Men of the Skull Interlude XII: Transitions

 This is the last of the interludes.  I decided to steal a page from Bram Stoker and tell this particular story through letters, journal entries, and social media posts (because Stoke was a MySpace fiend!)

So the interludes mixed with the chapters and stuff mean that the entire book is now written.  Now it needs cutting.  Hard core editing.  

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Interlude XII: Transition

Blog entry 2013

The Darkness

Several months ago, my Sister Lisa Empanada committed suicide.  The following piece was written maybe a week later, as my mind spun deeper into the Darkness.  It's not a long piece.  I never finished it, as I just couldn't.

I must also say that I no longer feel this way.  Thanks to the help of caring people and of my therapist, I managed to pull away from the Darkness, and LIVE.  After all, I made promises.  Promises that I'd live to be the Woman I am destined to be.  I promised Lisa.

So.  Here it is: completely unedited.

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I am totally worthless.

I have no value.  I could die tonight and no one would know or care. I would lay dead for days before anyone would notice.

What am I anyway?  I'm a freak.  No one cares about the freak.

Let's face it.  I've failed at everything in my life.  I've failed as a man.  I've failed as a woman.  I've failed as a husband and a father.  I fail as a friend.  I can't find a real job, and can barely hold the ones I have.

I always say the wrong things.  I piss people off.  I do the wrong things.  hell, I chose teaching and where has that gotten me?  I work retail for fucks sake.  I'm poor.  Broke.  And broken.

What's the point anyway?  Who am I helping by staying here?  no one.  I'm a burden on all who are stuck knowing me.  Nothing but a dead weight dragging everyone down.

There's no point.  No point in being alive when i Know what follows.  And Lisa is waiting for me there.  We can explore the afterlife together, laughing into eternity.

I would be long gone before anyone even knows.  I could be at peace, away from all the pain.  Wife would be relieved.  No more Sophie to worry about or to be embarrassed about.  No explaining to daughter needed.  Both would forget soon enough and be happy.

no one needs me.  So I don't need me.  I don't need pain.  All i need is for it all to end.

 

Blog Entry (Excerpts) Tuesday December 31, 2013

Some things seems pre-ordained.

We ALL know that, as mortals, someday we will die.  We all know that we will be taxed by a government.  We know that trans-people will be senselessly murdered.

I also knew that my parents would reject me as a Woman.  I mean after all, I've mentioned how they treated me growing up.  Dad being ultra-macho Army and all.  I never give them a chance.

In any case, telling them was my next big step.  I decided that I'd write a letter so I could have my points exactly as I wanted them... 

 

So.  I wrote a letter.  Trashed it.  Tried again.  Trashed it.  Tried 14 times.  Full trash can (as I write first drafts on paper.)  Recently, Dr. Cerise Richards challenged me to post this letter to help others, so it follows.  I give permission for girls wanting to use it or piece of it to do so, just not for publication, where I reserve all rights.  So.  Here it is.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Wife and I are here today to tell you exactly why we are no longer living under the same roof.  As I have maintained many times, the fault is not hers in any way.  The issue is complex, which is why I’m reading this to you instead of just speaking.  I wanted to get it right.  Wife knows all of what I am about to tell you, and has known for nearly two years. 

There is something I have to tell you about myself.  While this is serious, I am NOT dying, nor am I intending to do so.  I have been hiding from and or dealing with this problem since I was four, and I really did not understand it.  I am sure you have realized that I have had problems and even though I have tried to maintain a steady face on the surface, something has never been quite right with me.  As you know, I’ve been in therapy for 13 years.  You also know about my hospitalization back in 1990.  For the past five years, I’ve been seeing a specialist to get a handle on my issue and of get a better understanding of myself.  You may have noticed some changes in me this year.  I feel better, both in general and about myself, than I have at any time in my life. 

 The medical term for this condition is called Gender Dysphoria and it is basically the condition of being transgender…

 

…This has nothing to do with how I was raised, my diet… anything.  I was BORN this way.  41%  of people with this attempt suicide as it’s a very painful way to live… 

This is not a choice; it is something that I have to do in order to survive.  I have been treated by a therapist for five years and also, saw a second therapist for a second opinion…

This may seem sudden and impulsive, but in actuality, it is not. I have been doing many activities as a woman over the last five years including attending the local King of Prussia transgender support group once a month, shopping and eating out regularly, and helping others who are on this path.  I have spent the last five years building an emotional support network, and have many close friends in the transgender community.  

All I want is to feel at peace and to have a chance to reach my full potential in life.  I will always be your child and I love both of you very much.  The reality is, mentally I have always been your daughter, not your son, and I hope you will be able to accept me.  All I am doing is making physical changes to help me become on the outside the person I am on the inside and be accepted. I will always be here for both of you to help take care of you.  

I realize finding this out is very painful for you right now, and believe me I have always tried to avoid facing this about myself mainly for this very reason.  The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you, but in order to have any chance at a happy and fulfilling life, I have to make this change… I am the author of my life.  No one else has the right to attempt to form my life in the image they would have it be.  And my life is not based on lies.  My life is based on love and care, for my family, for my friends, for those that deserve my love.

I ask for your understanding, acceptance, and love.  I am passing through a very difficult time, and have already lost so much.  It will get harder, both for me and for you, but in time it will get better.  No matter what, I will continue forward.  I finally have a chance at happiness and peace in my life.  I’d love rather have you see me reach my full potential and that peace. 

You have many questions, and will continue to have them.  I will do my best to answer them for you.

 Love,
Lance
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A heartbeat.   Two.

My mum leaned forward in her chair and said “You are our child. We love you. This changes nothing."

My dad stood and said "Yes, we love you"

That was the first time in my 47 years that my dad said that he loved me.

 

 

Blog Entry (excerpts) March 12, 2014

The following is the [Book store] legal-department-approved letter that I will read to the management staff of my job on Monday, March 10 at 8 AM.  

On Tuesday, March 25, management will begin informing staff, and this letter will be posted on the break room bulletin board, and information regarding being TG will be made available.

On Monday, March 13, 2013, I will report to work as Sophie for the first time.

 

And now, the letter:

..........................................................................................

To my fellow coworkers

I must share the news about a major personal decision that will affect my appearance at work.  My doctors have diagnosed me with Gender Dysphoria (GD), a medical condition in which psychological gender is not in alignment with biological sex.  I am transgendered, which means I was born into the wrong gender…

…The process takes a number of years to complete, but the progress I have made to date has allowed me the ability to now start coming to work in my true gender: female…

 

Throughout the transition, I will continue to maintain the high performance standards that our company and I have upheld.  Post transition, it is my expectation that I will continue to excel at my position and maintain the good working relationships that I currently have within the company, my fellow booksellers, and with our customers…

HR have developed a plan to communicate my gender transition to our employees.  I am positive that we can accomplish a quick and effective transition.  It is imperative that we unify our message and information to assure the staff that we have a plan of action and that all involved are committed to a successful transition.  Office gossip or inappropriate discussions about my personal situation, as it is medical in nature, will serve to greatly undermine plans that have been developed, waste staff time and energy, and affect the performance on the floor…  

 

Journal Entry : Fri. March 21, 2014

Gazebo, Reeves park.  I started by telling her that I loved her very much, that Mommy loved her very much, and that this would never change.  I then told her there are boys and girls, but sometimes, so very rarely, someone comes along who isn't one or the other.  Blah blah blah.  And that Daddy is one of those people.  That daddy was born a boy but was supposed to be a girl.  And that now, Daddy was becoming the girl that she should've been all along.

