Comatose Daydream, the Traveler's Absence

 The Traveler is comatose. He has been for some months, but it's taken some time to figure out his password. It started after New Year's.  The Traveler disappeared some time ago in Mid-October.  Shortly after the Solstice and what the humans call Christmas, there were rumors of his return.  A post I found here seems to corroborate that.  Two days after what was to be his return to school, the Voice which he has often referred to as a faceless lady crashed a very important masquerade ball. As you can imagine, having no face draws more attention in such a situation than the most garish mask. A la “Masque of the Red Death”, silence fell where she walked as she approached the Unseelie Queen and whispered something in her ear. The color drained from the ballroom and the music stopped. She hastily announced the ball was over and that there was to be court immediately.

Most of the fae disappeared into the shadows along with the ballroom and the Queen's throne materialized in the center. We all knelt as she set, but she uncharacteristically bade us all rise. This was serious. The Voice stepped onto the dais upon which the throne sat and addressed us.

“As you are all aware, the Traveler has not been seen for some time,” she began, “I know that many of you have no interest in the daydream, and even that some of you wish he had never been involved in the court to begin with.”

Silence greeted this, as though they were afraid to confirm or deny her statement.

“I am also aware that he has been invited to court on several occasions, some of which he has declined on account of obligations to the Boy Scouts and other human organizations.”

We didn't really know where she was going with this. The Voice turned to the Unseelie Queen.

“I trust that you are still indebted to the Traveler for the Creative Spark which he recovered for you.”

The Queen slowly nodded. In case you don't know, debts are serious business in the world of the fae. For the Voice to bring up her debt to another it had to be serious business. Any other circumstance would be so crass as to make it grounds for dueling. She turned back to us.

“Then, on the Daydream's behalf, I ask the repayment of this debt.”

There was a pregnant silence for a moment. Then, the Queen rose and said, “What must we do?”

“The Traveler lives with his family an hour away to the east when he isn't here,” the Voice replied, “He should have returned to school two days ago. I would know why he has not, but I am bound to this town until the longest night. I have his phone number, but his phone has been dead for nigh two weeks. My request is thus: that you send an agent to see to his well-being. That agent will then report to me and then in turn carry a message to the Traveler should I require it. Upon the completion of this task, your debt shall not be repaid, but the responsibility for it be transferred to me, leaving you without further obligation. Do you accept?”

“And what of our restrictions?” the Queen asked, “Our kind may not enter a dwelling without permission of one of the occupants.”

“There is one among you,” the Voice said, “Which has standing permission to come to the Traveler wherever he may be.”

They both turned their gazes (figuratively for the Voice) to me. Dammit if I didn't know this was coming from the moment she opened her... started speaking.

“I am willing, Your Majesty,” I sighed, “if that is your wish.”

“It is,” she replied turning back to the Voice, “Then I believe our business is settled?”

“Yes it is,” came the Voice's response, “I can see myself out.”

And she did just that. I met the gaze of the Queen.

“I suppose I'll see to her task, then, Your Majesty.”

“See that you do, Pocketwatch.”

I returned to the Traveler's dorm room to gather what few things I kept there as well as the materials for a flight glamor. (He keeps his stores of magical reagents well-stocked for someone who distrusts magic.) For the past five or so months, I have been living as him. Initially we used a fetch to mask his sudden disappearance, but fetches are strictly short-term. Replace the person, get sick, die, leave no trace. That wouldn't do for him if he was coming back. Using one was actually part of the repayment of that debt as he had asked that we mask any extended absences. The Traveler was gone so long, I (being the closest thing he has in the Unseelie Court to a friend, and he being the only living thing I actually trust) volunteered to wrap myself in a glamor of him and live as a changeling until hopefully his return.

The next evening, I wrapped myself in the form of an owl and flew the distance to his home. The front door opened for me in spite of being locked, which because of his request indicated that he was indeed there. I checked the rooms one by one. Living room, small kitchen, some kind of office, a bathroom, another kind of office, linen closet, some other kind of closet. A ha! Bedroom.

