DIMITRIJE IGNJATOVIC

The Second
Compilation of
Fantasy
Containing
The Fairies of the Fog
An Elven Lady in the Lake
The Goddess of Snow
The Great Elder
The Tear in Praker’s Eye
Nive-Alba’s Forest
On Dragonback
But There’ll Still Be Many Miles to Go
A Spright-in-t’-Wall
The Tarns of Terrasexmontium
Centumhecatareas, My Voyages!
And
A Faerie Haunting
With Bonus
Reflections on the Imagination
PREFACE TO THE SECOND COMPILATION
OF FANTASY BY DIMITRIJE IGNJATOVIC

Having published my first book, The First Compilation of

Fantasy by Dimitrije Ignjatovic containing The Lost Past and Finish-
ing the Unfinished, I think I am known to you as that yammer-
ing Christian.
Therefore, I have decided to tackle fantasy further on. I have
visited the Elfwood fantasy site in Linkoping, Sweden.
There I learned that writing fantasy is writing from a pagan per-
spective; I try to do so remaining a committed Christian.
It is hard to express my love for fantasy books without
faltering away to paganism, yet I oft find myself thinking
about, in paraphrasing C. S. Lewis’ words, Christianity fulfill-
ing paganism and paganism prefiguring Christianity .
Now, as my regular shut-up for evangelical Christians
who would ban the book at the first sight of it, I will add
that I am a Christian writer, and that I do not surrender to
my fantasies, I never do.
Dimitrije Ignjatovic
 The Fairies of the Fog
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

How many events of my life I vividly remember; but the

most important one is the one about a close encounter
with the will-o’-the- wisp.
I, Astor Nashe, was only eight when I encountered the
dangerous fays known among the people as the will-o’- the-
wisps, of which there are many here down Lusimachia. I
was led there by the circumstances of life.
I lived far from Lusimachia’s chief city Miserton, how-
ever, this whole province yclept Lusimachia was notorious
for its many will-o’-the- wisps and the frequency of in-
stances of fog that have misled many a poor traveller to the
fairies’ lair. Legend has it that the so-called Lusimachian will-
o’-the-wisps have turned them, too, into airy sprights like them-
selves, airy, disembodied eidolons, phantoms of the night,
faeries and will-o’-the- wisps. I can only ask, which scullion
cooked up the idea?
It was late sunset and Rylan and I were playing at the
field we were both forbidden by our parents to play in.
Rylan was my good friend, he obeyed his parents as if by
instinct; he also liked to play with me, and he often led me
into trouble – I remember when Rylan and I were looking
through our parents’ books to find fairy-tales, then we
found a book on folk legends people scare themselves with,
I still don’t see the reason, and there I found all I have told
you so far about the will-o’-the- wisp; then my father came
in, and found the mess we had made, and our parents pun-
ished us both. Rylan was no older than I was – and that
was reflected in his looks: he had blond hair, blue eyes, and
a cheerful countenance ... no, he was for some reason taller
than I was back then. He had a voice somewhat deeper
than the rest of us children. He was somewhat stronger
than I and he was the tallest of us children. He had such a
careless, strong and somewhat dumb figure of a theatrical
anti-hero, a complete anti-hero.
 That evening, while we were playing in the forbidden
field, Rylan looked at the emerging moon – it was not yet
complete fog.
‘Look, it’s night. We have to come back for supper. But
don’t sneak on us and tell them where we were, OK?’
‘OK,’ I affirmed.
Suddenly, a glowing speck, no bigger than my fist, ap-
peared out of the forest. It danced in the air around me,
methought, if it had a hand it would beckon me to follow it.
I followed it with my eyes, yet I waved around with my
arms as if to drive it away.
‘Astor! No!’ Rylan cried. ‘Don’t you read? It’s the will-o’-
the- wisp! Follow it and you’ll become a will-o’-the- wisp,
too!’
‘Strong or weak, you are still stupid. I see no reason to
your mindless reaction to those books our parents scare
themselves with.’
He ran away for help. I succeeded in driving the will-o’-
the- wisp a way from me. But then, I could not resist follow-
ing it. It went right into the forest and towards the moun-
tain that had a terribly thick wisp of fog on it, but I still
followed it.
The more I relentlessly followed the will-o’-the- wisp, the
more deviously it led me, and the more we were approach-
ing the foggy peak of the mountain, the harder I could see
through the fog. Then it lost its light and I was alone, lost
in the fog. I heard a voice of ‘Chit-chit-chit-chit-chit ... ’ and
suddenly I was surrounded by the will-o’-the- wisp fairies.
They gathered in a circle and chanted a chorus with words
I have never heard before. They were rhyming me to death!
I then got an odd feeling – the adventurous and sleepy feel
one gets when he is getting killed by a fairy curse. The
whole of my eight-year life started to flit before my eyes.
I handled this until I lost track of time, and then the feel-
ing disappeared and I was delivered back into the hands of
life. I looked around myself. I was on the ground and the
will-o’-the- wisps were nowhere to be found! The eldritch
chant had since stopped.
 ‘Hello, young master,’ said a raspy voice, and a yellow
light shone upon me.
‘Get off me, elfin knight! ’ I screamed.
The man who startled me neared me with his lantern,
and it was only then that I could see he was human. He had
straight grey hair, a scholarly countenance, a narrow,
wrinkled face and a very short beard. He had the narrow,
bright brown eyes that seemed to reflect a good and
learned nature. ‘Elfin knight?’ he laughed ironically. ‘You
seem to still be in the trance from the fairy’s curse that now
is defeated, as the fairies are driven away by my light they
saw in the fog.’
‘I’m saved?’ I said incredulously. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Bertram,’ he said, ‘and I come from yonder,’
he pointed into the fog, ‘a village named Fesspoint, and I
went past Drachmsforest towards Gullston, they say, it’s a
good place for hunting, and I was riding past the middle of
this forest when I found a boy running for help. I searched
for you a whole hour, you almost died when I found you.
Can you walk?’
I was feeling numb when he saved me, but the feeling has
passed. I got up.
Bertram and I walked out of the forest, and out of the fog.
He led me to his horse and put me on it. He urged the
horse and rode it to Drachmsforest. When I recognised the
houses, I said, ‘That’s my home village!’
When I got to my father, and told him the whole story,
he was angry at me. But he didn’t punish me, but rather he
thanked Bertram.
Thus I was taught always to heed my parents. And, me-
thinks, so was thus Rylan.
Therefore, no-one should even go near the fairies of the
fog, the will-o’-the- wisps.
 An Elven Lady in the Lake
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