[Wife] then mentioned that Daughter rememberwhat she learned about butterflies.  "What are butterflies before they're butterflies?"

Daughter smiled and said "First they are caterpillars, then they become a criss-lis, then they become butterflies."  She learned that the first day of kindergarten.

I smiled.  "Well, daddy is in chrysalis now.  And soon I'll become a girl."

“Like a butterfly!”

            “Right!”

            “Can we get ice cream now?”  

 

Transgender Forum Column (excerpts): March 23, 2014

This piece will be published on Monday, which will be my last day ever as a guy.  After that, it’s All Sophie, All day, all night.

So, to get this place took a LOT of planning and a lot of help.  Everyone does it differently.  And here I am going to tell you how I approached it.  Remember, this is my approach, your mileage may vary.  

Also, and I can’t stress this enough, if you don’t HAVE to transition — DON’T DO IT. Seriously.  It can and probably will destroy your life.

The process starts with the most important part — Realization.  After exhausting all other avenues, and still feeling the Intense Pain of Gender Dysphoria, to the point of knowing it means Change or…

After making that VERY difficult determination, I informed my Wife.  It led to a week of crying for us both.  It also led to me being thrown out of the house.  (We lived with her mother, and she threw me out for being a “freak.”)

Then the planning began in earnest.  In this phase, I worked closely with my therapist, Dr. Maureen Osborne, and my “Big Sister” Mel.

Okay, what needed to happen?  I needed to: 1. Set a date.  2. Inform my employers.  3. Inform family (for others this would be the first).  4. Prepare wardrobe and necessities.

The first part was difficult.  Timing is always delicate.  I decided to emulate my beautiful friend Stephanie by going full time at work upon returning from a conference.  In her case it was SCC.  In mine, it was Keystone.  That meant my last day as Lance would be Monday, March 24.  And my first day at work would be upon returning: March 31…

So, having started the ball rolling at work, I began planning how to tell my parents. I asked friends who had already done this, and they were incredibly helpful.  None of us transitions alone.  There’s a reason we’re a Community. Others have walked where you are now, and are usually happy to provide advice.  Especially about their mistakes.

In the end, I decided to write them a letter…  …They surprised me.  They accepted me… On a side note, my older brother laughed at me when I told him.  It was the first time in years I’d spoken to him, and I don’t see any need to speak to him again.

Okay.  What about closest friends?  I actually started with them first.  One by one, I met with them over drinks and told them.  One by one, they accepted me.  I was extremely lucky.  Over time, I honed my “presentation” to what NEEDED saying.  I’ll come back to that.

I decided I wanted to tell others that I simply didn’t have time to reach.  How to do it… Well, I’d been making videos for YouTube, so why not make one in drab, and send it out?  So that’s what I did. I made two videos: one for friends I’ve known ten years or more, and the other for more recent friends…  …I sent the one for older friends first. And so far, I have a better than 40% return rate, of which all but one was positive. I expected the rate to be far lower.  The one that wasn’t positive was essentially a “WTF?”  Then I sent out the other one, mostly to coworkers with whom I am close.  I think I chose well, as I have a 100% return rate with that, and all are positive.

I’ve been cautioned by many, including Donna Rose, that initial reaction is not necessarily long term reaction.  So all these positives my melt away like “tears in rain.”  But I need these positives.

All that remains is to post my Truth for the world to see on Facebook on Tuesday.  And for that, I am following the advice of my dear friend Jen L, who told me to approach it like a marketing campaign.  Keep it all positive — eliminate any negative.  All smiles.  All happiness.  Communicate with negatives privately, while thanking positives publicly.  Now?

I wait.

And I try not to freak out.

I have run headlong into burning buildings as a paramedic.  I have done things that chill my blood to think of them now.  And this?  This scares the living Hell out of me.  As I write this, Lance has two more days before Sophie takes over forever.  And I’ve never been such a huge ball of anxiety.  Thank God I planned this thoroughly in advance, because right now I couldn’t plan the strategy for a game of Candy Land.

Upon returning [from the Keystone Conference], I will have the Dreaded First Day of Work as a Woman.  I will deal with coworkers and customers.  If there’s an issue, I am not to engage- I am to let management handle it…  

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Social Media Post, 10 PM

March 24, 2014 ·

I must share the news about a major personal decision.  My doctors have diagnosed me with Gender Dysphoria (GD), a medical condition in which psychological gender is not in alignment with biological sex.  I am transgender, which means I was born into the wrong gender….

…The process takes a number of years to complete, but the progress I have made to date has allowed me the ability to live full time in my true gender: female.  This begins tomorrow: March 25, 2014.

My family and employer know.  Jen has been as supportive as she can, and my daughter understands the situation, and accepts it.  I will be off this week from work, and I will return to work next week as a woman.

I understand that there will be an adjustment period for everyone, but I would appreciate when you see me calling me by my chosen name of Sophie, and then using the proper pronouns like “she” and “her” in conversation…

…Thank you in advance

Lance Kandler
Aka: Sophie Lisa Kandler

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Blog Entry

Today, March 25, 2014, I begin living full time as a woman.

I announced it to my "male side" friends on Facebook last night, and received many nice comments…

As I said, I announced last night.  Veteran readers know that today at my job, management is informing the staff.  Also, today I leave for the Keystone Conference. 

Last night was rather busy.  I stayed up past midnight, then couldn't sleep.  Why?
Nerves?
No.
I was crying so hard.

I was crying because I really wish Lisa had lived to see this day.  Yes, her loss still affects me that strongly. 

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Transgender Forum column:  June 16, 2014

The Price

If you’ve read this column before, you know a few things about me.  You know that I live full time as a woman, and I have done so since March.

I did so knowing the possibilities. Many of my Trans friends who have not transitioned wonder what this is like. They talk over drinks about the fun of wearing women’s clothes daily, and of no longer needing to hide.

And it’s a wonderful Dream. Isn’t it?

I went into this eyes open, knowing that this would cost me my marriage, and so much more.  I knew it could cost me almost everything, up to and including my life, as it did Lisa’s.

So is it worth all of this?

July 2014.  Still not there yet

What does this Price buy?  Well, there’s the basic stuff.  I go through my daily life and most people see me as a Woman.  I am addressed as such.  Usually.  As a woman, I can, if I wish, wear a dress to work, and no one cares.  The hormones have changed me physically.  I now have breasts of my own.  My skin has softened, as have my facial features.  I’ve been growing my hair for over two years, and now it brushes my shoulders.

All of these things were my dreams when I was younger, and they’ve all come true.

Some things have yet to happen.  I am not yet physically a total woman.  According to the protocols, I have nine months more to wait before I can be approved for that.  Then there’s that whole money thing.  I want my hair to grow much longer as well, so I can look like I did when I wore wigs, or a reasonable facsimile.  That will take time.

