Màiri Campbell ~ Seanachaidh
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Sneak Peak at the latest story...

25/5/2014

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A Midnight Meeting a Forever Fey Story

Picture
Meet Ashleigh and Varruka two of a number of characters that will be in my Forever Fey Series.                                                                                     ~Màiri
                                       ~~~~~

    Ashleigh felt the walls closing in on her. She had to get away from everything and everyone... at least for a while. She pulled on black leggings, a snug black tank top and her thigh-high black leather boots, as she had countless times before. An outfit perfect for blending into the shadows. She took her cloak from the closet and walked out the door.
     Ashleigh gathered her long chestnut locks forward over her shoulder, settling her cloak around herself and pulled the hood up. The fur trim tickled her face. That small reminder of days gone by only served to depress her more. She stepped off the porch and into the night.
     Her mind wandered back in time to when she lived with her friends, Malcolm and Kaitlin, people she cared about, and who cared about her. She stroked the soft pelt of the badger and thought of the farmer who had gotten angry after a badger almost killed his hound. He had poisoned the female and her kits, leaving them to rot.
     Malcolm had skinned and tanned the badger hides. Doing what he could to make their deaths more meaningful than just letting them decay. He had given the pelt of the female to Kaitlin to use on the cloak she was making for Ashleigh. Her friends were part of a local lycan pack. The pack was not happy about the badgers being poisoned. They did a few things to drive the farmer from the area. No one told her exactly what they had done to make him leave, no matter how many times she asked.
     Thoughts of Malcolm, Kaitlin and their children brought tears to her eyes. She missed her dear friends. They were the closest thing to family she’d had since being turned. Sadly, the kids became ill one day after ingesting tainted meat and did not survive. They had been out playing, slipping the watchful eye of the mother, and found what appeared to be a recently shot deer. In truth, it was a tainted carcass that had been placed out to decrease the local wolf and coyote population. Malcolm and Kaitlin were never the same after that, and had moved away to start over. They had asked Ashleigh to go with them, but she had insisted it was time for her to head home.
     And now here she was, in Chicago, where it had all started for her so long ago. She had been walking aimlessly, when she paused to get her bearings. She noticed she was just outside what is now Burnham Park. Many things had changed in the eighty-seven years she’d been gone. She remembered when single dwelling hovels covered the area—the park was a great improvement.
     Casting about, she spied an alley and slipped into its shadows. It didn’t take long to find one of the city’s many homeless people. She fed quickly, taking just enough blood to stave off the cravings. She left the man lying as comfortably as she could; he would be a bit weak, but he would live.
     Straightening her cloak, Ashleigh glanced around to make sure no one was watching before heading into the park across the street. Choosing a bench under a burnt out lamp post, she sat down, letting her mind wander through old memories.
     There were many things and people that she missed from her past. Now there were others, new friends, new things, that she would miss just as much when they too were gone. So deeply lost in thought, Ashleigh did not sense, or hear, the person approaching her until she spoke.
     Varruka stomped down the hill with the ferocity of one wronged, mumbling to herself incoherently. She was in the mood for the park’s serene solitude tonight, so she'd taken a taxi from the library to the park—only to be ripped off by the taxi driver. She was certain his meter was rigged. She should have just run. It would have been faster, but she missed doing mundane human things. Hell, she missed being human.
     But she was here now and made her way down to the lake's edge when she froze, sniffing the air. It was definitely not human, not musky enough to be any sort of were-creature; it was sweet and sour at the same time and impossibly familiar... vampire. Varruka paused long enough to focus on where the scent was coming from. A moment later she saw it, a female, sitting on a bench right by the lake. Annoyed that someone was sitting where she wanted to be, Varruka started walking again, stopping just beside the bench. She stood there glaring at the girl, taking in the perfect porcelain face. Her irritation spiked.
     Shifting her weight so she stood with one hip cocked and her arms folded across her chest, she growled, “Do I know you?”
     The question was meant as a conversation starter, but the girl really did look vaguely familiar to her. Where had she seen her before? Chicago? Surely not. She would remember a face so annoyingly perfect. A picture somewhere? The newspaper? Nothing seemed to match up, but it didn't matter. Varruka refused to let down her guard until she knew beyond all certainty that the vampire she was looking at was not a threat to her.
     Ashleigh blinked as she brought herself back to the here and now. She turned her head slightly to look at the woman standing near the end of the bench. As she considered the slightly acidic question she noted the torn jeans, over-sized t-shirt under a denim jacket, the sneakers that had seen better days. Shifting her body sideways, she draped a slender arm over the back of the bench and laced her fingers together, looking directly at the woman. The stranger appeared to be around eighteen or nineteen years of age, but Ashleigh knew that was false, since the stranger was a vampire like herself.
     With a slight look of annoyance, Ashleigh raised her perfectly groomed brow.
     “I don’t believe so. I at least would remember the sound of your voice, if that is how you always speak to others.” Ashleigh sniffed and wondered what it was with the female vamps here? She had never met any as rude as the ones here in Chicago. They all seemed to be snotty little wenches that didn’t know how to get along with others. While Ashleigh preferred not to make a habit of associating with other vampires, she didn’t mind the occasional social interaction.
     Turning back to the water, she inquired, “Have you been having a bad night or did someone have garlic in their veins?” She didn’t want to deal with someone else’s drama, especially someone that she didn’t know. The girl was here and did not seem about to leave any time soon. She shifted her gaze back to the girl.
     “Neither. Not that it's any of your business.” Varruka tightened her arms around herself, raising her own eyebrow in response. She didn’t know exactly how old, but she could sense the other woman was at least twice her own age from the power that pulsed around her. This meant she was also twice as strong and fast. Perhaps treating this vamp the way she normally treated others would not be her wisest move.