The first thing I saw was the Traveler on a bed by a window. He was on his back, asleep. Around the bed was a circle of white material. Knowing him, salt. I stepped forward to inspect the circle for breaks. And then I couldn't move my arms. With my higher eyes, I was suddenly aware of the flare of an aura. It was a strange gunmetal streaked with glowing oranges, luminous yellows, and the occasional verdant green. The air took on the scent of burning oil. A short (for a human) mostly bald man holding a book and an equally short red-headed woman stepped out of nothing, both staring at me intently.

“What are you doing here?” the man asked, “What do you want with our son?”

The kid has parents. Magical ones. Who knew?

“Just checking up on him,” I say casually, “It's a favor for a woman with no face.”

They shared a glance, then the woman, his mother, looked me in the eyes. Her expression was one of mixed motherly concern and nigh-excited curiosity.

"Has one of the Voices has taken an interest in him?” she inquired, “We weren't aware there were any about in Arkansas."

“As far as I know, yes. Now since you see I mean no harm, do you mind undoing the binding? My arms are getting sore.”

Her eyes flashed pink and I smelled a sweet, milky scent and my arms fell to my sides.

“What happened to him?”

“He was stabbed with a cursed blade,” his father replied, “He isn't dead, but neither of us know what the enchantment is or how to break it. Not yet, anyway”

I stepped around them over to the edge of the salt circle. From this close, I could see the guard of a small pocketknife protruding from his chest.. It was a matte black like it was sucking the light out of the air around it. I would assume the blade was the same. My higher eyes saw it as a knife-shaped hole in the air.

“You haven't even pulled it out?”

“Basic first aid,” his mother responded, “Never take something out if you don't know how to treat the wound.  It might make it worse.  He's still alive, and that's the most important thing for the moment.”

I couldn't argue with that logic.

The Traveler's parents bade me stay for supper before I departed and we took the opportunity to swap stories. Apparently his father has some kind of “mortal peril sensor” which allows him to scry on his kid when he's in the aforementioned mortal peril. The Traveler doesn't seem to have any idea what they are. His dad's descended of wizards. It's been dormant for a while, but the talent manifested in him. His mom's what my people call the “Victoriana”, commonly called flower faeries. The bane of our existence. They were born from the dreams of little girls in Victorian England and have persisted since. She seems pretty cool in spite of that. This explains the daydream thing. And the power.

Afterward, I left to report to rhe Voice. Her usual haunt is beneath the sign of a little taco joint just off the University's campus. Lo and behold, there she was, smoking her usual unusual turquoise-flame cigarettes.

“All right,” she said after I informed her of the Traveler's fate, “I'll need to speak with the other voices, but this has the Evil written all over it. I will have a message for his parents, but for the moment you're free. Thanks very much, Mr. Pocketwatch.”

And then she disappeared in that infuriatingly comedic way that Voices can do when they're feeling mischievous (which is pretty much all the time for some of them). She slowly faded out, leaving behind a grin which hadn't been there before, and eventually that too faded. And all that was left was me, having nothing left to do but wonder what the hell she meant and keep living my semi-stolen life.

Until she called me back, that was.

Snow Tinks and Dragons

Had two days of ice this past week.  I'm sure anyone reading was aware of the Kansas+-sized winter storm that swept across the US last week.  My part of Arkansas got hit pretty hard as far as the state's usual winter weather goes.  Sleet the first day.  Snow the second.  I actually got snowed in at a friend's apartment on the second night.  It didn't occur to me until tonight that it was anything other than ordinary.  Tonight I saw the Snow Tinks.

It was foggy this evening as slightly-above-freezing temperatures caused the snow and ice to melt and the humidity was so high that it became visible in the night air.  As I've said before, strange things come out of the mists.  And tonight was no exception.  I was walking the path around the outside of my dorm (looking for some headphones I had dropped), when it came out.  It was large, in the European style of dragons, and looked to be made of paper and books.  Not really surprising, it being a Sunday evening with so much unfinished homework about.

Like most dragons, it quickly zeroed in on me.  And I, foolishly not having considered the fog, was unarmed.  Fortunately for me, that was when the Snow Tinks arrived.  All at once these little snow- white imps seemed to appear from all around and latch on to the dragon.  The air tinkled with a sweet childish laughter.  Within moments, the dragon was an ice sculpture of itself and the little creatures hopped off and went about their business, which now that I noticed them could see that it was a huge snowball fight.  One of those snowballs went for me and I took it as an invitation to join in.  I can't say that I won, but I haven't had quite so much fun in the snow in quite some time.

