Aren't There Any Happy Endings?

Following is the foreword from my upcoming collection of short stories, entitled "Aren't There Any Happy Endings?"

It will be available in all e-formats, and perhaps paperback at a later date if there is demand for it.

FOREWORD

The book you hold in your hands on your e-reader of choice is a collection of my short stories written over a span of about 20 years, perhaps a little longer. Some have been previously published in other collections or genre magazines, some have been shared with friends and family, and a few have never been seen by eyes other than my own.

Most of these stories contain elements of horror, with perhaps a touch of fantasy and a few sprinklings of the supernatural. But the characters within these stories are very real. They could be you or me or someone you know, and you will likely recognize a bit of yourself in some of them. But I should warn you—the majority of these characters are not likeable. They are not heroes, nor are they villains. They are not overcoming great obstacles or creating great works of importance or changing the world for the better. Many of them are simply lost, or miserable, or cruel, or just empty souls wandering through life without ever finding direction.

Despite all this, you will still want to read about them, because haven't we all felt some of that at some point in our own lives?

Thankfully, for many of us, those feelings of loss, despair, and hopelessness are faded memories, and we enjoy better, happier lives. But not all of the characters in these stories are able to share the same happy endings.

And that is where the true horror of the story lies—in the idea that not everyone always gets a happy ending. The hero doesn’t always save the day, the right words aren't always said, and the right choices aren't always made.

It's the horror of reality—maybe not yours or mine, not currently, and hopefully not ever, but many others face this horror everyday. Here are some of their stories…

2nd Tale in the Tales of Tanglewood fantasy series on Kindle!

The Tales of Tanglewood: The Curse of Satyr Stump is now also available on Amazon in paperback, and on Kindle at the low introductory price of $4.99!



Purchase The Tales of Tanglewood: The Curse of Satyr Stump on the Kindle

2nd Tale in the Tales of Tanglewood fantasy series published!

My second novel is now currently available exclusively on The Tales of
Tanglewood website at a 10% discount!

The Tales of Tanglewood: The Curse of Satyr Stump is the follow-up to The Lon Dubh Whistle, and continues the story of Colin, Blood of the Fey, and his adventures in Tanglewood.

The Tales of Tanglewood fantasy series melds together influences of Celtic and Irish mythology with modern-day folklore. In the second tale, "The Curse of Satyr Stump", Colin, Blood of the Fey, returns to Tanglewood shortly before Sahwen night, a time when the magic of the 'wood has a strange effect on all things within it.

Things have entered the 'wood that should not be there, and the pathways are no longer safe. The blackberries have spoiled, a pooka roams the 'wood, and a strong calling pulls Colin close to Satyr Stump, where Fionn the satyr has been cursed by Grainne, the Grey Lady.

Tasked to face the dark druidess and help break the curse upon Fionn, Colin seeks help from the druid Bairtlemead Muffingrow, the ferrish Ailfrid, and the elfin girl Deidre. But it will be the satyr chieftain himself who joins Colin, seeking to help restore another piece of Tanglewood that has been claimed by deiney corruption.

But the Grey Lady will not yield so easily, and Colin and Fionn are both nearly powerless in her domain. Colin learns very quickly that during Sahwen, Tanglewood can be a very dangerous place indeed.


Book purchased through the Tales of Tanglewood website will be signed and have the option of a personalized message.

The book will also be available shortly on Amazon.com and for the Amazon Kindle, and in regular stores as well.

Chapter Three, Part One

A short while later, their bellies full of roasted
fish washed down with sweetened water, they
had forgotten about the sprites and were
content to walk casually along the bank of Copper
Stream, still savoring the taste of the delicious fish that
lingered on their lips.

During the journey, Colin seemed to have also
forgotten about his parents. Somewhere deep inside
him, he knew there was something he must do, but it
was barely a murmur in his mind, which was loud and
alive with wonder and enjoyment, and frequently
distracted by the urge to scratch at the bites that
irritated his flesh.

At last, Ailfrid pointed to a hut made of wood and
stone, built up against a portion of the bank that sloped
steeply, reaching much higher than the boys. A door in
the hut opened as they approached, and Colin nearly
laughed when he saw the little man scrambling toward
them along the muddy bank.