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Pt 8 David and Ragnhild

9/2/2014

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Picture
The Dancing Bear 

On the 28th April, 1893, a baby brother arrived and completed the family. He was christened Mario Rognvold Gregersen in Volosca. I remember the christening vividly, more for the dancing bear than for anything else.

The padre, the grown-ups surrounding him, Aunt Irma holding the yelling infant, the cakes, sweets and ice-creams on the tables, all were forgotten when I looked through the window. In the garden I saw a rough-looking Rumanian leading a huge shaggy beast on a stout chain. The beast was lurching clumsily along beside him on the gravel path towards our villa. A strong muzzle covered his big mouth.

Hugo and I silently left the christening party. On the sunlit terrace at the rear of the house a little crowd had assembled, consisting among others, the gardeners, the cook, the maids, Ilka and the Padre’s coachman; they formed a circle round the spot where the bear was to perform. The Rumanian was wearing a white shirt that had become distinctly off-white. A heavy, brass-studded, broad leather belt over trousers tucked into soft leather boots, and a shaggy fur cap over his bearded, grinning face. He threw the sack that he carried over his shoulders onto the ground and produced from somewhere a large tambourine.

After these preparations he led the big brute, tethered until then to a shady tree, to the centre of the clearing, released him from the strong chain and took off his muzzle. The spectators made as if to scatter and I felt Hugo's arm tighten round my waist.

The tough Rumanian and his dancing bear were now ready to perform. Standing facing the bear, he gave a vigorous shake to the tambourine, all its bells jangling, and described a big circle in the air, hitting the tambourine a resounding blow with his fist as it completed the circle. Thereupon the bear got up. Standing at full-height he would have been a fearsome sight, but for his reassuring smile… or was it a smile? He started on his dance, clumsily shifting his big body from one short hairy leg to the other, advancing a few steps, and then going backwards shaking his head from side to side. He looked so grotesquely funny that the spectators, by now reassured, burst out laughing. He had many other amusing turns, such as somersaults and rolling round and round on the ground, which delighted both children and adults for almost an hour. All this went on to the barbaric sound of the tambourine.

At the end of the performance the Rumanian passed his fur cap round to collect the coins. Then he put the sack in the bears paws for him to collect his well-deserved reward: bread, fruit, lumps of sugar, vegetables (mostly carrots), which the cook produced from the kitchen. By way of thanks he raised his huge paw, with its menacing claws, to the side of his face, close to his small, twinkling, wicked eyes.

The arrival of baby Mario caused a major upheaval in the household. Mother was unable to feed him, he needed a wet nurse. Dear Ilka had to go; there was no longer any need for a nanny. We were disconsolate and down-hearted after Ilka left and refused to cooperate with the new governess, a pretty, eighteen-year-old, dark-haired, dark-eyed Italian girl, Elvira, who was to prepare us for school and teach us Italian. Mario's wet nurse was soon to become the most important member of the staff. She bullied everyone. She had to be humoured, as too much depended on her. If she was upset the precious infant was sure to be upset too, which in its turn upset mother; and all father wanted was to have peace in the house. All this, she quickly realised and exploited, to the full advantage that her unique position secured for her in the household. Her meals had to be served in the nursery. She scorned the milk-forming diet of potato-soup and iron-forming spinach prescribed by the doctor. She preferred spicy dishes made with red paprika! She refused to wash nappies and panties and spent her time ironing her own elaborate fineries, blouses and aprons.