Gordaya lived in the lake near Don after she threw her-
self into it – an undead eidolon of a young woman, by love
tormented, a wail for pleasure, Gordaya lived in the lake.
She swam in the lake when her long, glowing green hair
should be moistened, and should her hair be dried up, she
would die. To an untrained eye, she might look beautiful.
Not that she didn’t have any friends, there were many
young women of her kin in that lake – this was the local
lake of sorrows for melancholy lovers, lost young women
with no rhyme nor reason, who have lost both themselves
and every smidgen of their reason and love’s rhyme.
They danced sometimes in the lake, and sometimes be-
side it, and their evil green eyes without pupils, and their
wet, glowing bright-green hair constantly glowed a bright
green with all their might, enough to illumine the whole
lake with an eerie green light. Those eldritch circles that in
fact encircled places for their vi ctims, green spells for the
young green women to cast on them, and their pride that
lingered as a heraldic ring over them glowing an eerie green,
as pride of the earth and playfulness of the wind, were
spinning soon to find a victim, and, enraged by their unre-
turned love that was quelled as they drowned in the lake of
sorrows, take the victim into their circle, then seduce him
until he hears their laughter, and dies like a long-
unreturned love.
One night, a peasant’s youngest son, Fyodor, about the
age of fifteen, went out to hunt wild ducks in the lake of
sorrows. It was not far from his home, and there are many
ducks in the lake – ducks the young elven- women play
with until they make the ducks’ plumage turns green, don’t
make a good eating; ducks that do not glow are hunted by
many of the peasants of Fyodor’s village as tasty food.
It was easy to find unenchanted ducks in the lake illu-
mined by the eldritch green light – they looked dark and
distinguished on the lake, that had specks of green light on
its surface. Why the lake was in such an eldritch green way
illumined at night was a mystery to Fyodor not satisfacto-
rily explained. It was not the moon or the sta rs, thus Fyo-
dor, who had no faith in anything he’s been told about the
lake, and dismissed it as pure fantasy, only had his own
will to conjecture, and admire.
He fired an arrow toward the lake, and as a green-tailed
duck passed behind the normal duck, the green-tailed
duck’s tail, which was glowing an eerie bright green,
seemed to have averted the arrow from both ducks, and
into the water.
Fyodor stared in awe. Just then, his bow and all his ar-
rows faded into green nothingness!
‘Do not worry about the ducks,’ said a voice behind Fyo-
dor, but he did not turn, as he was too seduced. When he
gathered up his emotions, he turned and he could see what
illumined the lake thus. It was Gordaya – and probably
there were more of her kin around. When Fyodor saw her
beauty, his heart hammered with love. He could say noth-
ing.
‘Come,’ she said, ‘dance with us.’
He stood still when he realised she was more red than
green. Why not obey, when she is so beautiful?
He followed her – the faster he ran, the faster she fled.
She led him until he was too seduced to think.
The council of Gordaya’s friends where Fyodor was led
opened up, and Gordaya threw him in the centre. The cir-
cular council spun around Fyodor and they chanted a sinis-
ter song, while the ring above them illumined the grass
with an eldritch green light. The fays of the circle never
seemed to breathe at all.
They then all laughed and the instant that Fyodor heard
the laughter, he died.
The council of the fays opened up and each went her
separate way.
But Gordaya was terrified. She realised ... she was in love
with Fyodor. That was why she could seduce him like no
fairy could seduce a man. She cast off her absurd pride and
hypocritical playfulness. She had realised that no matter
how much one is loveless but seductive, it is good for him
to love. So she clutched her long, glowing green hair and
dried it up. She died that instant.
One can die for love, be it a loveless fay of Don, if love
comes back to him, after he has been completely purged of
it. But one has to be noble for his sense of love to return.
Only mad people drown themselves as melancholy lovers
that fall into ill humours for unreturned love, or even their
own incapability of loving; only mad people choose a lake
for their lake of sorrows, and this has happened not only to
Fyodor and Gordaya, but to other lovers of which one has
simply lost his love, then suddenly regained it. No one can
survive such a shock as the one that regained Love brings.
 The Goddess of Snow
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

The first winter and the coldest ever, the first day in the
first year of the five -minute-old, but completely developed
Wisdom-dale. Houses were already erected in the Dale, in
which lived the first, instant-aged branches of the Elven
community. Thus the World was created, all in five min-
utes.
Back then, Elves wore two -part clothes and socks sewn
from the skins of the first-slaughtered brown cows they
slaughtered even in the third minute, when they were at-
tacked by Pudore-Fastidit, the Shame-god. But it hardly
mattered to them, as the cold of the first winter in the first,
hamlet-like settlement, has desensitised them to cold.
In those days, also, the Elves were closer to the gods than
they are now. They could, unlike now, see the gods whis-
tling through the forests, and now even an Elf is rare that
can even hear them. Some saw them as winds – merely as
gusts of wind whose presence sometimes, but only some-
times, calmed into a silhouette of a head or a body; but
some, who saw them as distinct, glowing, transparent fig-
ures in form of different witful races – like Men, Elves,
Fairies, or Dwarves, but not Orcs, the witless Beast- kin,
Low-elves, or Mermen – were elected as Seers. Nowadays,
when no one sees those gods, many use fraud and pretend
to see the gods, but back then that was impossible as Seers
would deride them as those gods passed the World daily.
From the skies, overlooking, remained only one goddess
– Nive -alba, the Snow-goddess. She was finally unbound
from Pudore-Fastidit’s grip, and decided to manifest as
something more than the snow, cold and winter she should
maintain until the eighty-first day, when Herbarum-
Nuntius, the Spring-god, would arise from the top of the
Sun’s sphere, and descend in fire to the Earth, giving heat,
green and spring.
As the conifers shivered with cold, a meteor, cold as
snow, and fireless, has fallen on the ground in the middle of
Wisdom-dale’s hamlet, and Elves gathered to speculate
what was happening. The answer was unnecessary – a
whitish-silver woman with lustrous hair and a mantle of
snow appeared out from the snow-dust, before them. It
was the splendid, snowy Nive -alba, the Snow-goddess.
One unfaithful Un-seer, yclept False- wish, who could
not see her at first, said, ‘If it be Nive -alba, I tell it her, as
she is wo nders invisible, and I take her only for the meteor
she hath come out of.’
He could then hear the voice of Nive -alba say, ‘If I be in-
visible, I am to some, as he who seeth me not is wrong.’
This Nive-alba said, and the others around could hear
her, too. But some could see her.
False- wish was caught by a strong gust of cold wind be-
low his feet and thus Nive -alba, of the Anni-Tempora
quadrinity, threw him into the air. He stayed there until he
expressed his penitence, the first Penitence in the world, ‘I
now see I am not being deceived! O splendid Nive -alba, put
me down! Thy Rage hath overcome me!’
With a thud, False- wish fell to the ground, and the pow-
erful voice of Nive -alba continued, ‘Thou art wrong: thou
canst not be deceived. I am Nive -alba, and I am: our pres-
ence cannot be counte rfeited.’
Nive -alba raised her hands, and sang the winter’s song.
No one could understand the words, but as she sang, the
Snow, Cold and Storm raised to a climax. I, or you, if we
were there, would freeze to death – but they felt nothing.
The huge, long-haired, airy silver woman was singing to
Snow in the first, and most melodious song ever.
And everyone from the first settlement ever followed her,
and although they knew no words to the song, they sang it
as absolute music. Soon all the gods from the pantheon
appeared in their diverse forms, maintenances and manifes-
tation unto the Seers, and even the Un-seers heard the gods,
and everyone sang the winter’s song deep into the night in
celebration of a new-born world soon to flourish.
 The Great Elder
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