Now as to the Snow Tinks themselves.  They're somewhat of a rare breed.  Almost unheard of in North America.  They're actually the strange crossbreed of a gnome and pixie (something about a "free love" movement in the 1700's from what I've heard) and they tend to bring snow and other wintry weather wherever they go.  The name Snow Tink is actually a more recent development derived from their striking similarities to a snow white variation of J.M. Barrie's Tinkerbelle.  The species' numbers have grown significantly since the race was born, but they mostly stay in Europe.  One has to wonder what they're doing all the way over here across the pond.

But I'm not about to look a gift mouth in the horse.

Dragons in the Mists and Shadow Highways

It was foggy out this morning.  The entire campus was shrouded in thick fog.  It was kind of nice but I was a bit worried that I would run into a dragon on my way to class. 

Dragons are imaginary.  They weren't always.  The naturally-occurring variation was wiped out in the dark ages by glory-seeking knights.  But they are now (and that's another story, as Scheherazade would say).  Regardless of what the old ones were like, the imaginary sort are generally intelligent but vicious and greedy.  And they live in fog banks.

I dunno why.  I guess it's something about the fog bank's "mysterious aura" and the concept still ingrained into our collective consciousness that "here there be dragons".  They're weird, too.  They seem to take whatever form of the most powerful emotions and thoughts around them.  To that point, I've encountered dragons formed apparently of test anxiety, the color purple (but not the play), and Hello Kitty.  They've all got weaknesses and things they can't do, too.  Most notably, I was able to slay a large sulphur-breathing one on the Arkansas River two years ago by scratching it with a plastic fork (again, Scheherazade's excuse).

Mercifully, I wasn't attacked.  But that leaves me the other thing I intended to bring up in this post.  I sit now at the doctor's office in my home town.  It's a surgery followup, but I'm sure I'm fine.  Anywhat, my home is some 80 miles from my university.  It's a bit of a drive.  And though I've become more comfortable driving on the interstate, I'm still a pretty paranoid driver when I'm on it.  That self-induced heightened awareness paid off today when I noticed something running alongside my own stretch of highway.  It was another set of roads I hadn't ever noticed before.  It wasn't the opposite direction's lanes, because that's always been to my left.  This path was on the right.  Before I knew it, the second highway was running off the ground without any support, sometimes parallel to me, sometimes perpendicular to my own, sometimes running the other way entirely.  Oddly enough, I didn't see any vehicles or on ramps and off ramps.  And LIKE EVERYTHING ELSE, nobody seemed to notice.

This warrants further study.

Haiti and a Friendly Reminder/Warning

The sound of the facetious slow clap fills the air as I write this.  As I'm sure you readers know, an insanely powerful earthquake has struck Haiti in the past few days.  Anywhere from 30,000 to 100,000 people have been shuffled from this mortal coil and many more are hurt, mentally, emotionally, or physically.  Many are still missing.  I'm not saying for sure, but I can't help but think something else seriously bad went down.

I've been consulting some of my not-quite-human contacts and they say that at the time of the quake, something similar swept across the spiritual overlay of the southeastern US.  Their guess is that someone tried to summon something they couldn't control.  Something big.  Something powerful.  Whatever was called was probably vodoun considering the region (and that it doesn't work that way in Santeria).  The likely culprit?  Gran Bois.  Loa of The Sacred Forest (of the Island Below the Waters (a.k.a. Guinee)).

Normally, he's pretty nice and generous if you pay the proper respect and tribute.  He's also pretty proud of his unusually large, constantly erect penis.  Just worth noting there.  Like all loa, though, he can be "great and terrible" if things aren't done properly or he isn't paid proper respect.  And a lot of loa also have alternate forms, usually "La Flambeau" (the fiery aspect) or "Ge-Rouge" (literally "Red Eye"), which are quite violent and dangerous variations.  My guess is that something along those lines led to the massive earthquake and the only earth-aligned being I can think of that powerful is Gran Bois.  I really feel sorry for all the other Haitians who are suffering or lost their lives for the folly of one or several summoners who didn't do their homework.  There is no excuse for this.  This kind of disaster can't ever be spun in a positive light.  No matter what they stood to gain.

Great job genius!  You almost sank the island!