Bairtlemead Muffingrow was a small, squat man,
barely taller than Colin and Ailfrid. A small set of
round glasses was perched upon a bulbous nose, set
neatly between two large, welcoming eyes of pale blue.

framed overhead by bushy gray eyebrows. His smile was
equally comforting, and long white tendrils of a thin
beard trailed from his chin, nearly to his waist.

Muffingrow’s body was hidden beneath a bundle of
robes, but two large, pudgy hands emerged from the
folds of his clothing to grab a hand each of Colin and
Ailfrid. He shook them both vigorously.

“Come in, come in! Ailfrid, always a pleasure to see
you. And you – hmm, there is mystery about you, isn’t
there?”

Muffingrow’s smile grew nearly as wide as his face,
and Colin would have feared being swallowed up by it,
had it not been so friendly. “Well, come in, won’t you,
and tell an old man why you’ve come to me today.”

They followed Muffingrow into the
hut, which Colin noticed was much
larger on the inside than it had first
appeared. A portion of the druid’s home
apparently extended into the steep embankment.

The second thing that Colin noticed was the myriad
aromas of the many dried branches of herbs that were suspended from the rafters. Indeed, it smelled as though the very essence of the forest were
contained within the walls of the druid’s home.

Muffingrow bade them sit at a small wooden table.

The chairs were also of wood, but had been fitted with
comfortable pillows of brown cloth. Inset into one wall
was a small fireplace with a happily crackling fire, and
near it, what appeared to be a second enclave, carved
directly into the rock, but with an earthen base.

A thick curtain divided another chamber from
Colin’s view. But all about him, he spied numerous
curiosities, most notably a tall bookshelf nearly
overflowing with all manner of jars and boxes and
containers. Many were labeled with the names of various
spices that Colin recognized, many others were either
not labeled or inscribed with strange runes that Colin
was at a loss to decipher.

Muffingrow stood in front of the boys. “Now,
before we talk, I see that you have had a little bug
problem?”

Colin looked down at the many red bumps
decorating his arms and legs, and imagined his face must
look the same.

Ailfrid nodded. “This is Colin. The sprites sent a
nest of black ants after him.”

“Sprites, eh? Nasty little buggers. Well, I have a salve
that should take care of those bites.” Muffingrow
turned and scanned some of the shelves, then clapped
when he spied what he was looking for. He took down
a large jar that contained a dark, mud-like substance,
and offered it to Colin.

“Spread this over those bites, and they’ll be much
better tomorrow.”

Colin wasn’t certain he wanted to smear the foul
looking slime onto his body, but he felt he could trust
the druid. Unscrewing the lid, he smelled the contents
first, and was surprised to find it rather pleasant,
reminiscent of berries, and a hint of smoke and ash. He
cupped a small portion of the salve in his palm and
proceeded to apply it to the bites.

Muffingrow nodded his approval. “Good, good. Rub
it in.”

Colin did so, and was happy to discover that the
salve began to blend nicely with his own skin, almost as
if it were being infused beneath his flesh, while still
managing to conceal the bites.

“Now,” the old druid said. “To business. Ailfrid, I
see you’ve brought blackberries. I presume you want
some tea?”

Ailfrid nodded enthusiastically. “I most certainly
do!” He handed the clutch to Muffingrow, who took
them and placed them into a large black pot already
filled with water. The pot was set on a pivoting arm,
which allowed it to be moved over the fire. The druid
then proceeded to gather together a small batch of
additional ingredients. A handful of dark leaves from an
old tin, some dried herbs and spices, and what looked
like some dried berries of another sort all went into the
pot. Within seconds, the hut was filled with a savorysweet
aroma.

Colin sniffed the air, breathing deep the scent of the
brewing tea, and found his nerves instantly relaxed.

Ailfrid was also enjoying the wonderful fragrance,
but then he turned his attention to the druid and more
serious matters.

“Bairtlemead, Colin followed the stones to
Tanglewood.”

The druid seemed taken aback by this at first, and
peered at Colin over the rims of his glasses, and then
moved in for a closer look.

“At first I thought the sheehogue magic that separates
the ‘wood from the kynney deiney was weakening, but then
I thought…”

Muffingrow’s face brightened. “Ah, I follow your
reasoning, and you are correct, Ailfrid.”

Ailfrid seemed surprised. “I am?”

“Yes, most definitely. It’s the Blood of the Fey. Just look
at that skin, almost as fair as the soft snow that covers
the ‘wood in winter. And those fingers, thin and nimble
as an elf ’s. And hair as black as pitch. But the real proof
is in those eyes! They sparkle with an inner fire I’ve
rarely seen. Almost as if the light of Alastar were
contained within. Blood of the fey indeed. There is
much to this boy.”