After what seemed an eternity, the boy, no older than

eight years, woke up on the bed. He was fully dressed this
cold Helmikuuta day. Helmikuuta was, he remembered, a
month at the end of winter. Although he’s pretty certain
he’s never heard of any such word as Helmikuuta! His vivid
green eyes scanned his clothes – a rather short black dou-
blet and tight black hose. He sat up and as he did so, he got
nearly tugged back by his long black cape. He turned to his
right and got off the bed without a problem.
He looked in the object he recognised as a mirror. He
looked really good for his age. A shock of straight blond
hair, a freckled feminine face with a penetrating look in his
wide, grass-green eyes, a calm demeanour for an indeed ill-
looking boy.
He gazed out the window and saw that the landscape is
completely unfamiliar. He was, apparently, in a hamlet
where it was cold and windy – all the snow-showered
conifers in the small yard were mercilessly swayed by the
cold Helmi kuuta wind.
The house this unfamiliar bedroom was in seemed to be
in a street in a whole grid of streets. Perchance this hamlet
was a city?
The boy tried to remember his own name. He must be
suffering from severe memory loss. Could it be Mage? He’s
heard himself called young Mage, respected Mage – but his pro-
fession as a Mage does not mean his name is Mage. Sud-
denly his name projected itself into his mind: Manu Ri-
sanen.
‘Manu?’ he heard a raspy voice call him behind his back.
‘Yes!’ Manu replied impudently. He looked around, but
noticed no one. He looked down as if by instinct, and no-
ticed a very short old man with a long grey beard in a
brown serrated doublet adequate to the dwarfish man’s
size, and green hose whose tightness only emphasized the
d warf’s obesity. The dwarf’s boots were too big for his legs.
The dwarf wore a red pointed hat and seemed not to be of
human race – for his pointy ears were unlike any human’s.
However strange the dwarfish man looked, Manu recog-
nised the dwarfish man as the Great Elder, so he addressed
him as such.
‘What’s happened to you, Manu?’ inquired the Great
Elder. Manu could understand him, although he knew nei-
ther which language the Great Elder spoke in or which
language he himself replied in; but somehow he under-
stood both of them. ‘What’s bothering you?’
‘Where am I?’ asked Manu, still confused. This was the
first time he’s been addressed as anything more than a
Mage. ‘I want to go home.’
‘Oh, but you are, young mollycoddle. You’re in my house.
In Maythenston, the chief city of Pumilionum-Indigenia.
Mollycoddle ? Did Manu look to the Great Elder like a mol-
lycoddle ?
‘I just called you by your name. I’m not entitled the Great
Elder for no reason, equal-classed Mage – I am a Mage elder.
Trust me, young mollycoddle. I know what the word
means and I do not mean to affront you.’
‘Who am I n—’ Manu was frightened of his own childish
voice. He tried then to speak in a lower voice, and blushed
in shame as he heard the sound of that. ‘Who am I now?’
‘No need to disguise your voice. You look and sound
pretty normal for your age. You are yourself, Manu Risanen.
You have had a pretty big memory loss. It usually comes
after falling unconscious from travelling through a rift.
When one travels to another universe, he becomes another
person. A different mind, but the same personality. He will
never again have any memory of his previous life. Spirits
travel through universes, without any one being aware.
This is the explanation for changing of moods. Have you
been angry? It was brother rage. You are sister melancholy.
That is why your favour has turned female all of a sudden.’
Manu understood. ‘Come, honour’d Manu,’ said the Great
Elder, ‘I’ll show you the school if you are interested.’
 The Tear in Praker’s Eye
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

If one cannot see something, they should be told. If one

has no ears to hear, pity for them.
I know of a youth about sixteen years old, yclept Praker.
At that Age in history Surnaming was not common – on
occasions when there would be two different persons iden-
tically Named, they used patronymics. But on most occa-
sions it was Name-only. As Praker was a verily rare Name,
there was never, in Praker’s life so far, any need for calling
him Praker, son of Idylthorp.
Praker arose on his bed in the study of a Scholar’s home.
He had been appointed for a visit from the old Scholar, his
mentor, on a poem he wrote. The Scholar, hight Keere,
would be very glad to have such an apprentice as Praker.
But while Praker was Praker, Praker was not Praker.
Praker was tormented on and off by his alter-ego, that had
a bitter tear in his eye. The other, physical Praker, who then
was completely re pressed, completely at idle, thought in
colours of verse and knew of nothing that his alter-ego,
bitter with a mixture of impudence and sorrow, would,
from Praker’s altered state of consciousness, have done on
the physical plane, with the physical Praker resting in the
astral plane. The physical Praker, on arrival from the astral
plane in the altered state of consciousness, would only
wake up to its immediate after-events. Thus, if we see this
story from the perspective of either Praker, it would be
incomplete. Therefore, we’d better watch the events from
afar, a safe distance.
Praker has been trying his best to hide the snaps, as he
called them in the ivory-coloured thoughts in his mind,
from his Mentor, Keere. Being already sixteen years old,
Praker already knew the mythology. And every Scholar
writes poems – that is what a scholar does.
As Praker was, awake since sunrise, hurriedly flipping
through the book of myths, trying to find the Elvish crea-
tion myth, he heard a knock on the study’s door. Praker
started shaking nervously as he opened the door to find his
mentor, Keere.
‘Why are you shaking thus?’ inquired Keere.
‘Er, nothing.’
Praker has found from his experience that these symp-
toms are the herald of the snaps.
‘I have come to discuss with you on the poem you’ve
written yesterday.’
‘Through the Forests Have I Gadded?’ asked Praker.
‘The very one.’ He then read —
Through the forests have I gadded,
To my sadness have I added.
Speech-less sat I by a tree,
’Tis my covent for to be.
And this vast rich forest-plain
Me shall from supposing lain.
And my Mentor, dull and plain
I will quell with might and main!
‘What!’ Praker protested. ‘I think that last couplet didn’t
come out of my quill!’
‘It did,’ calmly answered Keere, and lowered the scroll
somewhat.
‘It seems,’ Keere continued, ‘that you are possessed.’
Keere incantated:
‘Ghost in Praker,
Shew thyself.
Lead thee to peace
And expose thyself out. ’
Praker closed his eyes, shook slightly and got up. He be-
gan shedding bitter tears. His face suddenly showed both
impudence and melancholy at the same time. His thoughts
echoed around his head, and formed a veil as black as death.
A periculous cape of impernicious fire burnt from his
shoulders down to the ground, harming nothing in its burn.
His previously black eyes were now as red as fire. When he
spoke, it was not the scholarly, refined, calm voice he had
before. It was a calm voice full of hidden rage, echoing like
that of a monster.
‘What do you want of me?’ hissed the Other-Praker.
‘Leave Praker, or I will kill you with your own weapon!’
Praker’s eyes were darkening again, but Keere stayed
calm. He said, ‘Through the forests have I gadded!’ Sister Impu-
dence appeared. She had wild red hair, and fiery red eyes
like the Other-Praker. In his quintessence, the Other-
Praker was, in fact, Good. No Evil spirit can, in fact, pos-
sess a Good body; nor can a Good spirit possess an Evil
body. Thus, the Other-Praker fell in love with Sister Impu-
dence. It was love at first sight.
As the Other-Praker doted on Sister Impudence, she said,
‘I will not tolerate this dotage. I will now take you to my Spirit Pre-
serve for ever.’ And as Sister Impudence faded away, the
Other-Praker faded into the normal Praker, the tear vanish-
ing from the now- true Praker’s eyes, which then became as
black as midnight, then Praker, not yet awa kened, fell to
the ground. Then he awoke. He was now a mere Praker.
‘What happened?’ he said.
‘I just exorcised the force that was troubling you.’ Keere
was calm as if it wasn’t his first time doing that. And the
question remains unto this day – how did Keere know
about the snaps?
 Nive-Alba’s Forest
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