Possible side effects are varied. Estrogen causes moodiness. I have learned to cry, and that I cry often, sometimes out of nowhere. I have given up my Male privilege. Yes, it exists, and you don’t realize it unless you don’t have it. Many men treat women as inferiors. Hell, you’d think I got a lobotomy instead of a becoming my True Self.

Be prepared to lose people you thought were friends.  They will NOT understand.  How can they unless they have lived it?  This very night, I spoke to a friend I’ve known since 1980.  He still doesn’t comprehend, but he understands that I was in Pain.  How do I explain to him why I had to do what I did?

I don’t have exact figures for this, but if you’re married: kiss it goodbye.  Marriages that survive transition are so very rare.  Other relationships too.  People lose parents, children, neighbors… even pets.  I rarely see my dog.   Often times we also lose the places we live. And we can’t find others.  Welcome to my world.

We Lose.  And that’s the Price:  Loss.  And that’s what I tell people who say they want to transition.  I say exactly what I was told by my “Big Sister” Mel.  (And she was 100% right.)  I say “Are you prepared to lose EVERYTHING? Because there’s a good chance you will.”

What does one get for all of this Loss? What does the Price buy when it is paid?

Peace.

I am at Peace for the first time in my life.  I’ve written that many times, but what does it mean?  It means that I no longer feel “wrong.”  I look in the mirror and see what I feel I should’ve all along.  Well everywhere but down low, if you catch my meaning.  But that will change someday too.

I sleep in a bra and panties, as many women do.  I fuss over my makeup and hair. I look down and see the changes that the hormones made to my body — not during puberty as with most women, but recently.  

So that is the Price and what it buys. If I had a choice to be just an occasional crossdresser verses who I am now, would I have paid the Price?

Well, that’s a trick question.  And the Entire Point.  For me, it was transition or die.  There were no other options.  That’s how bad the Pain had become.  I have written this many times, and I’ll write it again here:

If you don’t HAVE to transition: DON’T.  It’s that simple.

If I were an occasional CD, I’d probably still live with Wife.  We’d still be a family.  So many other things wouldn’t have happened, like my impending homelessness.

I HAD to transition, and it has brought me the Peace I craved.  I paid the Price, and I’m still paying it today.  I will pay it always, like an eternal student loan.  Now I face the challenge of building a new life.

A Life as a middle-aged Woman.

My Life.

Men of the Skull Interlude XI: Fingernails

 Second to last of the interludes for Men of the Skull.  This one is about Linda Lewis.

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Interlude XI: Fingernails

Saturday December 28, 2013  Judge Upholds N.S.A.’s Bulk Collection of Data on Calls

Well, I guess it should start back when I found out about her.  My femme side resurfaced in 2008- that is true- but I knew about trans sites before that.  Around 2001, I was doing an internet search for fiction sites so I could post my work, and Fictionmania came up: a transgender story site.  I remember starting to read a story there and I was hooked.  I couldn't believe that there was a site that had stories such as these- stories that spoke to something that I had long buried.  From there, I started looking up other transgender sites, and very quickly after I found Linda.

Linda ran a website at the time, with pictures and her interviews from various magazines like Ladylike and such.  She also has a Flickr page, where she has thousands of fans. She was amazing, gorgeous, and untouchable: an Icon.  And she still is.

Heck she even appeared in ads!  When I re-awakened in 2008, I started looking for things that would improve my figure etc.  One of the places I found made scientifically designed hip pads for Trans people.   A new one had just come out and there, on the ad, was Linda- sitting on a stool in a red dress looking absolutely stunning.  Later in my search, I found a site that sold breast prosthetics, and there she was again- modeling the breast prosthetics.  I was like "this woman is everywhere!" and again I thought she was some kind of Royalty.  In addition, she did transformation makeup in Hollywood at Jim Bridges’ salon near a place called the Queen Mary.

In 2009, that I sent Linda a Flickr message, asking her about the breast and hip prosthetics.  She kindly responded, and I felt I'd been touched by the hand of God. 

Years later, Linda posted something on social media.  I forget exactly what it was, but she seemed very down.  She had a health scare of some kind, which I later found out was a collapsed lung.  She needed financial help, so I sent what I could.  It was then that she and I started chatting online.  I found out that we had a lot of movies and music in common.  A tenuous friendship began.

I decided that I was going to go to the Southern Comfort Conference.  A few of us wanted to help Linda attend as well.  Now this is saying something because Linda is a very proud person and doesn't like asking for help.  We figured out a way to get her a hotel room- she would room with a friend I knew, and between us we paid for her transportation.  I didn't realize when this started that by the time Southern Comfort came around, my life would have completely turned upside down.

At a mall in Atlanta, SCC 2013

And it was there I met Linda, and we became friends… when I wasn’t making her angry.

A couple months later, she was supposed to move down to Florida.  The details there are personal, I’ll skip them.  However, she was delayed- she couldn't move down to Florida, but her lease was up in Michigan.  She had nowhere to go.  I asked my dear friend M, with whom I was staying, if she could put Linda up for a couple weeks.  She readily agreed, because she is the kind of person who Helps.  So it was that in late December 2013, I met Linda in her drab mode at State College, Pennsylvania, where we had agreed to meet. (Only a week before, I was headed this way during a snowstorm to blow my head off, but I turned around.)  It was a rainy, snowy, messy day, and she followed me from there back to the house where we would both stay for another six months.  I lived on the second floor, while she lived in the basement, but it was during that time that I got to know the woman behind the Legend. 

Tuesday, December 31, 2013.  Bomb Attacks in Russia Echo Threats by Chechen Insurgent

Sandy Empanada was coming north to go to the Raven on New Years Eve.   I didn’t want to go as my knee still hurt from a bone bruise suffered in a workplace accident a couple of weeks before.  But I wanted to be there for Sandy, as this would be her first New Years without Lisa.  Linda had settled into the house and was willing to go out.  I wanted to introduce her around to the Trans Community here.  That's one thing she didn't have in Saginaw, Michigan: a community.  So, I went. 

I wanted to impress her with my makeup skills, so I tried a few things I’d learned here and there.  I then waited in the kitchen for Linda to emerge.  She took one look at me and said “Oh HELL NO!  Sit DOWN!”  My heart sank!  She pulled a chair from the dining room as I went to get my makeup per her demand.  She completely redid my look while teaching me some techniques I never knew.  M teased out my wig.  Not just teased- she got absolutely sadistic with it!  And it looked great!  I received so many compliments all night.  Linda met many people of the Philly Trans scene.  And she danced the night away while getting rather tipsy.  I didn’t drink, as I was worried about all the other drivers and police.

Raven NYE 2013

I thought Linda would just be there for a few weeks.  However, she kept getting delayed through no fault of her own.  Eventually she gave up on Florida, found a job, and we decided to get an apartment in Pennsylvania.  We moved out, found a third roommate Zoey (without whom we would have been on the street- and we will be forever in her debt.)  We lived there for a year, then moved from place to place, hanging on by our fingernails as jobs for me were sporadic.  As of this writing, she is my roomie in State College.  No one will ever replace Lisa, but Linda has helped my soul heal.  And hopefully, I’ve been able to help her as well.