I do not remember anything personal about her, her name, where she came from or the language she spoke, but all the same I shall never forget that robust, vital young woman. All eyes turned when she wheeled baby Mario down the main street of Fiume, proudly displaying the richly embroidered, stiffly-starched frills round her neck and the sleeves of her white blouse, tucked into a black satin bodice, with the short sleeves protruding. The wide, red-printed skirt was partly hidden by a white frilled apron. She was pretty enough in a countrified way, with high cheek bones, deep-set eyes, and a lovely milk and rose complexion. Her auburn hair, parted in the middle, was crowned with a pearl and bead embroidered head-dress, twisted in a figure eight, while below that, at the back, a red-print scarf reached well below her waist. She wore a pair of bright gold earrings but there was no plain gold ring on her fourth finger.

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Pt 7 David and Ragnhild

2/2/2014

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PictureTop of a church in Budapest
My first spiritual experience 

The first concerns my earliest spiritual experience at the age of three. Ilka, our nanny, walked up the broad steps of the Greek Orthodox Church in Budapest, on the shore of the Danube one Easter Sunday. She was carrying my small brother Hugo in one arm and leading me by the other. The crowd on the porch made way for the young woman with two small children. Soon she wormed her way through the dense congregation, up to the railings separating the altar from the nave.

A stately, white-haired, white-bearded man was facing us. He was standing in front of the flower-bedecked altar in a shaft of sunlight, amid white clouds of incense and the light from the flickering wax candles in huge silver candlesticks. A tall mitre encrusted with precious stones crowned his head, above black bushy brows and large grey eyes. He was robed in sumptuous vestments of white and gold brocade, and was attended by richly dressed priests in white brocade holding lighted candles. There he stood at the very centre of the Easter splendour. He waited for the rich, massive sound of the organ and the sound of hundreds of voices singing ‘Alleluyah’ to cease, then he raised his hand to give the Easter Blessing.

Never having been anywhere like this before, I was overwhelmed. I tugged at Ilka's skirt; pointing at the Archimandrite with his raised arm.

“Ilka,” I asked, “is that man God?”

She put her index finger on her pursed-up lips and said, “Hush.”

Thus the image of God imprinted on my mind, is that of a handsome, benign, white-haired, white-bearded father, not unlike those symbols of the Godhead depicted by the old masters of the renaissance.

A few months after this incident, in 1891, the family left for Fiume on the bay of Quarnere at the uppermost tip of the Adriatic. My father was to be in charge of the construction works of the new harbour; a big contract that my grandfather secured from the Government. So the next thing I remember is a terrifying incident that happened in Fiume, on the very first day of our arrival.

Ilka took me for a walk. Suddenly I stopped and refused to move. I was transfixed at the sight of a savage-looking dark-skinned man, standing in a chemist’s doorway. He had black hair, black mostaccio, and a black beard; his flashing white teeth looked threatening under a Cossacks huge fur cap. He was shooting with a Flit gun at large cockroaches flying around his head.

I loosened myself from Ilka's grip and wanted to run for my life, but I was unable to move and stood there shaking with fear.

“Don’t be frightened, my pet,” said Ilka. “It is not a real man but only a card-board advertisement stuck to the glass door.”

To look at the figureheads on the prows of the old-fashioned sailing-boats in the harbour was a constant delight to me. Those fantastic heads, crudely carved and painted with gaudy colours, were strangely alive and expressive. They fascinated me. I could stand there gazing at them forever. There were a great many, and each one was different. A Blackamoor and a bearded, turbaned Turk carved in wood stared at me with an evil countenance. One I liked particularly was a baby-faced sailor boy, wearing a yellow straw hat with streamers and a navy blouse, his big, blue painted eyes ever fixed on some distant non-existent shore. A ferocious wild beast glared at me with yellow glass eyes from the prow of another boat, showing huge fangs in an everlasting snarl.

I was frightened. Ilka, noticing this, pulled me quickly to the next schooner, the ‘Flora’, to look at a handsome blonde, smiling serenely and garlanded with flowers, having one shapely bosom bare, the other only just covered by wooden daisies, marigolds, and roses. Here I felt at home and happy.

“That's Auntie Irma!” I said.


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Postcards for The Proposal

1/2/2014

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Picture
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Pt 6 David and Ragnhild

1/2/2014

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PictureFiume
Happy Childhood ~ Ragnhild

My life started with an intensely happy and colourful childhood, like a radiant spring-time morning. Within a few years however, clouds gathered. My father had a serious accident which left him completely paralyzed and he had to move from Fiume to Budapest. As a result of this, my childhood formerly spent in lovely surroundings, mostly in the open air on the shores of the blue Adriatic. Was now hampered by the cramped surroundings of a grey city apartment.

I was nine years old at the time and felt this keenly. I am going to give only a brief sketch of these early' years, just enough to provide a glimpse of the background, family milieu, and character of the girl who caught Davie Campbell’s eye. I shall do this by way of a few separate but significant cameos.



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    Màiri Campbell lives in WA with her husband and their three dogs

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