Over the stream, in Terranivea, lived a young man, in his

temporary home in Firton, as he was of an itinerant class.
His Name was Barleywine, and he was of the Human race.
He’s always wondered why here in Terranivea, even on
Midsummer, there is waist-high snow, and even the most
ardent conifers shiver with cold.
He therefore decided to investigate. First he decided to
go to Forstsilve. As he went into the forests of Forstsilve,
he was confronted by a blast of wind that tried to drive
him away. It took him an hour to get to the stream. As he
crossed the frozen stream, the cold stagger blew him away,
but he ran back towards the weakened blast. And he, run-
ning, at length found a transparent woman with silvern
hair, in a mantle of snow.
‘Who are you, mysterious mistress?’ he said, totally in
love with her.
‘I rarely get mortal visitors here,’ she said. ‘I am Nive -alba,
the Snow-goddess.’
‘And you’re beautiful,’ said Barleywine.
Nive -alba pointed at Barleywine, and a blast of wind
blew Barleywine to the ground.
‘I must admit, that I am,’ she said as coldly as the north-
ern wind. ‘And, mortal, never try and break a goddess’s
heart – it will only bring you more humiliation.’
Spirits, dancing through the forest winds, invisible, but
audible like a gust of wind, the very mischievous sprights
that scared off young children, and the reason why the for-
ests of Forstsilve, the forests near Firton, are so seldom
visited, have arrived and danced an unseen roundel around
Barleywine, and sung –
‘Nive-alba hath defeated
Barleywine’s heart broken, slain,
And when Barley her entreated
She him quell’d w ith might and main. ’
 But then Fairies, the mischief sprights of another sort,
not those evil, capricious sprights that scared the children
of Firton, have appeared, also invisible, but audible as
winds, as they drew their swords and in seven sourceless
flashes across the clearing, they defeated the capricious
spirits, and danced a roundel around Barleywine, singing –
‘We the Fairies do revive
Barleywine and coldness bear:
Barleywine is now alive,
Nive-alba, leave him there.’
Barleywine got up, now hating Nive -alba, who had
moved on to her cloud in the Deorum- Domus. Then all the
snow had vanished, and it grew wondrous warm. One of
the Fairies, named Nym, appeared unto Barleywine, in the
likeness of a woman about Barleywine’s age, and size, with
golden hair and leaf-like ears, opaque, with silvern wings,
and clad in a bear-skin and armour-boots. She spoke in a
low, cracked voice, ‘We, the Fairies, kill anyone that dares
attack a visitor of this forest. But when defending you, it
befell that I, Nym, fall in love with you.’
‘I, Barleywine, love you too,’ said Barleywine, taking off
his feathered hat.
The fairies wed Nym and Barleywine, who settled in Fir-
ton, now Alderton, and Barleywine’s sense of class led
them to se ttle and live outside the malice of Nive-alba,
which was simply too cold to love.
 On Dragonback
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

The warrior descended from the dark clouds on dragon-

back, a lean, tall woman with a mace-like helmet that
completely lained her hair, but showed her leaf-like ears
and her elvish face. She wore silvern armour that empha-
sised her lean body contours, and silvern armour-boots.
The dragon descended, taking her over a rocky, high
mountain peak above wondrous white clouds; over a com-
pletely castled city on the mountain peak, called Heafod-
stol. This was the chief city of this small mountain-peak
land yclept Blancmangeria. She rode over the castling and
espied three humans, apparently sentinels, running to their
shift in the churchward tower. But the dragon, being a
dragon, burned them to ashes.
This apparently pleased the elven warrior, and she
strongly pulled the dragon’s neck, spurring him into a kink
of copiously coughing up fire from his infernal lungs. Eft-
soons the whole Heafodstol was on fire; still rising, the
dragon took awa y the female elven warrior, amain spring-
ing with her into the dark sky, the grim rain eftsoons be-
ginning to douse the fire.
The morrow morning, what remains is a burnt mountain
peak. The morning lark comes and sings, but no one arises
to mark her merry song. Thus Heafodstol is shent.
But There’ll Still Be Many Miles to Go
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