Goats

 In my current AD&D campaign, (that's Advanced Dungeons and Dragons for those who aren't nerds), the group has to pass through a valley between two mountain ranges.  "Guarding" this pass are two large mountains: Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr.  Those names I stole from Norse mythology- they are the names of the goats that pull Thor's chariot.  For that reason, I called the way through "Goat Pass."

Original, I know.

I sketched out my ideas, and had AI finish it.  The taller one is Tanngrisnir.  

Player map.  Again, AI after my sketches.

The campaign is based in Greyhawk, so the map is based upon the one originally drawn by the incredible artist Darlene.  Additional ideas were taken from the wonderful work done by Anne Meyer who has created VERY detailed maps of Greyhawk over the years.  

"Wow, Sophie!  Who cares?"  Well just hold a second I'm getting there!  I figured some of the characters may have heard this or that about the mountains.  But what?

We were to play last Saturday, June 20 around 8.  But then, my daughter wanted me to drive down the 2.5 hours to see her and Wife for Father's Day.  Ok!  One of the things I hadn't finished were those rumors.  

I had a wonderful day with them.  I was driving back to State College when I thought of an idea: what if four of the characters had heard a legend about the mountains... and I did each legend in a different style!  I couldn't stop to write, so I dictated my stories to my phone (there's an app for that.)  When I arrived back at State College I was already running late for the game, so I had AI do a grammar check and copied each story onto word docs.  

Sidebar: in the previous weeks, I wrote up an encounter where the party comes upon two trolls who had killed a shepherd and were eating her sheep.  But I wanted them to see the shepherd as not a nameless victim.  I named her Maggie.  I figured they'd take the body to the first building they found next, so I made that a "local tavern" frequented by shepherds and such.  As a writing exercise I decided to write the local discussing Maggie's death after the party brought back her body.  Instead of acting that dialogue, I gave it to the players to read while I finished the legends of the mountains.  

Trolls in the Pantry!

Anyway, the point of my long winded introduction is this:  I think the stories can out fine.  And I'm going to share them to you.  You lucky people.  

Legend One- done in an Arabian Nights style:

The Words of Wise Malanthias, as Written by His Unworthy and Humble Scribe, Phaethon

In the name of wisdom, which is a lamp in darkness, and memory, which is a bridge across the abyss of years, let this account be set down.

Thus spoke Malanthias, the sage of the long road and the quiet chamber, may his words last as long as the sun may shine, and thus did I, Phaethon, most unworthy of scribes, take up my reed and write.

There was once, in the southern lands, the great sovereign, wise beyond years, generous as summer, King Badr Basim of great dominion and terrible splendor. His banners were like fields of fire.  His armies were as numerous as grains of sand upon the shore.  His palace shone with gold and lapis, and the sound of fountains was heard in every court.

Yet the heart of King Badr Basim is never satisfied with what lies close at hand.

Now far to the north there rose a mountain so tall that its head was lost among the clouds. In the morning it wore a crown of silver. At evening it burned red as a coal from the furnace of heaven. No man knew what lay upon its summit, and no bird was said to have flown so high.  Even the clouds had never seen its summit.

One day the King Badr Basim stood upon the roof of his palace and looked northward.

“What lies upon the crown of that mountain?” he said. “What King does rule there, what treasure, what marvel is hidden there from the eyes of men?”

None in his court could answer.

Then the King Badr Basim summoned two of his greatest warriors, men whose names were praised in every camp and feared in every enemy hall. Strong were their arms, keen were their eyes, and many were the battles in which they had stood like iron gates against the flood.

The King Badr Basim said to them, “Go forth. Climb the mountain of the north. Reach its highest place. Plant there my standard, so that even the clouds shall know my name.”

The two warriors bowed until their brows touched the floor.

“To hear is to obey,” they said.

So they departed.

They crossed the plains.  They crossed the stony hills.  They crossed the ravines where no water ran and the forests where no axe had bitten.  At last they came to the foot of the mountain, and there they began to climb.

Days passed.  Then weeks.  Then months.

The seasons changed their garments.  The flowers came and went.  The harvest ripened and was gathered.  Snow fell in the passes.  Still the warriors did not return.

In the palace, men spoke of them softly.

Some said, “They are dead.”  Some said, “They turned back in shame.”  Some said, “The mountain swallowed them.”

But the King Badr Basim, may the years bring him joy and richness, said nothing.  He waited.

Now after much time had passed, there came one day to the outer gate an old man dressed in rags of rough burlap, such as even a beggar might refuse.  His beard was white as salt.  His skin hung upon him like worn cloth.  His back was bent, and he leaned upon a staff of black wood.

The guards barred his way.

“Begone,” they said.  “This is the palace of the King Badr Basim, lord of lords, ruler of all who hear his name.”

But the old man lifted his head and spoke the first password.

The guards grew still.

Then he spoke the second password.

Their hands fell from their spears.

Then he spoke the third and secret word, known only to the King Badr Basim’s chosen servants and those sent upon missions of highest trust.

So the guards brought him within.

He passed through courts of marble and gardens of cypress.  He came at last before the throne, where the King Badr Basim sat in majesty beneath a canopy embroidered with lions and stars.

The sovereign Sultan of all looked upon the old man and said, “Who are you, rag-wrapped stranger, and how do you know words that are hidden from the ears of common men?”

The old man bowed with difficulty.

“O King Badr Basim, strength of the helpless, feeder of the widow and the orphan ,” he said, “I am he whom you sent to the mountain of the north. I am one of your two warriors.”

At this the courtiers laughed.  They laughed behind their sleeves.  They laughed with white teeth and cruel eyes.  For how could this ruin of a man be one of the King Badr Basim ’s mighty champions?

But the King Badr Basim was not as other men.  He was wise beyond the others.  For he was their dread sovereign.

He raised his hand, and the laughter ceased.

“If you are truly my warrior,” said the King Badr Basim, “then bare your back before me.”

Without complaint the old man loosened his rags and turned.

There, upon his withered back, stretched and faded but still plain to see, was the mark of the King Badr Basim ’s own war-host: the tattoo of rank and honor given only to those who had stood in the red mouth of battle.

Then the King Badr Basim knew that the old man had spoken truth.

He descended from his throne and came near.

“What became of your companion?” asked the King Badr Basim . “And what did you find upon the mountain’s crown?”

Then the old man began his tale, and all in the court leaned close to hear him.

“O great and dread King Badr Basim,” he said, “we climbed.

“We climbed beyond the trees.

“We climbed beyond the birds.

“We climbed beyond the last breath of warm wind.

“The rocks cut our hands.  The cold entered our bones. The clouds lay beneath our feet like a white sea. Yet still we climbed, for your command was upon us, and your standard was in our keeping.

“At last we reached the summit.

“And there, O King Badr Basim, may the sun always shine upon your grace , we found not emptiness, nor snow, nor the dwelling place of eagles.

“We found a city.