Chapter Two, Part Three

They followed the path in silence for a while,
content to listen to the peaceful calls of songbirds and
mourning doves, and the buzzing of colorful dragonflies
circling the banks of the pond. Then, the trees suddenly
thinned on either side, revealing the open forest once
more, and Colin spied a small bridge ahead, which
crossed over a stream that branched off from the pond.

“Copper Stream,” Ailfrid said.

As they approached the bridge, Colin saw that the stream
was aptly named. The water, which babbled happily by, was
nearly golden-copper in color, brilliantly reflecting the
sunlight. Throughout the water, Colin spied several large
fish, also of a copperish hue.

“Does the stream have a story?” he asked.

“Everything in Tanglewood has a story to tell. But the
tale of Copper Stream is a tale for another time. Now, we
fish! A big fat fish, cooked over a fire!" Ailfrid grinned
from ear to ear. “How does that sound?”

Colin’s belly rumbled, and he realized he was
starving. He hadn’t eaten anything since his supper the
night before, and the thought of freshly roasted fish set
his mouth to watering. “That sounds really good.” He
nodded and grinned like a fool.

Ailfrid placed the blackberry branches on a log that
lay along the bank, and produced a tangle of fishing line
and a crude hook from his pocket. “I’ll catch us a fish
or two. You can relax on the bridge.”

Colin doubted he could relax, not when he was
famished. Still, the placid, serene waters of the pond
were a calming sight, and the sun glancing off Copper
Stream was warm and soothing at his back. He sat
himself down on the wooden bridge and quickly lost
himself in the tranquility, while a short distance away,
Ailfrid troubled himself with untangling the fishing line.

Colin closed his eyes and felt the breeze tickling the
back of his hair. He opened them again and squinted
against the rush of dazzling sunlight, which set the
whole pond to glowing. Wildflowers of all sorts grew
along the shore of the pond, tall and luxurious. A short
distance to his left, he could see the shafts of sunlight
streaming in through the thick trees of Root Path,
highlighting the floating motes of dandelion spores that
hovered peacefully in the air.

Colin smiled, feeling deep contentment. This place was
truly magical, and he was a part of it. His allowed his mind
to wander, much in the same way the dandelion spores were
spending their time on this summer afternoon.

The stream glided beneath the bridge as smoothly as
fine silk. Colin eyes followed the gentle waters as it they
passed beneath him. Glancing down at the bridge, he
spied a large black ant emerging from the space between
two planks of wood. It was steadily making its way
toward him.

Casually, Colin drew back a finger and proceeded to
flick the ant across the wood, where it disappeared into
the thin shadowy chasm between the planks.

Satisfied, Colin turned to look at Ailfrid, who
appeared to be deeply concentrated on the surface of the
pond. He had apparently managed to untangle the line
and fasten it to the end of a stick, which he dangled
over the water. He slowly reeled in his line by hand,
hoping for a hungry fish to nibble on the bait.

Suddenly, the ferrish dropped the stick and sniffed at
the air, glancing about furiously. He settled his
measuring gaze on Colin.

“Did something just happen?”

Colin shook his head. “Nope. I’ve just been sitting
here.”

Ailfrid remained silent but sat with a furrowed brow.

He did not remove his gaze. Colin was about to inquire
of Ailfrid what had him worried, when he was
distracted by a subtle whispering, very faint, but
growing steadily louder by the second. It was coming
from beneath the bridge.

Ailfrid’s silver eyes grew wide. “Colin! To your left!”
He pointed.

Colin turned his head and shrieked, scrambling to his
feet.

A thick tide of black ants was streaming up through
the slats of the bridge, so numerous they began to cover
the expanse of wood like a rapidly growing fungus. The
whisper of hundreds of thousands of tiny legs and black
carapaces brushing against each other was like the
rustling of dead, dry leaves.

The army of ants was headed directly for Colin,
forming bridges across the spaces between the planks of
wood for the main bulk of the insects to scurry across.
They were moving fast.

Colin turned to run, and beheld a similar scene on
the opposite end of the bridge. Another force of ants,
rapidly closing the distance.

Ailfrid was running along the bank of the pond, and
shouting at Colin. “The water! Jump in the water!”