Over hill, over dale, through bush, through briar I have

gadded; but narytime have I been mazed and ashamed as
when I was at The Rampant Gryphon.
Not only that the innkeep should have chosen a less
commonplace animal-of-t’-Beastkin than the Gryphon for
his coat-of-arms, but eke he was prating with us, as if he
had drunk a Nepenthe Ale; that ale is the very one made
with herbs that take one into extraneous humours, forbid-
den by all the faneholds of Terraignis. This hostel still sells
it, in despite the fact that the sottish son of the King, who
spends an abominable tax on the Kingdom’s fief-income on
Nepenthe Ale and other dangerous drinks, has gone ill.
As I was saying, he must have been deboshed with Ne-
penthe Ale. I could acknow the consequences of Nepenthe
Ale through the very tone of a question. He prated merrily
as if he didn’t mind any sorrow – sweet surcease at first,
but deadly danger in the end.
As I sat to drink my Merry Ale, I sat next to an Elven girl
no older than fourteen years. She looked very frail-minded
and childish, cute rather than impudent. This countenance
was aided by her long silvern- white hair, eyes the very col-
our of gold, her long white mantle, her youthful face, and
ove rall her small, lean appearance. Dark shadows roved
over her head, the nature of which I could not explain.
‘Who ... ’ For a moment I thought it was Chrysanthem
Azurbloud; my little Chrysanthem looked similar to the elf
sitting before me – but no, her ears stood out at a different
angle. ‘ ... Are you ... she?’
‘I crave your pardon,’ she replied hastily, in a high-
pitched, nasal voice, hissing and mumbling her words to-
gether, ‘but I don’t know whom you’re referring to.’
‘What is your name, Elvenmistress, then?’
‘My name is Orchid Sweetbehest, and I’m here until the
snow ceases.’
 ‘I’m Cloud Coaxfire,’ I replied, ‘and what is a fair damsel
like you doing in this inn?’
‘I am waiting for the snow to cease. This is the first inn I
could enter. Too bad it doesn’t have any windows.’
‘What, are you a fairy? According to the angle of your
ears, methinks you have enow Winter-Elf blood in you.’
Verily, I ken all nine Races of Fairies and all the seven
Races of Elvenkin, and I have met all sixteen races, as, as I
have mentioned, I am of an itinerant class.
This view may look strange to a poor unexpected guest
who knows not our predicaments, as she is, if my guess is
right that she is fourteen, over ten years younger than I.
‘Methinks I don’t. I feel cold even here by the ingle.’
‘Yet you still look that mirthful?’ I asked in wilderment.
‘That’s what everyone’s been saying about us fairies.’
I took her out, and we were blown by the last gust of
ceasing snow.
It was still cold, and Orchid looked at me, wishing to re-
turn.
‘You can’t wait all winter,’ I told her.
Then I returned to the inn.
‘Ar har, where is your elven love?’ guffawed the innkeep
mirthfully.
Everyone began laughing, even the choleric man who
forgot to take off his fur coat.
I was narytime ashamed thus in my life! I finished off my
Merry Ale in one swallow, left twenty marks on the table
and all wroth I went out of the inn to find Orchid, but she
wasn’t there. I went my own way, towards Terraoriens ...
 A Spright-in-t’-Wall
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

The short, old Professor Hannila stood in front of me, not

having uttered a word for indeed very long. He was looking
around the esture that was all in tones of pine wood colour,
teeming with books, he wanted perchance to find some-
thing beyond the range of human sight. His head, which
was slowly moving left and right, stopped with an awk-
wardly abrupt jerk. It was turned forty-five degrees to my
left.
But he was still alive, I convince you. He had only found
something just behind me, to teach me.
‘Ainikki,’ he told me, ‘today we are going to summon the
keeper spright of this esture. It is in the wall. Perchance
you can call him always, and unless you know its name,
call him the spright-in-t’- wall.’
Around the word perchance, his voice was sta rting to de-
generate and trail off into a mumble. I just barely heard
what he said and around his word unless, I was going to
warn him about his mumbling, but his voice cut mine off.
‘This,’ he reached out to my left and pulled out an object
that looked like a circular mirror whose frame attached to
a golden handle, hanging from a pendant like a magic tal-
isman, ‘is a summoning mirror. In it you see not only what
is in the visible world, but eke invisible things, like spirits.
Watch closely, Ainikki,’ he said, ‘as I summon the spright-
in-t’- wall, and then I will entrust the mirror to you. Make
sure you summon not the spright of the same esture more
than once in a twenty-fourth part of one day, which is to us
one hour. Also, make sure you direct the mirror not to-
wards the ground while saying the incantation, because if
you direct it to wards the ground you will summon terrible,
evil sprights. The summon spell won’t have any effect if
you mispronounce the incantation.’ He then circled with
the mirror’s reflection over the esture’s brown wall, and
chanted –
‘Spright, of the sun,
 My Knowledge illumine:
Spright, O spright-in-t’-wall,
Right here, appear!’
Then, an airy white gust of wind sprouted out of the mir-
ror’s reflection.
‘What can I do for you?’ the spirit said, sounding like an
ear-piercing, windy wailing from a brass throat.
‘Lift this table and suspend it above Ainikki.’
The table behind the old Professor Hannila was caught
in the gust of wind. It started to rise and shakily fly above
me and stopped above my head. I was scared stiff when I
looked up ward.
‘Professor Hannila! It’s gonna kill me!’
Professor Hannila simply said, ‘Take the table where it
was, drop it and leave.’
The spirit took the table away from me, as its sing-song,
gusty voice said, ‘All right,’ and the table dropped, with a
loud thump, on the floor behind the old Professor Hannila,
where it had been originally, dead as a doornail. The
spright-in-t’- wall had left.
‘The sprights-in-t’- walls,’ the old Professor Hannila went
on to explain, ‘are all good spirits, mark you, Ainikki. Good,
but only in good hands. They do what one tells them to do.
Thus, be precise when you tell them what to do. I entrust
you with the summoning mirror. Keep it.’
‘I promise, Professor,’ I said, and he raised the summon-
ing mirror above his head, with a proud look in his eyes,
and he put the mirror around my neck.
So far I’ve held it as my dearest possession, and I always
will.
 The Tarns of Terrasexmontium
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