“It was a city built above the clouds, with towers higher than spears of lightning and gates broad enough for armies of giants. Its walls were of black stone veined with fire. Its streets were paved with crystal.  Thunder moved there like a servant.  Rain waited there in chains.  Winds were housed in bronze jars, and the stars themselves seemed near enough to pluck by hand.

“And in that city dwelt beings greater than men.

“They were taller than twenty warriors standing one upon another. Their voices were like avalanches.  Their eyes burned with the cold fire of dawn. T hey called themselves Titans.

“These Titans ruled the weather.  They commanded the clouds. They opened and shut the gates of storm.  They loosed the winds and bound them again.  They held the sky as a falconer holds a bird upon his wrist.”  He lifted a withered finger.

“When they saw us, they were not pleased.

“‘What are these little creatures?’ they said. ‘What insects crawl upon the roof of the world? What dust-born things dare come among us?’

“We answered that we were servants of the great King Badr Basim of the south, lord of all he surveys, and that we had come to plant his standard upon the summit.

“When they heard this, they laughed, and the city shook.

“Then their lord spoke.

“‘Let the one who bears the message return,’ he said, but let each step he takes steal a year from his flesh. Let him walk home carrying truth and let truth consume him.’

“So they cursed me.

“And my companion, O King Badr Basim —”

Here the old man paused, and his voice grew faint.

“My companion they did not send away.  They changed him.  By arts unknown to men, they remade his body and fashioned him into a beautiful woman, fair and strong. Then they kept her among them, not as guest, nor as queen, but as a vessel for their desire and their seed.

“I saw this, O King Badr Basim, and I could not save her.

“They drove me from the city.

“I descended the mountain alone.

“With each step, I grew older.

“One step, and my beard was touched with gray.

“Another, and my hands became thin.

“Another, and my back bent.

“Another, and my teeth loosened.

“Another, and my sight dimmed.

“Still I walked.

“I walked through snow.

“I walked through stone.

“I walked through hunger and fever.

“I walked while my youth fell behind me like dropped coins upon a road.

“For I had seen what no man had seen, and I had sworn to return and tell my King Badr Basim .”

When the old man had finished speaking, silence lay over the court like a veil.

The King Badr Basim looked upon him for a long time.

Then he said, not as a great and sovereign King speaks to a servant, but as one soul speaks to another at the end of suffering:

“Be at rest.”

At these words the old man smiled.  His staff fell from his hand.  His body trembled once.

Then, before the eyes of the King Badr Basim and all his court, he became dust and white bone.  For the curse had held back the full weight of his years only until his oath was completed.  Having spoken, he was released.

The King Badr Basim bowed his head.

No musician played.

No servant moved.

And the standard that had been meant for the mountain was lowered in silence.

Thus ends the tale of the warrior who climbed beyond the clouds, who saw the city of the Titans, and who purchased truth with all the years of his life.

So says the great sage Malanthias, may the light of his knowledge shine upon you.

And so have I, Phaethon, his unworthy and humble servant, written it down, lest memory perish and wonder be lost from the world.

Legend Two:  Nordic Saga

Saga of Thor and the Great Race

 

It is told that Thor, son of Odin, was proud above all things of his goats, Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr.

Strong were they, and swift. Their hooves struck fire from stone, and when they drew Thor’s chariot across the sky, the mountains trembled and the clouds split open. Thor said there were no beasts in Ásgard, nor in Midgard, nor in all the worlds beneath the branches of Yggdrasil, that could match them.

So Thor boasted before the gods.

“My goats are the strongest,” he said. “My goats are the swiftest. Let any god who doubts this yoke his own beasts to his chariot, and we shall see whose team is greater.”

Odin One-Eye sat upon his high seat and heard this boast. His ravens watched. His wolves lay still.

Then Balder the Bright rose and answered him.

“You speak loudly, Thunderer,” said Balder, “but loud words do not make swift wheels. My horses shall draw my chariot faster than your goats, and I will prove it beneath the eye of Odin.”

At this Thor laughed, but his laughter was hard.

“Then let it be so,” said Thor. “Let Odin witness it. Let the gods witness it. Let the race be run.”

So the terms were set.

They would race once around Jörmungandr, the World Serpent, who lies coiled around Midgard with his tail in his mouth. Around the world itself they would go, and the first to return beneath Odin’s gaze would be named the victor.

Then Thor yoked Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr to his chariot.

Balder yoked his horses, shining and fair.

Odin raised his spear.

The race began.

Away they flew from Ásgard, over the roof of the world, over sea and stone, over the lands of men and the dark places where giants mutter in their halls. Thor’s wheels roared like storm. His goats bent their necks and pulled with all their might. Sparks flew behind them like stars torn loose from night.

But Balder’s horses were light as sunbeams on water.

They ran as dawn runs over the edge of the world.

Faster went Thor.

Faster went Balder.

The wind screamed around them.

The sea rose beneath them.

Jörmungandr stirred in the deep and opened one cold eye as the chariots thundered past.

Yet the goats could not overtake the horses.

Though Thor shouted, though he cracked the reins, though thunder rolled from his beard and lightning flashed from his hands, still Balder drew ahead. His horses stretched their long legs and flew before him, and when the chariots came again into the sight of Odin, it was Balder who returned first.

So Balder won the race.

And Thor was shamed.

Great was his wrath then. His face darkened like a storm over iron hills. He looked upon Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, who stood trembling and spent, foam upon their mouths, steam rising from their backs.

“You have failed me,” said Thor.

And there, where the race had ended, he struck the earth with his hammer.

The ground split.

The sky shook.

By the power of Mjölnir and by the anger of the Thunderer, Thor changed his goats into stone.  Their legs rooted deep.  Their backs rose high.  Their horns became ridges.  Their bones became mountain-hearts.

Thus they stand even now: two great mountains, side by side, the goats of Thor, no longer flesh but stone.

Yet this also is said: On the day of Ragnarök, when the sun is swallowed and the wolf breaks his bonds, when Jörmungandr rises from the sea and Thor goes forth to meet him, the stone goats shall wake.

Their eyes shall burn again.  Their hooves shall break the mountainside.  Their stone hides shall become flesh.

Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr shall return to the world of battle.

But none among gods or men can say on whose side they will stand.  For long is the memory of stone.  And bitter may be the heart of a beast unjustly cursed.

 

Legend Three:  Indigenous Oral Tradition

Now listen.  Long ago, when the world was still young and the hills had not yet learned their names, the trickster Coyote was walking.  He was hungry.  He was hungry in his belly, yes.  But he was hungry in another way too.

“I want a wife,” said Coyote. “But where shall I find one?”

So Coyote walked, and he thought.  He walked some more, and he thought some more.

Then he remembered Old Beaver, who lived far to the north, where the water runs cold and the stones sit heavy in the earth.

Old Beaver had four daughters.  So people said.  Four daughters more beautiful than sunrise on new snow.  And their names were North, South, East, and West.  So Coyote turned his feet toward the north.

He went over dry ground.  He went over wet ground.  He went through willow and stone and wind.  At last he came to the lodge of Old Beaver.

And there they were, just as the people had said: Four daughters.  All of them beautiful.

But North — ah, North was the one who made Coyote’s ears stand up and his tail forget itself.

