has been passed down for safe keeping for, oh, hundreds of years.  Someday I imagine you’ll take it for safekeeping.”

“Someday I’ll be a great wizard,” the young elf said eagerly.  “I’ll do great magics and I’ll get rid of it, once and for all!”

“Maybe, maybe,” said his mother.  “But now you go and play so I can finish baking.  And mind, don’t open the box, child.”  Suddenly she turned to where the older Thornbriar was, staring disconcertingly straight at him.  “Don’t open the box!” she repeated, walking toward him.  “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t”

Thornbriar turned to the door and fled out into the corridor.

 

 

In the kitchen Bear was still tinkering with the box.  Several old skeleton keys had proved useless, and now he was delicately probing with the tip of a claw.

“Easy, easy now,” he murmured to himself.  “Yes, that’s it, I think, just a little more pressure…” He held his breath and listened intently.  Suddenly, with a little “snick” the lock clicked open, the lid springing slightly ajar.

“Aha!” said Bear triumphantly, putting his paws on the lid to lift it.  Just as he did, Thornbriar, rumpled and shock-headed from sleep, burst into the room, shouting, “Don’t! Don’t! Don’t!”

“What the--!” yelped Bear, startled, as he jumped in surprise away from the table.  As he did so, the chest fell from his paws to the floor.  With a tumble of limbs and a jingle of bells, what was inside spilled out.

Thornbriar held his breath.  Bear reached down a slow paw and picked it up, holding it to the light to get a better look.

“Is that all?” he asked.  “It’s just a doll?”

It was indeed a doll; a red and dark-green velvet harlequin, spangled with black diamonds and brass bells.  Its hands and feet were china and on its head its hat curved into two pointed horns.  Its eyes were closed, but the mouth was turned up in a malicious grin.

“Put it back,” said Thornbriar, edging around Bear carefully, staying as far away from it as possible.  “Please, put it back in the box, if you can.”

“But why?” said the puzzled bear.  “What are you so afraid of?  It’s only a doll.”

“I’ll explain later, but just put it away first, all right?  Quickly!” the elf pleaded.

The bear wrinkled his brow.  “Well, okay.  I still don’t understand though.”

He stooped down for the box, but at that instant yelped in pain, dropping the harlequin.  Thornbriar cried out.  The doll somersaulted in midair, landing on its feet.  The two friends gazed in fear as it stood there swaying from side to side, turning its painted china face first to one, and then the other, its eyes now wide open and burning green, slanting in sly cruelty as if considering its next move.  From the painted nails of its ceramic hand, blood dripped.

“It clawed me!” said the stunned bruin.  “It’s alive!”

Thornbriar snatched up the poker from the fireplace, whirled around, and slammed the kitchen door shut.  “Close the window!” he yelled.  “We can’t let it get out!”

The harlequin turned, ran, and had almost reached the windowsill before the bear had recovered his wits enough to react.  He slammed the shutter and latched the heavy iron bolt.  The doll fumbled for a second with its tiny, delicate fingers at the bolt, then turned with a venomous hiss on the bear, who tumbled over backwards in surprise. 

It leaped up on the counter next to the dish rack and snatched up the kitchen knife.  With a flick of its hands, it flung the knife straight through the air at Thornbriar, who just managed to parry it with the poker.

The dangerous doll took the opportunity, crouched, and sprang towards the elf.  Thornbriar dodged wildly out of the way, but it was not him the harlequin had aimed for, but the doorway.  In a twinkling it had worked the door open and scuttled away into the darkened house.

“Are you all right?” asked Bear, having regained his breath and balance.  He walked over to the shaken elf and peered past him into the shadows.

“Yes, I guess so,” said Thornbriar.  A sudden thought came to him.  “Corenth trane!” he snapped, and instantly there was a brief flicker of scarlet flame around the edges of the window.

“There,” he said.  “I’ve sealed the house.  Now he can’t get out.”

“Neither can we,” pointed out Bear.  “Brrr! What a nasty little thing!  What was it?”

“My mother said a necromancer made it,” said the elf, closing the door again.  He came over and picked up the chest.  “My Great-Grand-Uncle locked it up.  Hello!  What’s this?”  He reached into the box and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.  It crackled as he opened it.