But Colin was frozen still with shock and fear. His
mouth was incapable of screaming or shouting; only
frightened breathing managed to escape past his lips.

Then the tide of ants were upon him, swarming over
his feet and up his legs, wriggling their way under his
pajamas. He felt the itching of a hundred thousand legs
thoroughly covering his skin. He found his voice again
and shrieked when they began to bite.

He was dimly aware that Ailfrid was still shouting
something, but then the ants invaded his ears and tried
to get into his mouth and nose. He was forced to shut
his eyes and end his flailing about, in order to keep his
hands over his face. Completely covered by the thick
mass of ants, he sank to his knees and curled into a ball,
his whole body twitching, his flesh reeling under the
onslaught of a thousand tiny pinpricks.

Despite the shell of ants that covered him, he
somehow sensed that the air about him had suddenly
gone dry, and now his skin tingled not with the bites of
ants, but with a static charge. A series of loud pops, one
after the other, echoed across the pond, and Colin felt
several tiny shocks along the length of his body.

He thought perhaps he had been electrocuted, and
the strong scent of sulphur filled the air. He felt
Ailfrid’s arms about him, helping him to his feet. The
ferrish was also knocking off the blackened crust of
thousands upon thousands of dead ants. Still
smoldering, they fell onto the bridge in large, crackling
clumps.

“Damn sprites! Got nothing better to do than pester
us with your tricks!” He helped Colin shake off more of
the dead insects. They fell upon the bridge by the
hundreds, fused together in brittle masses. Ailfrid
kicked them into the water.

“It was pixie magic that did this. They were angry
that I led you away from their hole earlier. They don’t
often get the chance to claim a deiney plaything, and I
ruined it for them.”

Colin, visibly shaken, scratched at himself furiously.
His skin was alive with bites, and it still seemed as if the
ants still surged over his flesh. He noticed his pajamas
were slightly charred.

Ailfrid saw Colin’s concern. “Sorry about that, but it
couldn’t be helped. I’ve got a bit of magic myself, and it
was the best way to get the little buggers off you. Hope
I didn’t hurt you?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Good. I would have tried to blast them before they
got to you, but I was too far away.” Ailfrid looked
about. “Damned intolerable sprites! I’d blast them if
they’d the courage to show themselves.”

Familiar laughter sounded from the undergrowth,
and it was not at all pleasant. Colin and Ailfrid scanned
the bushes and the trees, but saw nothing. Ailfrid
scowled.

“I sensed them. Or their magic, rather. It has a scent,
like honeysuckle. If you are alone and you ever smell
that, you better run, until you don’t smell it anymore.”

Colin nodded.

“Well, they’re likely gone back
down their hole now. They made their
point. Come, sit by me over there.

We’ll have that fish soon enough.”

They ambled back over to Ailfrid’s
fishing spot, but neither could mask
the concern that clouded their features.

They still felt as though they were
being watched, and they both
wondered what other tricks the sprites
would cast their way.

Chapter Two, Part Two

The Root Path wound its way through the woods,
surrounded on either side by tall trees and thick
undergrowth. The path itself was narrow, composed of
thick roots that stretched across the ground, covered
here and there with bright patches of fairy carpeting.

Colin had to step carefully to avoid tripping over the
roots, but they were of little hindrance to Ailfrid, who
trotted nimbly over them as though the path were flat
and even.

Gradually, the path began to widen, allowing them to walk side by side. Colin now wore the mask slung over his back, secured by a piece of twine offered by Ailfrid,
He was more at ease with the mask now, and imagined
it was made of the very bark that encased the trunks of
the mighty trees lining the path.

“This area of the ‘wood used to be thick with trees,
so thick, only the smallest of the fey could get through,”
Ailfrid said. “Monohan the Druid came and spoke to
the trees, and asked to please make a path, so that all the
sheehogue could travel easily through these parts. A group
of trees pulled up their roots from the earth and moved
alongside Monohan. A great hole in the earth remained,
so the trees laid their roots across the hole. Monohan
stepped onto the roots and moved into the space they
had created, and the next group of trees before him also
parted, and laid their roots across the empty earth.”

Colin slowed, gawking at the trees that lined the path
with awe and appreciation.

Ailfrid continued. “Wherever Monohan stepped, the
trees before him parted and created a path for him, until
the way through the thick part of the ‘wood was clear,
and all the fey could now travel through it.”