“I will marry North,” said Coyote.

Old Beaver looked at him.

“No,” said Old Beaver.  “North is promised already.  She is promised to a brave warrior from the west.”

Coyote blinked.  He scratched his ear.  He looked at West.  He looked toward the west.

Then he said, “If this warrior comes from the west, should he not marry West?  That would be a better arrangement.”

Old Beaver did not laugh.  Coyote laughed for both of them.  Then Coyote said, “Let us make a wager.”

Old Beaver narrowed his eyes, for he knew Coyote. Everyone knew trickster Coyote. When Coyote brought a bargain, there was usually a thorn hidden in it somewhere.

“What wager?” said Old Beaver.  Coyote said, “Tomorrow you will make a feast. We will eat. We will eat all day. Then we will go out between the mountains, and each of us will make his pile of waste upon the earth.  If my pile is greater than yours, I shall marry North.  But if your pile is greater than mine, then you may take from me whatever thing you name.”

Old Beaver thought.  He thought, Coyote is a trickster.  He thought, Coyote is full of schemes.  But he also thought, This is my lodge. These are my daughters.  They will serve the food.  I will see to it that I eat more than Coyote.  I will win this wager.

So Old Beaver said, “It is agreed.”

The next day came.  The daughters of Old Beaver brought out the feast.

North brought roasted roots.  South brought berries and sweet things.  East brought fish from the cold water.  West brought meat, fat and rich.  They served and served.

Old Beaver ate.  Coyote ate.  Old Beaver Man ate more.  Coyote smiled and ate.  Old Beaver ate until his eyes watered.  Coyote smiled and ate.

All day they feasted.  The sun went up.  The sun went down.  Their bellies grew round as winter moons.

At last Old Beaver stood.  “It is time,” he said.

So they went out between the mountains.  Old Beaver Man stood to the north.  Coyote stood to the south.  They squatted upon the land.  And there they began.  They strained.  They groaned.  They sang little songs to encourage themselves.  They made their piles upon the earth.

All that day they made them.  All that night they made them.  And when the next day came, they were still making them.  The piles grew high.  They grew higher. They rose like hills.  They rose like mountains.

Old Beaver Man looked to the south and saw Coyote’s pile climbing toward the sky.

“How can this be?” cried Old Beaver Man. “I ate more than you!”  Coyote laughed.

“Yes,” said Coyote. “Yesterday you ate more than me. But the night before, I ate plenty.”

Then Old Beaver Man knew he had been tricked.  Coyote had already filled himself before the feast began.  So Coyote’s pile was greater.  The wager was won.  And Coyote claimed North.

There, between the two great piles, Coyote and North came together.

This pleased the Powers Above, who look down upon foolishness and wisdom and sometimes find them wearing the same face.  So they decreed:

“From this day forward, whoever joins together between these two hills shall be blessed with fertility. Life shall come quickly there. The womb shall be strong there. The seed shall take root there.”

And so it was.

The two piles dried.  They hardened.  Grass grew upon them.  Stone formed inside them.  Snow lay on their shoulders.  Birds nested there.  People came later and gave those mountains other names.  They named them after strange goats and things they had seen with their own eyes.

But we know better.  We know the old names. The northern mountain is Old Beaver.  The southern mountain is Coyote.

That is how those mountains came to stand there.  That is why the land between them is powerful.  That is what the old people told.  And so we tell it still.

 

Legend Four:  Chinese/Japanese legend

It is told that upon the Southern Mountain there stands a monastery older than the memory of men. No road leads there for the unworthy, and no gate opens for those whose hearts are clouded.

Within that place dwells the master of the art, whose discipline is so perfect that even Time has been defeated by it.  The greatest grandmasters lower their brows before this one, and the spirits of dead masters, having cast off flesh and name, still come by moonlight to receive instruction.

The path to the monastery is a dreadful one.  Along the frozen ascent sit monks in the lotus posture, their bodies white with frost, their faces turned toward the unseen gate.  They wait there still, never judged worthy of entrance into the greatest of schools.

It is written that only the rarest soul may pass within. Even grandmasters, whose names are honored in a hundred provinces, are given no rank there. They sweep the floors, carry water, and bow in silence, praying that the great sensei may one day speak a single word of teaching to them.

Thus men say: many climb the Southern Mountain seeking mastery, but few understand that mastery begins when pride freezes upon the path.

I hope the tales passed muster.  the players were free to tell the others whatever they wished about the stories.  

We played late Saturday night.  Next session, they will encounter the Pass as they head for a very tiny village named Spring's Ford.  

Oh, that conversation?  Between the shepherds?   Figured I'd include it as well.  

AI after my sketch

Poosie Nancies: A rough roadside inn outside the city walls.  Not filthy.  Not dangerous.  Just honest frontier rough.  A long, low stone building.  Whitewashed once upon a time.  Smoke pouring from the chimney.  A stable bigger than the common room.  As the party approaches Dimashq, this is the first sign of civilization.  Not the city itself.

 

Outside: sheep pens, cattle enclosures, wagons, tethered horses, barking dogs

 

Inside: wool merchants, shepherds Drovers, Miners, Scouts.  The sort of people who actually know what's happening in the hills.

The party returns with: the news,  perhaps the brooch, perhaps a few recovered sheep. And the room goes quiet.  Not because she was famous.  Because everyone knew her.

 

 

"Maggie?"

 

 

"Aye."

 

 

Long silence.

 

Somebody removes a hat.

 

 

 

"Bleedin glaikit wumman."

 

 

 

"Ah telt her no tae bide oot there on her ain."

 

Then an older shepherd says:  "She wisnae gaunny listen."

 

Everybody nods.

 

And eventually somebody asks:

 

"Did she still hae Terrance's thistle?"

 

Brooch:  AI after my drawing.  MacIntosh tartan

One old drover nursing a mug of ale says:  "Terrance made that thistle fortie year syne."

 

Another replies:

 

"Fortie-twa."

 

The first says:  "Fortie-yin."

 

"Fortie-three year."

 

"Fortie."

 

"Fortie-three!"

 

A voice erupts from the far end of the room.  "Lonnie McMullins, ye're bletherin through yer bunnet again!"

 

Lonnie McMullins: AI based on a friend and former coworker who I hope doesn't mind

The entire common room laughs.

 

Lonnie points indignantly with his mug.  "Ah amnae!"

 

"Ye are."

 

"Amnae."

 

"Ye are an aw."

 

Old Mrs. MacLeod in her usual corner seat with her knitting raises her voice.

 

Mrs. McCleod.  AI based upon the story and my description.  But she shouldn't have the brooch.  

"It wis fortie year, an Ah ken because Ah made the dress."

 

Silence.

 

"Her mam's goon."

 

"Took me near three month tae alter it proper."

 

A drover nods.  "Bonnie thing."

 

"Maggie?"

 

"The dress, ye daft eejit."

 

More laughter.

 

Lonnie drains his mug.  "Still think it wis fortie-three."

 

Mrs. MacLeod doesn't even look up.  "An ye'd still be wrang."

 

A shepherd near the fire chuckles.  "Terrance spent hauf a year makin that siller thistle."