My village, a glacier-cross a way from Poppleford, in Ter-

rasexmontium, was on the coast of the Tarns of Terrasex-
montium, the Westerlake part of the tarn that, says the
Traveller, was supplied by the water of glaciers from all the
six mountains.
And my Great Elder’s home, where I live, is exactly at
that point from where one can see that the two tarns are
joined by only a narrow strait, yet separated by two nar-
row, long isthmuses, much like the two eye-holes on
Fluminis-mater’s helmet when she’s depicted in her war
form on the many statues on which she’s depicted in that
blazon.
I descended towards the lake, writing in my notebook on
concentration for magical purposes. It was something for my Great
Elder. My pocket ink-bottle was running out of ink. I had to go home.
But instead I sat down at the coast and tried to do the
practices I have been taught. I first had to relax. First I re-
membered that the tarns were the most relaxing place in
the whole Centumhecatareas, so relaxing that many a
wounded knight came here to recover and many a Mage
came here to practice his sorcery.
I soon fell into a dream of fancy, the fancy I have per-
chance seen on my woodcuts, a pendant, two pendants,
three, the third of a different kind. Then stand on the dex-
ter a male warrior, on the sinister a female scholar, him
being Human, her being Elven, and they were holding each
other’s hands in a link, a magical pose to me very familiar – I
held it long ago with my Great Elder, upon my Initiation
Day.
Then I woke up, and saw two spirits, but those who
Dark Mages (I am not a Dark Mage, but I have read a lot on
them) euphemistically called spirits of another sort, the Good
spirits. They were artificially welcomed, and they vanished
as I didn’t command them.
 After my fancy dream, methought, what a pity I couldn’t
properly see them.
Then I saw my notebook. It had been hailing, and the
hail has destroyed it.
Eftsoons I heard a familiar voice singing a doggerel song,
an old man’s voice.
‘Oh if ever thought and passion
Ever songs sing out of fashion:
Oh, the world would dangerous be,
Living in thought-poverty:
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Oh if ever thought and passion
Ever songs sing out of fashion. ’
I was distracted until he addressed me, ‘Greetings, ap-
prentice.’
I turned around. I looked at the Great Elder in amaze-
ment. I thought I left him at home!
‘I have followed you, and when I saw how you almost
summoned those sprights I think you saw, I found you
summoning the two most powerful sprights that can be
visibly channelled! You simply couldn’t handle it,’ he shook
his head in regret. ‘I will let you off your essay on concentra-
tion for magical purposes. You have proven to have mastered
the basis of spell-casting, you only need to practice it some
more.’
Then we went home. I waved goodbye to the tarns of my
enlightenment, the tarns I honour.
 Centumhecatareas, My Voyages!
(Excerpt from The Lore of Centumhecatareas by an anonymous
Traveller)