“Hmm,” he said.  “Listen to this.  ‘To whomever finds this note: Know that I, Lord Erasmus Thornbriar, defeated the wicked Verile in magical combat.  I undid many of his dark spells, but this working I do not comprehend.  Being unable to unbind it, I place this Harlequin, which the said Verile used to commit his crimes and in which his villainy yet lives, in this casket, until some other can understand and unmake it.  Beware, for though it can neither move nor act when the sun is high, in shadows and darkness it is as any imp or goblin.  If, for some reason, someone has unknowingly released it, I tell you, beware.  Put it back if it yet sleeps, for if it be loosed, none can tell what it would do.’”

“I wish,” said Bear, “That your Grand-Uncle had glued this to the outside.”

“Never mind that! We’ve got to catch that thing again and lock it up before it does something terrible.  This is what we’ll do.  We’ll search room to room and lock them when we’re through.

“We need something to catch it in,” he said, turning towards the broom closet.  “Something like a net, or…Aha! This tablecloth should do the trick!”

He handed it to Bear, then hefted the poker.  “You take that cloth and get ready to throw it over him, and I’ll drive him with the poker.”  He picked up a lamp.  “Well, I guess we’re ready,” he gulped.  “Let’s go.”

Carefully, they opened the door and stuck the lamp through the crack into the hall.  They looked up and down, but nothing indicated which room the harlequin might have entered.

“Okay,” said the elf.  “We’ll try the first door on the right.”

After locking the kitchen securely behind them, they entered the first room.  It was the formal dining room, seldom used, with a long table, high-backed chairs, a china cabinet, and sideboard.  After a thorough search in which Thornbriar even stood on the table to get a better look at the wagon-wheel chandelier, they locked that room, too.

So it went, as they examined room after room, finding no sign of the malicious doll until they came to the library.

While Bear was looking through the roll-top desk, he suddenly noticed something.

“Say, Thornbriar, look at this!  The letter opener is gone.  I’m sure it was right here just this afternoon.  And the ink bottle is tipped over.”

“I’d day we can be pretty sure he was in here,” said the elf grimly.  “And that he’s now armed.”

The bear snorted.  “Big deal,” he said.  “I doubt if that little bitty thing can hurt us much.”

“It did a pretty good job in the kitchen,” the elf pointed out.

“Yes, well, we were surprised.  We weren’t ready,” said Bear as he headed for the door to the back parlor.  “Now that we have a plan, it’ll be no match for us, you’ll see.”

He pushed the slightly ajar door open and began to stride out.  Before he’d gone a step, a pile of heavy leather-bound books fell from where they had been balanced on the other side of the door, clonking him heavily on the head.

The big animal fell stunned to the floor.

Thornbriar leaped to his friend’s assistance, thrusting the lamp into the darkened parlor.  He caught a quick glimpse of the harlequin, sharp letter opener in hand, as it quickly turned and scuttled out of the door and into the hall.

Thornbriar sprinted over to the door and looked out.  The doll had already disappeared.  He locked it and went hastily back to Bear, who had come to and was sitting up, rubbing his head.

“Ooooh,” he groaned.  “What happened?”

“You were just saying how powerless the harlequin would be against us.”  He helped Bear to his feet, feeling the animal’s head.  “That’s quite a lump you’ve got there.  Do you feel all right?”

“Just a little shaken,” said the bear.  He put a paw up to his skull and wagged his head vigorously.  “Aargh,” he growled.  “Now it’s personal.  Let’s get that thing and get it good.”

They went back out into the hall and continued the room to room search, being even more cautious now.  They found more minor booby traps, including a curtain sash drawn across the way and candle wax set where someone could easily slip on it, but they managed to avoid them all.

Finally they stood in front of the last room.  “He must be in there,” said the elf.  “The sitting room.”

“All right,” said Bear.  “Slow and careful, and check the door first.”

The bear put a paw forward and clicked the door open, then jumped back.  Thornbriar took the poker and jabbed its blunt tip near the knob, pushing the door all the way open.  It creaked noisily until it hit the wall with a bump.  Slowly the two peered in.

The fire still burned low in the fireplace, casting a dim reddish glow.  The elf poked the lamp in, sending the shadows flying eerily in every direction.  The two friends moved nervously just into the doorway.

Thornbriar pointed to the wood box, then to the fire.  “I’ll lock the door so it can’t get out.  You build up the fire so we can see better what’s going on,” he whispered.

“Okay,” said Bear.  While the elf turned the key and pocketed it, the bruin galloped over to the kindling box, checked around for any sight of mischief, then started piling logs on the fire.