 

"Three month."

 

"Six."

 

"Three."

 

"Fower."

 

"Three an a hauf."

 

"Fine.  Three an a hauf."

 

“Three year gone noo since the fever took him.”

 

Someone lifts a mug.  "Tae Maggie."

 

The room grows quiet.

 

"Tae Terrance."

 

A few mugs rise.  Even Lonnie's.

 

Then after a long pause:  "Shouldnae hae bided alane oot on yon hill."

 

Another pause.

 

"Aye."

 

"But she widnae listen."

 

 

“Ye mind when Maggie caught Terrance coortin the Reynolds lass?  Christ, there wis a richt row!”

 

The room erupts.

 

"COORTIN!"

 

"He wisnae!"

 

"Wis an aw!"

 

"Terrance MacGregor couldnae coort a sheep if ye tied it tae him."

 

General laughter.

 

Lonnie McMullins wipes tears from his eyes.  "Ah saw it masel."

 

"Ye saw naethin."

 

"Ah did!"

 

"Mercat day.  Terrance staunin there wi flowers in his haund."

 

A woman across the room laughs.

 

"Flowers fur Maggie, ye dafty."

 

"How wis Ah tae ken?"

 

"Because he wis awready coortin Maggie!"

 

More laughter.

 

Old Mrs. MacLeod shakes her head.

 

"The Reynolds lass asked him whaur the smiddy lived."

 

"An Maggie saw him talkin tae her."

 

A pause.

 

"Oh, there wis a row."

 

The room nods.

 

"Maggie chased him clean across the square."

 

"Wi a besom."

 

"Wisnae a besom."

 

"It wis a shovel."

 

"A rake."

 

"Whitiver it wis, Terrance ran."

 

Even bigger laughter.

 

A drover raises his mug.  "Only time Ah ever saw Terrance move faster than Maggie."

 

And from the corner:

 

"Served him richt."

 

The room quiets for a moment.

 

"Aye."

 

"But he never looked at anither wumman efter."

 

A nod.  "No once."

 

Another nod.  "An she never let him forget it neither."

 

The laughter returns.

 

"Sure an a banshee wid run frae Maggie when she wis crossed!"

 

The room roars.

 

Lonnie McMullins pounds the table.  "Aye!"

 

"An apologisin while he wis runnin!"

 

More laughter.

 

A drover wipes ale from his beard.  "Mind when auld Angus MacBride's ram got intae her gairden?"

 

Half the room groans.

 

"Poor ram."

 

"Poor Angus!"

 

"Poor fence!"

 

Mrs. MacLeod snorts.  "Poor naethin."

 

"Telt him three times tae mend that fence."

 

A shepherd raises a finger.  "Fower."

 

"Three."

 

"Fower."

 

"Wha's countin?"

 

From the back: "The ram wisnae efter."

 

Laughter again.

 

"Whit happened tae it?"

 

"Maggie chased it aw the road tae the kirk."

 

"Wi a stick?"

 

"Wi a shovel."

 

"Everythin's a shovel wi you lot."

 

More laughter.

 

Then the old innkeeper at Poosie Nancies smiles into his mug.  "Terrance wisnae feart o giants."

 

A pause.

 

"Wisnae feart o orcs."

 

Another pause.

 

"Wisnae even feart o auld Baron Nanjari."

 

The room grows quieter.

 

"But when Maggie pit her haunds on her hips..."

 

Everyone nods.

 

"Aye."

 

"Then he'd start apologisin."

 

Then somebody says quietly:  "An wha's gaun tae tell young Terrance his mam's awa?"

 

Not old Terrance.  He's been dead these three winters.  Young Terrance.  The son.  The soldier.

 

A shepherd stares into his mug.  "Last Ah heard he wis posted near Thornward."

 

Another shrugs.  "Might be Falsridge noo."

 

"Might be."

 

Mrs. MacLeod sighs.  "Poor lad."  A long pause. 

                                    "Lost his da."

 

"Lost his sister."

 

"An noo his mam."

 

 

The innkeeper looks at the bar- to Maggie’s usual place.  "Somebody'll hae tae tell him."

 

A nod.

 

"Aye."

 

Another nod.  "Should be faimily."

 

“Problem is, o course, there’s nae much faimily left.”

 

“The McPhersons?”

 

Spit.

 

“Nae likely.”

 

"The boy wisnae ower bright tae begin wi."

"Aye, couldnae tell one end o a coo frae the udder!"

"Ach, no that auld joke again!"

 

"It's still funny."

 

"It wisnae funny the first twenty times."

 

Lonnie McMullins points with his mug.  "Mind when Maggie sent him tae mercat wi three coos?"

 

The room immediately perks up.

 

"Oh, Gods."

 

"Ah'd forgotten that."

 

"Naw ye hadnae."

 

"Aye, fair point."

 

Lonnie grins.  "Comes hame at the gloamin wi twa coos an a goat."

 

The room explodes.

 

"A GOAT?"

 

"Aye!"

 

"How?"

 

"Said the trader hud him believin it wis jist a wee coo."

 

The laughter nearly brings the roof down.  Even Mrs. MacLeod is smiling.

 

"Maggie near murdered him."

 

"Terrance laughed."

 

"Till Maggie looked at him."

 

"Aye.  Then Terrance stopped laughin."

 

Another round of laughter.

 

The innkeeper shakes his head.  "Boy's heart wis bigger than his wits."

 

The room quiets a little.

 

"Aye."

 

"Guid lad though."

 

"Best o the lot o us."

 

And that's the note the conversation settles on.

 

Because everyone in Poosie Nancies has watched that family for decades.  Maggie the stubborn shepherd.  Terrance the silversmith.  Young Terrance, who once traded a cow for a goat because somebody convinced him it was a very small cow.

 

“Aye, Maggie wis a spitfire, she wis.”

 

Several heads nod.

 

"Born that way."

 

"Cam intae the world angry."

 

Laughter.

 

Mrs. MacLeod snorts.  "The midwife swore Maggie's first act wis tae bite her."

 

The room erupts.

 

"Did she?"

 

"Nae."  A pause.  "But it sounds like somethin she'd dae."

 

More laughter.

 

An old shepherd near the door raises his mug.  "Never kent fear."

 

"Aye."

 

"Never kent sense either."

Grumbles of agreement.

 

"Mind when the orcs came through?"

 

The room quiets.

 

"Everybody else ran.  Maggie stayed."

 

"Wi naethin but a shepherd's crook."

 

"An a tongue that would've made a sailor blush."

 

The room bursts out laughing again.

 

"Poor orcs."

 

"Poor ORCS?"

 

"Aye. They got the full force o Maggie MacGregor."

 

Even the innkeeper is chuckling now.  "Terrance aye said he mairried her because she fair terrified him."  A pause.  "An stayed mairried because she fair terrified him."

 

The biggest laugh of the evening.  Then somebody looks at Maggie’s empty place at the bar.

 

The laughter softens.  "Terrance adored her."

 

Quiet nods.

 

"Aye."

 

"An she adored him."

 

Another pause.

 

"Just never whaur anybody could see."

 

"Ye huv tae hand it tae auld Terrance, though.  He managed tae mairry her."