I have travelled far and wide over this wo ndrous world

yclept Centumhecatareas, which I, as a Traveller, still ad-
mire. I have chosen to tell you about Caricisinsula, from the
time I went there to clear off all the myths on that islet.
Caricisinsula has, thus I am told, only one port town,
Ivy-Elm, where the elms are cultivated for their wood, and
the port village, Bulrushton, just opposite yonder Bulrush-
enshore, where bulrush was cultivated for finest baskets,
along with Bul rushton, in all of Centumhecatareas. Even in
Ivy-Elm, the recognizable coats of arms were carved in
woodcuts, and then imprinted on heraldically coloured
parchment.
I have been told when I was a child, I vividly remember,
that in Ivy-Elm, my latter destination, Hederae-deus, the
Ivy-god, hides in the Forest of Ivy-elm. (Yes, there are no
regularities in the spelling of geographical names, and this
is what befuddles me the most in the description of my
voyages.) I spent my growing years, while I was classless,
poring over ancient mythology books, pondering long-
forgotten lore deep into the night, even learning some non-
standard sorcery that oftentimes got me into trouble. Dur-
ing my whole classless age, my whole childhood and half
my teen years (while I was still classless), I have found
nothing on Hederae-deus or any such god!
Like many of today’s Elves, I saw the gods but as their
winds and their manifestations or materialisations on earth
(as opposed to when they are in the unseen Deorum-
domus), and I could al ways hear their voices when they are
near me, feel their presence when they are near me. But I
only saw the gods’ true forms on illustrations of mythology
books and woodcuts, thus I cannot be deceived by the
many counterfeiters, who would do anything to look like
gods they have seen on paintings of gods painted by some
honest Seers with artistic talent. The counterfeiters would
even cast spells on their forms and costumes to transport
themselves onto the ethereal plane, so they would be ethe-
real, airy, wight-like, transparent; and some would even
cast on themselves, and sometimes even their costumes,
spells that would make them glow from the inside; but no,
methinks, they cannot fool me, as I cannot see gods. The
magic the counterfeiters use as costume is only outward
magic, and sometimes the counte rfeiters misportray the
gods so terribly that even an unknowing Un-seer can rec-
ognise it as fake if he has pored over the mythology sung by
Seers carefully enough, as I have.
*
As I was boarding the ship down in Portston, Fluminis-
terra (on a scheduled path back to Terralibera from Palud-
isterra), I was asked for transport- tax, by some Caricisin-
sulan sailor Humans. Humans were the best for the Sailor
class, as they could swim better than we elves could; but as
one can see from my writing, we the elves are wiser.
(‘Gizza tree mahks, if yeh want to enteh!’ said one of them;
methinks he is from Caricisinsula, by both his accent and
dialect.) And yes, I did pay them three marks. Thus, I was
left with seven marks and another mark in pennies, then
another fifty pence in pennies. Also they left my vellum
notebook (far cheaper than a parchment one in Terralibera,
as in the villages of Terralibera, where it was produced,
there are many cow-breeding farms, but no sheep-breeding
or goat-breeding ones), my bottles of ink, and my quill.
A more adventurous type than I (which I forsooth doubt
there is) would skip Portston and Courtston (the chief city
of Terratruncorum) and sail from far more to the north, up
from Fireton (the port town of Terraignis), which I con-
sider a foolish waste of time.
After all those people on the dock (a massive crowd, they
were) boarded the ship, it was unanchored; the sails we re
hoisted, and the ship started to sail. I was wont to sailing; I
have passed the Fireton-Pruniinsula track so many times
that I have eradicated the seasickness in me like no Elf that
I know.
 As anyone there could see from my clothes (I was the
only one wearing a cape), methinks, I was the only one not
going to Caricisinsula for mere summer fun (no Elf or Fairy
would) – but many around here would already have found
out that I am writing a travel account. I am, as I have said, a
Traveller by class; but in all my voyages, I have seen no
Traveller like me – a talented Tra veller.
The peaceful travel lasted only the first day. Then a wild
tempest that awakened me near sunrise of the second day
forced us to stay at Temerton, the southern port town of
Terracasei. By evening we already hoisted the sails again
(two of them were replaced, as the old ones, which were
replaced, were torn and useless) and took a turn towards
Bulrushton, where we arrived the next afternoon.
Behind the wooden port, there was a grassy path with
crop-fields of reed mace. As I hiked towards Ivy-Elm, the
elm trees (all entwisted with ivy) were more frequent.
There were also many elm-tree stumps.
*
Ivy-Elm looked more like a village than a town. There
was a castle, several inns, many houses, and a forest of elms
surrounding it. Also, there was a landmark, the Forest of
Ivy-elm. I went to a nearby house and knocked. A Human
lumberjack opened the door, a tall middle-aged man hard-
ened by work, with a shock of red hair and a red mous-
tache. He seemed to be waiting. He wore yellow clothes, a
doublet and hose, and he wore a cheap pyrite blowing-
horn around his neck. Apparently, it was the Horn of Scorn,
the herald of many Human faneholds of Pudore-Fastidit-
Hominis-Deus, the god of men and Shame-holder. I did not
answer him while I was drafting notes on him and my sur-
roundings.
‘Go ’ed, speack,’ he tried to convince me. ‘Are-eh, I’ve ne-
veh seen an Elf, one of yews.’
‘You have never?’ I reply, thinking us Elves are common-
place enough.
‘Well, how may I helf yew?’
‘You may guide me throughout the forest to the north-
west and out. I want us to search every tree.’
 ‘Are-eh I’ve neveh been dath fahr away meself!’ he la -
mented. ‘Bur not lycke I won’th try an’ gythe yew. We all
know, When a scone’ead’s kind, gythens kum the mind.’
I felt amazed and confused until I realised it was his
fanehold’s version of the proverb, An ye should be kind, guid-
ance come to mind. It had lost enough of the meaning in his
version – how come it says scone’ead when it is about kind-
ness? But I thought better of saying it does not go like that;
perchance his fanehold is one of those new faneholds that do
not conform that firmly to the Values. There are no two
identical faneholds in all of Centumhecatareas.
‘Soft, guide me then.’
He led me through a path full of inns, cheap and bad; I
know this as he led me into one to get me a free drink and
food (‘Don’th be such a biff, iss en us, dat!’) But this inn he
led me into was not only smelly and crowded with sailors –
the food they gave us for the lumberjack’s fifty pence was
so horrible (a stew of the cheapest cuts of lamb meat,
mixed with hardtack, which seemed to be called lobby) that
I was disgusted at the first spoon. (‘What, young la? Haith
my freeman’s food? Pure wan roond the face?’) I don’t want
to recount to you more, but us Elves are very sensitive to
disgusting food.
After some hardships, we went out of the inn and to the
west. At length we arrived at the top of a hill in front of the
Forest of Ivy-elm.
‘Well, er, dis here is de Fores of Ivy-elm, metinks,’ part of
his words were lost in his chuckling. ‘Neveh been so fahr
meself.’
‘Now before we enter this forest, can you tell me, only for
the risk of counterfeiters, where is the nearest fanehold?’
‘De neares fane’old? Iss a the nord of here, righth ahind
de inn you ate in. An’ I’ve no idea what countherfittehs
ahre.’
He led me through a forest of elms, until we reached a
‘sketchy’ place where no elm tree was entwisted by ivy. A
true Caricisinsulan knows what is sketchy about a forest
on his islet – perchance the ivy-elm relationship I had no-
ticed and the one I pointed out. Perhaps that was why,
throughout Centumhecatareas, the ivy was called ‘the fe-
male ivy’ in poems. Perchance this was also why female
authors, never made their seal-stamp out of elm, according
to the popular custom. My seal-stamp is made of alder.
*
‘Forsewt sketchy. I’ve neveh seen an elm unentwined
wid an ivy,’ wondered the lumberjack.
I have not asked him for his name, because if I have, he
would ask me for mine. I haven’t told him my cause, be-
cause if I have, I would have revealed who I am, and that I
don’t want for my reasons, but no reason standing out in
particular.
We went further downhill and deeper into the forest,
following the trail of unentwined elms. At length we found
a counterfeiter exactly as I pictured one. He was wearing a
suit of ivy leaves, and he was transparent, ethereal, glowing
from inside. He favoured a narrow-faced Elf with his hair
dressed in ivy leaves, and he was lean and tall. I wonder
what te rrible spells he had cast on his body to attract
guests; he looked like a twisted version of Herbarum-
nuntius, the Spring-god.
‘By my honour! Iss de Ivy-god!’
‘Ivy-god? ’ I chuckled in scorn. ‘An Thou be Hederae-deus,
I tell it Thee,’ I quote the declination of faith, and when it
seemed completely unsuitable, I began to alter it, ‘for Thou
art wonders visible , and I take Thee for a counterfeit.’
‘An I be counterfeit, then I am not, for we can never be
counterfeited,’ the fake Ivy-god adapted the words of Nive -
alba, the Snow-goddess, from the creation myth. His voice
was a chant in a poor attempt at imitating Herbarum-
nuntius, the Spring-god. The fake Ivy -god chanted more
like a skald than like a savage.
‘Ay, but Thou art forsooth a counterfeiter, methinks Thou
glowest like one – from the inside,’ I tried to keep that in-
spired, scornful tone, as my fanehold, being an Elven fane-
hold, forbids the Horn of Scorn. ‘I know, namely, that I am
an Un-seer. How can I see Thee, when I am so?’
‘Thou cans,’ he affirmed, but he did not deceive me. A
writer like me, even if he were a Traveller by class, would
know how to inflect the thou pronoun and know that if he
were a real god, he would manage to say thou canst! This
confirmed my suspicion that this is a counterfeiter!
‘Take me to the nearest fanehold!’ I cried and ran away
with the lumberjack.
*
Luckily, the fanehold, which was just behind the inn I
ate at earlier, does not hold a guestbook. Nowadays, the
guestbooks are regarded some what old-fashioned; for me,
this is all for the better. I want no one to know my name,
because I do not want to have to explain to the whole Cen-
tumhecatareas that I liked to live on the edge of danger.
The Scholaress, who was bearing the elm lozenge of be-
ing a votaress of the fanehold of Ivy-Elm, recognised the
lumberjack as Kineric, her most faithful donator. For my name,
she did not ask me, she kept calling me child. (A whole
book could be written on the formal titles of address in
faneholds.) Methought, it was a pleasant fanehold.
I told her that the accounts of Ivy-god were all thanks to
a counterfeiter, (as a Scholar by class, she would know
what a counterfeiter is) and she called the mages to wake
up and look for the counterfeiter. I told the mages that the
counte rfeiter is probably an Elf and that he is clad in leaves,
and that he is glowing from the inside. Methought that
was enough information.
Later, at the sign of Ivy-Elm’s border, I parted ways with
Kineric the lumberjack, and returned towards the docks.
There I boarded a ship to Bulrushenshore, it cost me two
marks, and I arrived at Bulrushenshore the next morning.
I took a horse-carriage transport to my home in Kingston,
Terralibera, and after I paid the coachman, I had no more
money.
Once I returned to Ivy-Elm, and on the border-sign
they’ve put up a new message, NOW ENTERING IVY-ELM,
THE CITY THAT FAKED A GOD.
Yours truly,
[seal of the Traveller, depicting a rampant gryphon]
 A Faerie Haunting
By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