The wood slowly caught, brightening the room.  Bear turned to his friend and then froze.  Thornbriar was alertly scanning the room all around, but behind him, precariously balanced on the door frame, was the harlequin, the knife-like letter opener glinting red in its hand.

Before the bear could react, the evil doll leapt down with a thin, tearing scream right onto the elf’s head.

Thornbriar yelled and dropped the lamp and poker.  The harlequin wrapped its legs around his neck, trying to choke him as it lifted the knife to strike.  The elf violently shook his head from side to side, trying to shake it off.  Thornbriar reached up to tear it away, but only got sliced fingers for the effort.  The harlequin lurched back and forth, trying to stab, but the elf’s movements kept him from landing a blow.

Bear seized the poker where it had fallen and stood swaying, trying to find a safe time to land a blow, but finding none in the mad swirl as the elf and harlequin jerked and jigged about the room.

“Get it off, get it off!” screeched Thornbriar.

“I’m trying, I’m trying,” yelled the bear.

At the moment, the elf’s feet jammed into a table, sending him sprawling forward off balance.  The bear jumped back to avoid the crashing piece of furniture as the entwined combatants fell to the floor.

Thornbriar’s skull landed with a crack on the thin carpet in front of the fireplace.  His vision blurred, then crossed, then came into focus only to see the triumphant doll grinning over him, knife held high to deliver a killing blow.  Thornbriar tried to rise but could not.

For a split second, the elf could see the knife descending, then the change on the harlequin’s face just before the bear brought the poker around in a mighty swing.  There was a crack like a bat hitting a ball, then a shriek as the jangling doll flew straight into the fireplace.

Thornbriar managed to raise himself on his elbow.  Through a haze of pain, he saw the harlequin dancing in the flames like a frantic marionette as the ancient, dry cloth of its body caught fire.  To the elf’s horror, the thing jerked its way past the firedogs, trying to escape the flames.

Bear took a step forward, but before he could do anything, the elf had snatched up the letter opener and hurled it like a dagger straight at the smoldering doll.  With a “thunk” it struck the parti-colored velvet body, pinning it to a glowing log.  The evil thing thrashed horribly, then with a startling “whoosh” its entire body burst into flames. 

The fearful friends could see for an instant under the doll’s clothes what seemed to be the pitiful skeleton of a small child, before that too withered and fell to ash.

 

 

The clock was chiming a quarter past three before everything had been put back to rights.  Bear patched the bump on Thornbriar’s head with a cold compress and had him sit in an easy chair while he straightened things up.  The elf got up only to sprinkle some silver powder and salt on the fireplace in case there were any lingering bad influences from the doll’s demise.  The bear brewed a nice cup of tea to settle their nerves.

“What I don’t understand,” said the bruin, as he leaned back in his chair, “Is why your ancestor didn’t just destroy the thing, way back when.  It turned out to be pretty dangerous to save it.”

The elf took a sip of his tea and stared at the fire.  “I think I know why.  He didn’t unmake it because he didn’t understand it.”

Bear frowned.  “What do you mean?”

“Do you remember his note?  He said he didn’t comprehend the spell.  I’ve known a few wizards in my time, and I know how their minds work.  He didn’t care if the harlequin was good or evil once he had captured it and stopped it from doing things.  To him it was a puzzle to be solved.  By burning it up, we just cut the Gordian Knot, as it were.”

He sighed.

“Perhaps if I had become the great enchanter I had hoped to be, I might have been able to peacefully dissolve it.  As it was, it was just horrible.”

“Well, I say good riddance,” humphed Bear.  “What good would it do to know how the spell worked anyway?  Only bad could have come of that thing, it seems to me.  I, for one, am glad it’s gone.”

The big animal yawned and stretched, muscles rippling under his fur.  “Well, all this excitement has exhausted me.  I’m off to bed.”

He got up and started for the door.  He stopped in the doorway when he noticed that the elf hadn’t moved.

“Are you going to go to bed?”

“Not just yet,” answered Thornbriar.

Bear turned anxiously to his friend.  “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine,” said the elf gently.  “You go on to bed.”

“Well, all right,” said Bear uncertainly.  “Good night.”

The elf spent the rest of the night watching the flames as they slowly consumed the logs.  When the first ray of morning sunlight hit the windows, he fell into a deep, peaceful sleep, untroubled by dreams.