This kind of crap is why Atlantis fell, according to some of the supposed survivors' accounts.  "We're powerful magicians!" they said, "We don't need to seal things in a summoning circle!"  And then they called something big which proceeded to eat them all and sink the continent.

Third Law of Magic: Never summon anything bigger than your head.



 Gran Bois' veve.
  You can do whatever you feel like to help the relief efforts here.   Please do.  They need it.

Surgery, Psychoses, a Cuban, and a little Cosmic Skin Shedding (But nothing really THAT exciting)

The surgery went well.  It was a reasonably minor outpatient procedure.  Blah blah blah benign polyp in the sinus.  I woke up with a sore throat from the "standard procedure" breathing tube, nauseous from all the blood I swallowed, and the-inability-to-keep-my-eyes-open-in-spite-of-the-fact-that-I-was-mentally-all-there-almost-immediately-upon-waking.  Apparently I'm more resistant to anesthesia than I thought. I'm probably an expensive drunk, too.

Normally I hate hospitals, but this one was unusually empty.  Of imaginary things, that is.  Imaginaries take many forms.  Most are shaped by human expectation.  Pixies, gnomes, the immortal menace that is the Loch Ness Monster to name a few (eat that cryptozoologists!).  Some are more primal, formed unconsciously of feeling rather than legend.  Hospitals are usually just crawling with such beasties.  People have fears and worries and hopes among other more complex feelings which make strange creatures.  Negative emotions make nightmarish things come to life and the more positive end of the spectrum brings forth what is best described as cute and cuddly.  Of course the former often eat the latter, especially when hope is weak, and they're not too common to begin with in such places.  One of my imaginary associates calls the negative ones Nervosa.  (I assume it's a nod to psychological disorder names.)  They're generally not fun to deal with.  Sometimes they become strong enough that they can directly affect the ones who helped form them.  On one occasion, I had to help get rid of a particularly nasty one who stalked the wards of a childrens' hospital not too far from my university.  The Nervosa in question took the form of a doctor ripped from the collective dreamscapes of King, Barker, and Lovecraft.  He was made of and fed off of the fears of mostly surgery patients.  But that is another story (though it is a thrilling one.)

Anywhat, this hospital was strangely free of Nervosa.  I noticed three relatively minor ones in the waiting room and none beyond.  It was rather pleasant.  The hospital has a good track record, so maybe its reputation has other benefits.  The way she was looking around, I think my mom noticed the fact too.  But my dad didn't.  Strange, since he noticed the gremlins back at Thanksgiving.  (Side note: Are they both something other?)  So yeah, blessedly free of scary things.

Recovery was reasonably smooth and the ability to breathe through my nose for the first time in a year was quite pleasant.  That wasn't the best thing I got for Christmas, though.  My family gave me some books (glorious books!) and I had the pleasure of giving them each a handmade gift blessed with a minor protection charm.  My best gift, however, came on Christmas Eve night.  Ever since my first encounter with the Jolly Old Immigrant I've been making sure to leave milk and cookies (and to make sure they're the good stuff) out.  We've had a few random encounters outside the Season of Giving and have a friendly acquaintanceship going.  Incidentally, it turns out Santa Claus does a whole lot more for the world than we give him credit for.  Him and a mysterious gentleman with a strange thorny circlet.  (Again, another time.)  Anyway, he shows up, we enjoy a brief chat over the snacks, I give him a thank you gift and go to bed, he leaves presents, Christmas morning, rinse, (maim), repeat.  This year, when I gave him his present (after all, a little gratitude is never a bad idea) he handed me one of his own.  I kind of felt bad.  I had given him a little handmade snowglobe which depicted the first time we met, but he gave me something way more awesome.  It was a crystal tree topper actually made out of a star!  I mean, he had actually gone through the trouble of plucking a shooting star out of the sky and refining it for me!  I put it on top of our tree immediately (our old star had been retired this year).  He also included a little bottle of starlight.  "A little light," he said, "Is never out of place.  Plus it doesn't run out of batteries."  With that, we parted ways and went to go fulfill our Christmas Eve duties.  For what it's worth, my family wasn't all that surprised about the new star (though they did think it was pretty), so I have to wonder if they saw it for what it really was.  (But again, what are they descended of?)