 

"Aye, she wis a beauty then."

 

"Ach, ye're daft!"

 

"She had the face o a stone giant!"

 

"Stone giant?"

 

"Mair like a goat!"

 

The room explodes.

 

Lonnie McMullins pounds the table.  "That's whit Terrance fancied!"

 

Roars of laughter.

 

"Aye!"

 

"Spent twenty year chasin her."

 

"Three year."

 

"Felt like twenty."

 

Someone at the bar calls out: “Terrance wisnae choosy."

 

"He wis!"

 

"He chose Maggie!"

 

Even bigger laughter.

 

Mrs. MacLeod rolls her eyes.  "She wis bonnie."

 

The room quiets just enough to listen.

 

"Big blue een.  Hair doon tae her waist."

 

A few nod.

 

"Aye."

 

"An a temper tae match."

 

The room immediately starts laughing again.

 

"Terrance said she smiled at him once."

 

"Did she?"

 

"Nae. He just caught her afore she'd finished yellin."

 

Someone nearly chokes on his ale.  "Poor bastard thought that meant she liked him."

 

"She did like him."

 

"Aye.  Why else would she keep yellin at him?"

 

Mumbled agreement.

 

The innkeeper wipes down the bar and shakes his head.  "Never saw twa folk argue sae much."  A pause.  "Never saw twa folk happier neither."

 

"She wis a sonsie lass though, she wis."

 

Immediate agreement from half the room.

 

"Oh aye."

 

"Aye."

 

"Terrance certainly noticed."

 

A chorus of knowing chuckles.

 

Then from the corner comes Mrs. MacLeod's voice- sharp as a knife.  "Ach, aw you men are pigs!"

 

The room erupts.

 

"We're payin her a compliment!"

 

"Ye're mindin a deid wumman an aw ye can talk aboot is her chest!"

 

"We mentioned her eyes!"

 

"Once!"

 

Laughter.

 

An old drover raises his hands defensively.  "She did hae nice eyes."

 

"Efter ye'd spent ten minutes starin elsewhere!"

 

The women are now laughing too.

 

Mrs. MacLeod shakes her head.  "Maggie had the bonniest hair in three valleys."  A pause.  "n she kent it."

 

Agreement from the women.

 

"Aye."

 

"Spent an hour brushin it."

 

"Twa."

 

"Three when Terrance wis coortin."

 

The men protest.  "We noticed her hair!"

 

Dead silence.  Nobody believes them.

 

Then one of the shepherdesses smiles into her mug.  "Terrance did."

 

 

 

"Aye."

 

"He aye did."

 

Another nod.  "Used tae braid flooers intae it."

 

The men look surprised.  The women are not.

 

"Never telt anybody that."

 

"Course he didnae.  Terrance wisnae stupid."

 

"Their dochter Abbie now, she wis a beauty."

 

Immediate agreement.

 

"Aye."

 

"Bonnie as a rose."

 

"Bonnier."

 

"Had Maggie's een."

 

"An Terrance's smile."

 

A few nods around the room.

 

Then somebody says: “Whit did she see in that Connor McPherson anyway?"

 

A chorus of groans.

 

"McPherson."

 

Spit.

 

The room laughs.

 

Then Lonnie McMullins leans forward conspiratorially.  "Hung like a Clydesdale, he wis."

 

The room absolutely explodes.

 

Mrs. MacLeod nearly throws her mug.  "LONNIE!"

 

"Whit?  Everybody kent!"

 

"Nae one kent!"

 

"Abbie kent!"

 

The laughter becomes uncontrollable.

 

The innkeeper points a finger.  "That's enough oot o ye."

 

"Ah'm just explainin the mystery!"

 

"The mystery disnae need explainin!"

 

Another shepherd chimes in.  "Could've been the ferm."

 

"Could've been his looks."

 

"Could've been his charm."

 

Dead silence.

 

Then:  "Nae."

 

The entire room erupts again.

 

Even Mrs. MacLeod is laughing now.  "Lord preserve us."

 

"Poor Abbie."

 

A quiet moment follows.

 

"Aye."

 

"Poor lass."

 

"Ach, he near split her in hauf, he did!"

 

The common room erupts.  Ale sprays.  Somebody falls off a stool laughing.

 

Mrs. MacLeod slams her mug onto the table.  "LONNIE McMULLINS!"

 

Lonnie is laughing too hard to defend himself.

 

"Mind yer manners! Ye're speakin o the deid!"

 

Lonnie waves a dismissive hand.  "Oh calm yersel, ye auld hen!"

 

The room collectively gasps.

 

"OH, he's done it noo."

 

"Gods save him."

 

"Somebody hide the shovels."

 

Mrs. MacLeod rises slowly.  Very slowly.  "Auld...  Hen?"

 

Lonnie's grin begins to fade.  "Noo, Aggie..."

 

"AULD HEN?"

 

The room is now openly taking bets.

 

"Five siller says she kills him."

 

"Ten says she just breaks a chair."

 

"Chair's cheaper."

 

The innkeeper sighs.  "No this again."

 

A shepherd near the hearth chuckles.  "Reminds me o Maggie."

 

The room immediately quiets.

 

Mrs. MacLeod sits back down.  "Aye."

 

Lonnie nods.  "Maggie would've skelped me by noo."

 

"Twice."

 

"Three times."

 

"Aye."

 

The innkeeper raises his mug.  "An Terrance would've apologised."

 

General agreement.

 

"Even though it wisnae his fault."

 

"Especially because it wisnae his fault."

“Maggie'd hae knocked his teeth oot fur that!"

 

Lonnie points indignantly.  "Ah've got nae teeth left!"

 

"Nor did Terrance!"

 

The room explodes.

 

"Aye!"

 

"Lost the last o them chewin Maggie's oatcakes!"

 

"They were guid oatcakes!"

 

"They were weapons!"

 

Roars of laughter.

 

The innkeeper wipes his eyes.  "Ah mind auld Terrance complainin aboot those."

 

"Complainin?"

 

"Aye."

 

"Said he couldnae chew them."

 

A shepherd grins.  "An whit did Maggie say?"

 

The room falls silent.  Everybody knows this story.

 

The innkeeper adopts a gravelly voice.  "Then stop gummin them and swallow."

 

The common room absolutely loses it.  Even Mrs. MacLeod is laughing now.  "Gods, she wis terrifying."

 

"Aye."

 

"Best wumman in three valleys."

 

A pause.

 

"Second best."

 

Mrs. MacLeod narrows her eyes.  "Second?"

 

The speaker quickly points.  "Efter you, Aggie."

 

The room howls.

 

"Coward."

 

"Smart man."

 

"Same thing."

 

Then somebody lifts a mug.  "Tae Maggie MacGregor."

 

The laughter fades.  Mugs rise throughout Poosie Nancies.

 

"Tae Maggie."

 

"Tae Terrance."

 

"Tae Abbie."

 

And even Lonnie grows quiet for a moment.  "Aye."

 

"They were guid folk."

 

 

Interior: Poosie Nancies.  AI after my drawing

Hope this wasn't too dreadful.  Be well and stay strong.