Colin smiled at the trees, and marveled at all the
wonders Ailfrid was showing him. They walked along
the path till just past noon, and then the tree line along
the left side of Root Path thinned slightly, allowing
Colin to glimpse a glistening pond whose waters lapped
the shore just a few feet away from the mighty trunks.

“We’re nearing the bridge. Wait here, I need to get
something.” With the agility of a squirrel, Ailfrid
scurried up into the trees to his right.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

The ferrish grabbed hold of a branch, and pulled
himself over it with ease. Kneeling upon his sturdy
perch, he called down to Colin. “I’ve got to get a clutch
of blackberries for Doc Muffingrow. They grow near
here. I’ll just be a few moments. Just stay on the path
and you’ll be fine.”

Ailfrid climbed further up into the tree and slipped
through a space in the tangled mess of leaves and
branches, disappearing into the foliage. A moment later,
Colin heard a rustling on the other side of the trees, and
realized it was Ailfrid, landed safely upon the earth and
pushing through the undergrowth.

Colin looked around at the barriers formed by the
trees, and shook his head. Stay on the path? How could
he get off the path?

He picked his way slowly among the roots,
muttering to himself. At least the trees to his left had
the decency to thin wider, affording him a breathtaking
view of the small pond, alive with a large population of
ducks and dragonflies, and the occasional white swan.

The twisting roots of Root Path stretched outward like
a mass of snakes into the water, drinking deep of the
nutrients of the rich soil, while schools of tiny fish
darted playfully through the underwater maze.

Colin was so taken with the serenity of the pond that
he nearly stepped directly into a hole that lay in the
center of the path. He looked down and saw it at the
last possible moment, and nearly lost his balance when
he sought to divert his foot away from the hole.

The burrow was dark, measuring just a few inches
larger than his foot, and ringed thickly by the roots of
the ancient trees. It was at once frightening yet
beckoning, stroking Colin’s unyielding desire to explore
all things forbidden. Such traits are common in many
young boys, and often ultimately lead to trouble.
A light wind whispered through the trees, carrying
with it the sweet scent of honeysuckle, and the faint
tinkling of bells.

As if a trance had taken hold of Colin, he slowly inched
forward, closer to the hole, and kneeled before it. A shaft of
sunlight managed to reach through the trees and penetrate
the darkness in the hole, reflecting brightly off something
that lay within.

Peering even closer, Colin saw it was a small white
circular object, reminiscent of a shiny pearl. Then he
noticed similar objects laying beside the first, appearing
to be painted with veins of various colors.

He realized they were marbles.

Colin started to reach his hand into the hole.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice warned.

Colin quickly drew his hand back and leapt to his feet,
startled by the voice. Ailfrid emerged from the branches of
the trees above him, and hopped down to the roots with
the grace of a feline. “The gift of a sprite comes with a
sharp bite.”

“Sprites?” Colin backed away from the hole, eyeing it
warily. He could suddenly sense the presence of something
else within the burrow, something not so innocent as
marbles.

“Indeed. That is a sprite hole. Pixies and sprites are
close cousins and nearly identical, and all of them are
bad. The ‘wood is full of them, especially Thorn Grove.
You’ll want to avoid them, and you definitely don’t
want to put your hand in there. One bite from those
mischief makers and you’ll find yourself in a heap of
trouble.”

A high-pitched snickering sounded from all about
them, and from within the hole.

Colin looked about, worriedly. “Ailfrid?”

“Don’t worry. They can’t do anything to you now.

You didn’t take their gift. So they can’t take you in
return.”

“Take me where?”

Ailfrid looked down at the hole. “Below.”

Colin shuddered.

“Never mind all that. C’mon, look.” Ailfrid waved
about a small clutch of branches, covered with ripened
blackberries. “Bairtlemead makes a delicious blackberry
tea, better than any tea from those druids in faraway
Wychwood.”

Colin frowned. “I’ve never had tea before.”

Ailfrid frowned back. “How old are you?”

“Ten,” Colin replied. “Almost eleven. Wait, how old
are you?”

“Three hundred and seven,” Ailfrid replied proudly.

“Ten, huh? I forgot, deiney years are different. Well, I
don’t care how old you are, you’re in Tanglewood, and
in the ‘wood, we have the finest wines made from the
plumpest of grapes. We have the sweetest mead made
from the most golden honey. And we have the best
blackberry tea made from the blackest of blackberries,
not to mention the tastiest of muffins made by Doc
Muffingrow himself!”