The last major happening was something that occurs every year: New Years.  Every year, people use the start of a new year to make resolutions and forge a new path for themselves.  "Out with the old!  In with the New!" as they say.  Anyone with the eyes to see can see at the stroke of midnight wherever they are a sort of Cosmic Skin Shedding.  The imaginary objects and markings people collect over the course of the year simply slough off, if only for a little while.  Sometimes the ephemera dissolves into nothing an sometimes it soon enough reattaches itself.  More than that, though, the collective resolution to change and become better, sincere or otherwise, actually makes the world around us shed much of the emotional and imaginary imprint we drop on it like litter over the year.  Sometimes only for a while before things return to normal, sometimes permanently.

There's not really much else interesting.  You see, with the exception of the odd gremlin or other critter, I'm not particularly involved in the preternatural going-on of my hometown.  I arrived in time to go off to school and get involved there.  It's kind of nice though.  Christmas break is like a vacation.

Summer can be like solitary.

What's a Daydream?

It has occurred to me (finally) the that the title of this blog may be a bit confusing.  The latter portion, "The Life and Times of a College-Aged Daydream," in particular.  The explanation is twofold

First, it needs to be stated that the Buddhist concept that "reality is what comes out of the eyes rather that into them" is not far off.  Our expectations shape reality.  When people believe in the existence of something so fervently and for so long, it simply starts to be.  Technically these things are imaginary, but just because it's imaginary doesn't mean it isn't real.  This also doesn't mean that the things they believed in didn't already exist.  There are many kinds of Fae creatures, some of which are imaginary and some which have always been real.

Second, many of these so-called impossible creatures were also thought to intermingle their own blood with that of men and women.  Dhampir and Cambions are two examples which come from real creatures.  The Daydream is another matter.  They are a catch-all term for the blood descendants of the imaginary things.  Most of the time, this doesn't manifest in any significant way.  Usually they may be a bit more lucky that the average person or display certain aptitudes or personality quirks often displayed by their progenitor.  Sometimes, though, they'll be significantly like whatever they descended from.

I am of the latter sort although I don't know what I come from or what sort of strangeness that entails.  Except that I see through whatever illusion keeps the rest of mankind blissfully ignorant.  My guess is that it comes from my dad considering the incident with the Gremlins on Thanksgiving.  I should really ask when I go home for Christmas.  Wow this sounds like some creepy otherkin self-explanation.  Relax, I'm not some delusional "dragon with gold eyes who breathes rainbows trapped in a human body."

As far as I know.

Auric Phenomena

After auditions for our spring show the night before last, a couple of my friends and I went out for dinner.  We hit a little mexican place a few blocks from campus.  What we ordered or talked about is immaterial (though it was a rather enjoyable evening).  When we walked in, I noticed a couple having a hushed conversation in the corner.  Their eyes were locked and he reached over to take her hand.  I like to think he was talking about their future together or something sweet like that.  Anyway, once they touched their silverware rose a few inches off the table.  Their forks and spoons actually floated upward a bit.  It wasn't particularly noticeable if you aren't normally looking for the unusual, but that's kind of what I do.  As soon as he pulled back so they could get up and pay their bill the silver fell but they just dismissed it as one of them bumping the table while rising.  I love how people do that.

It was an auric reaction.  Don't get me wrong.  I don't buy all the new-agey aura of divine energy crap.  But it's actually reasonably well established that most if not all living creatures have some kind of electromagnetic field or "aura" surrounding them.  Normally they're not visible though their effects can be seen; like the reaction between the lovers' auras in the restaurant.  Most people ignore them.  We can photograph them now, using Kirlian photography.  Under normal circumstances, they're not visible.

Under metanormal circumstances on the other hand, they are.  In particular, when someone us actively using magic their aura becomes a luminescent nimbus around their body.  The color is individual to each person though different people can have different or even same-colored auras.  Auras also include an olfactory component.  This is individual, often requiring a rarified sense of smell to distinguish.  They're even perceptible when the aura isn't visible as the person's "natural scent".  For instance, my aura manifests as a deep forest green accompanied by the scent of woodsmoke.  If one knows how to distinguish however, they'll find it smells like burning cedar.

So y'know that really smelly guy in you pass by every day?  Just be glad he isn't a magic user.