On the fo’c’s’le of a ship our Faerie-Clan is supposed to

haunt tonight, I writhed round the sail-mast in boredom. I,
along with my fellow faeries, am on a long-lost mischief-
mission that has nearly none of the esoteric value that the
one about cursing crows had. That one was still talked
about among my friends faeries, who were doing postpara-
tions from the mission. I soon fell down along the mast, as I
could not flap my wings fast enough. This awaiting mis-
sion has well exhausted my blue glow and it was already
gro wing a sky cyan.
‘Why am I always assigned such exoteric missions?’ I
sigh, although no one can hear me.
I am my own namesake. When people hear my name,
they immediately think of the arising sun-disc in the sky
that colours the sky in gold.
The rude leader of our Faerie- Clan, Densleonis, wiped
his tunic and approached me. When his wings, which were
poking out of two big openings on the back of his tunic,
were flapping thus, I knew he was angry.
‘Aurora?’ he asked in his insincere voice. ‘Idling again?
You should keep watch over the fo’c’s’le until I give you
this sign!’ He whistled and flew away towards the board-
ing planks.
Eftsoons I heard some voices and a panicked whistle. I
hid as quickly as possible. I partly flew, partly ran into a
small, open cargo box and made myself invisible. The three
sailors, apparently uneducated, took the box I was sitting
in (‘Are-eh dis khargo box is pure ’eavy! Whadda yews two
tink is in it?’ said the front carrier, then the back carrier
adds, ‘A-L-E ... well, metinks it’s ale!’) Ouch! I suddenly
bumped against the top of the box. I fle w a way. How dim-
witted are those humans? Is it that difficult to notice a
faerie in a cargo box?
 ‘Eh ... ’ said the third human, silent until now, drinking
up his ale, ‘did yews two seem to hear someting?’ Alacka-
daisy, we must face it – humans not only have no wings,
they also are big, ugly and all they ever think of is ale!
Another man came aboard. ‘When do we oyss de sails?’
he said. His black boot was stomping round my post, yet
we cannot leave our haunting-place. We are to die on our
mission if necessary.
Well, due to the nature of our missions, our post wa y-
points were much looser than a human sentinel’s wa y-
points and posts. Thus, I ran down into the empty ro wing
deck inside the ship, while they were still bickering out
there about the existence of faeries. When I neared the
foghorn, which was twice my size, I dared blow into it
with all my strength, and it made such a sound that it
would upset the four humans aboard.
*
Eftsoons, from my hideout in the dark room, which was
lit only by my blue glow, I heard footsteps. I quickly real-
ised that the pain from my bump into the cargo box had
left me visible – so I made myself invisible again. I know
that invisibility would not make me any less solid – but
those four humans must not see me! One of them – the one
whom I saw drinking stolen ale earlier – was approaching
with a lit lantern. Of course, when I am invisible, I do not
cast a shadow – I never do. As far as I could see him from
this distance, the candle in the lantern was only two inches
long.
‘Who’s dare?’ he roared. The lantern-light illuminated
the whole rowing deck. ‘Hey! Yews tree! Ith seems we’re
under faerie attack!’
‘Faerie attack?’ I hear someone laugh from ou tside. ‘Dare’s
no such ting as faeries, scone’ead!’
Infuriated at the human ignorance, I flew towards the
lantern and blew the candle out. Then I exited the dark
rowing deck. ‘Faerie attack!’ they all cried and fled the ship.
I wandered the abandoned ship and called up the rest of
the faerie crew. I whistled. All the seven appointed faeries,
except for Densleonis, appeared before me. I had made my-
self visible again when the human crew fled the ship. I
went to the boarding planks and found – Densleonis hiding
in a cargo box!
‘W-What ... ?’ he stammered. ‘A—Aurora? ’
‘I’ve handled those humans. I thought us faeries could
not get scared.’
We all then went to the faeries’ plane of existence.
*
The Faerie King and the Faerie Queen were awaiting us
in Fayery. They told me that I have been brave, like a faerie
should be, and of all the others, they singled out Densleonis,
our former leader, for a descension for recreancy, into the
exoteric faerie rank, and they appointed me as a leader on
one crow-cursing mission.
 Bonus

Reflections on the Imagination

By Dimitrije Ignjatovic

How do I present my imagination, which I have first to

thank for helping me write the First Compilation of Fantasy
Stories? Certainly not as, as James Ba rrie said, zigzag lines
similar to the body temperature graph. Certainly not as the
electroencephalogram.
It is a neverland of ideas, and it takes time to dig them all
out. An isle, a world, two worlds, three, a mountain region
with nine peaks, all that can describe it at once, as I am a
children’s writer. And the characters are what I base the
story on. They can be Elizabethan, medieva l, modern, pri-
meval; hunters, gentle knights, heirs; melancholy prin-
cesses, fairies or any spelling of them, elves, or mischievous
sprights akin to Robin Goodfellow the will-o’-the- wisp;
even malignant will-o’-the- wisps; kings, rusalki, youngest
sons; changelings; trolls; peasant guides; dukes that dabble
into evil and expect good to come out of it; impudent brats;
spoilt snobs; debased innkeepers; occasional barflies,
mighty warriors; dragons, unicorns; stalwart guards; ex-
alted Muses, unseen painkillers behind whole worlds, fairy
queens, elfin kings; queens and elfin knights; bards, infa-
mous poisoners, hardened warriors, boyars, sailors, tem-
plar knights, soldiers; the Weird Sisters; wandering or-
phans, illegitimate children forsaken by everyone, pick-
pockets; solicitors, kind short elves, motley fools, wa rriors
that want to look like fools, half-elves and eccentric schol-
ars. They can be in almost any situation, say, one has no
past, one has no future; one’s in a spoilt, impudent family; a
troll that guards a bridge; a motley fool playing a player’s
rite and declaring, say, ‘Wilt thou, young sir, hear the tale
of a half-made fool uglier than I?’ and there the whole aes-
thetic of the ugly develops; a knight always having the
same cruel protocol for war; a man not unlike a scholar
arriving on a unicorn from a completely different world; a
warrior defeated by himself; a mere book of world geogra-
phy posing a threat; an illegitimate girl and a soldier-in-
training in love; or, perchance, a prince whom his scholar-
ship kills. The landscapes? Marshes, forests light or dark,
clearings, heraldic flowerbeds, mountain regions, cities
castled or uncastled, castles, dungeons, churches, cliffs,
oases, meadows in fog or without fog, grazings, gorges,
canyons, islands, isles, islets, heaths, seas, lakes, rivers,
oceans, grim ruins, heraldic fountain sites, skies and clouds,
villages, mesas, snow-capped mountains with their peaks
in the clouds or in fog. All can be found in my imagination,
fantasy, short stories, mini-plays, screenplays and novels.
To live and write fantasy is to live in the sky of dreams ... to
see the invisible ... to relax, concentrate, visualise and pro-
ject onto the paper what one sees in his mind’s eye. It is to
see it, then describe what one sees in his mind’s eye. It is to
break the thick glass between dream and truth. Dreams are
much sweeter than reality. It is man himself has the power
to catch a dream as it yields to nothingness. I welcome all
the stories that happen in my world, and that I am thus, in
my lush imagination, entreated to we lcome. They are, to a
trained eye, interspersed with heraldic images.