On the Nature of Santa Claus

Thanksgiving's coming up this week and I'm heading home tomorrow to spend it with my family.  On campus, though, I'm already seeing trees and lights and other trappings of that second most wonderful of holidays that is Christmas.  It seems a lovely time to share a bit of exposition on the nature of the Jolly Old Elf himself, Santa Claus.

I had the pleasure of meeting the (currently not so) Big Guy two years ago shortly after I found myself where I hang my hat today.  It was the standard "You're asleep and dreaming.  Ignore me and go back to bed." situation at first.  Unfortunately for him, I had already learned the first two rules of life such as it is for me: 1) Rarely is anything as it seems.  and 2) SALT, SALT, SALT!.)  What can I say?   By the age of 18, most of us have been fed the grand truth (read: DAMN LIE! (Thank you, Mr. Twain)) that there is no such thing as Santa Claus.  To me, he just looked like an opportunistic burglar.

Several impossibly large packages and a circle of salt later, we reached an impasse.  I had thought he was mundane until I saw the bag work and then I guess my paranoia kicked in.  Blah blah blah, "State your name and business."  To his credit, he was very polite and patient with me.

Santa told me that he had been born Nicolas López Fernández in a small town in Cuba and was currently 32 years old.  Contrary to the commonly told stories, he actually lived in the southern Florida Keys most of the year.  "You see," he told me, "The mantle of the one you call 'Santa Claus' is actually passed down every two hundred years or so.  I haven't been on the job for more than a few years."

The story begins long after the death of the historical St. Nicholas, instead with the life of an unknown Frenchman, Jacques de Sène in the 1200s.  While he was rather poor, he actively spent what little free time performing what services he could for others without being asked or asking recompense.  By the tradition of those holding the mantle, he was apparently visited by a manifestation of the original St. Nicholas who gifted with the ability to do good for others in all places.  Jacques was a meek man in spite of his desire to help all peoples.  He didn't want the attention.  Therefore it was chosen that the night of Christmas would be his night to perform this service as it would be welcomed among the festivities held by many cultures around the Solstice.  He would take on a new persona to indulge his meekness.  The persona that would eventually become whom we understand to be Santa Claus.


After some time, the mantle was passed on to a well-to-do slavic gentleman who built the legend of Grandfather Frost (known in the US simply as Father Frost), who did his work with his grandaughter, Snow Maiden.  Apparently, he had adopted the image of an old slavic god (the existence of which is as of yet unknown) and reverse the image from a cruel, child-stealing sorcerer to that of a kind gift-giver.  After some time, he passed the mantle to a rarely benevolent east Russian vampire dream-eater (a strange variation of the vampiric curse that enables the creature to subsist on the dreams of children, much like the semitic breath-drinkers).  He started the tradition of using enchanted reindeer perpetuated by Western storytellers.  After a time, he passed it to a British gentleman who wasn't particularly good at doing the unseen do-gooder thing.  His various sightings led to the common Western image of Santa Claus and provided the inspiration for the poem commonly referred to as "The Night Before Christmas".  When his time was up in the early 1900's, he bestowed the title on an Alaskan dogsledder.  He delivered gifts in the form of ice carvings which became the real thing, sparking more than one story.  He eventually fell in love with a girl whom he had watched grow up and was granted release from his duties by passing them on to the current one.

The one whom I currently had trapped in a circle of salt in my family's living room and delayed for several hours telling me the tale of his order.

Crap.

After profuse apology on my part, he simply smiled and laughed the deep, jolly laugh so commonly attributed to his namesake and told me it was okay.  Apparently the one thing all the logical arguments "disproving" the existence of Santa Claus were forgetting was the fact that the man is MAGIC.  In all of this, no time had passed.  In fact, it never does while he doesn't mean for it to.  He laid his index finger against the side of his nose and I found myself standing next to him on the roof of my family's house.  Attached to his large blue and green sledge were 12 particularly tiny key deer.  (I really have to question the ethical concerns of enchanting and using for this purpose 12 of a threatened species...)  With a chuckle he mounted the sleigh and took the reins, calling, "On Sunshine!  On Rain!  On Love!  On Joy!  On Pink!  On Green!  On Cindy and Bobby and Jan and Peter and Marcia and Greg!  Now haul some ass!"  And with that, they took a running start and took off from my roof for their next destination.

It didn't occur to me until after his departure that I had forgotten to ask about the elves.