Ailfrid grew excited. ”You’ll see, you and me are
going to have a flask of blackberry tea, and you’ll never
want to drink anything else again.”

And with that, Ailfrid turned and continued down
Root Path, and Colin smiled and followed, wondering
what the wonderful sounding tea might taste like.

Chapter One, Part Two

Colin, his reflexes dulled by the trance he had
succumbed to, blinked and turned his head. He beheld a
small boy not unlike himself, save that two small knobs,
the beginning of horns, rested atop his head, and his
eyes were of purest silver, absent of pupils.

The boy smiled, angel-like, and held something out.
Colin slowly reached for it, and saw that it was mask.
Seemingly made of tree bark, it was painted a light
shade of green, had two eye slits rimmed with brown,
and two small horns imitating those of the boy.

“Come dance with us,” the boy whispered.

Colin donned the mask, felt it adhering to his skin as
though it belonged there, and shivered with forbidden
delight. Following the boy into the clearing, the ring of
unnatural forest-folk parted, allowing him entry.

He followed the boy into the circle, skipping and
dancing, waving his arms frantically along with the
beating of the drum. He soon found himself surrounded
by other strange and wondrous children, some with
tails, some with scales, some with claws, and some with
wicked grins filled with sharp teeth, but Colin was not
afraid.

He knew he was welcome here, for the mask made
him one of them. Laughing and shouting with glee, he
frolicked and danced away the night. He joined hands
with some – the boy who had given him the mask on
his left, and a dark-haired girl with pointed ears on his
right. Together, they spun about, leaping and running
and circling about the fire, until Colin finally collapsed
from exhaustion and exhilaration.

His tired bones and weary head succumbed to sleep
as he settled down into a soft bed of leaves and grass.
The intoxicating smell of the earth was like a sweet
perfume.

Prologue Pt. 2

Although I saw no other fey on my journey to the home of Monohan, I did behold the phenomenal beauty of the forest, brilliant with light and flushed with color, truly a wonder of nature rarely glimpsed by human eyes.

The old man called out certain areas to me as we passed by them or over them. Root Path, Copper Stream, Satyr Stump, Fallen Tree, and others. But I paid little attention to the names. Instead, I concentrated solely on observing all I could. I wanted to hold tightly to these beguiling visions of woodland splendor and the broad spectrum of color that no painter could ever hope to reproduce.

My body felt young again, and my energy seemed infinite, despite how far we had walked. The complaints of old bones were gone, replaced by vigor and determination.

The home of Monohan was hollowed out of a huge and ancient tree, easily fifteen feet across the trunk. The bark was rough and gray. A mass of thick branches reached high into the sky and across the earth, but bore no leaves.

I saw no entrance to the tree at first, but the outline of a door appeared when the old man knocked upon the thick bark. The door, a section of tree as tall as Monohan and myself, slowly swung open of its own accord, and the old man bade me enter.

“This tree was once mighty and powerful, long ago,” Monohan explained, as I stepped into the tree. “But, as with all things, his time was soon to pass, and when I happened upon him, I asked if he would share with me the space within his giant form, so that I may have a home.”

Remarkably large yet equally cozy, the hollow of the tree was yet another sight to take my breath away.

It was as if a storybook image had come to life before my eyes. All of the furniture that lay within; the large table, the chairs, the shelves and cabinets, and the narrow stairway that wound its way to another floor higher in the tree – they all appeared to be fashioned from the substance of the tree itself. In fact, the legs of the table sprouted from the floor as though they had been grown, as did the railing on the stairs and the stairs themselves. The floor was smooth and solid, and detailed the pattern of the tree’s long life.

“The tree obliged me,” Monohan continued, motioning me to be seated at the table. “I have lived here ever since, long after the tree gave its final breath to the sky.”
Lavish tapestries adorned the walls, depicting images of elves and fairies and other creatures I did not immediately recognize. A small fire blazed at the opposite end of the hollow tree in a small enclosure, with the smoke dwindling up into an unseen chimney within the outer shell of the trunk.

The scent of herbal incense also hung heavy in the air. I found it all very pleasant and soothing, and immediately felt at home within the tree.

Monohan leaned his staff against the wall and proceeded to take a small teapot off a shelf, and hang it from an iron hook, suspended over the fire. “Blackberry tea is best served hot.”

As the old man busied himself with the teapot, I took in some of the finer details of his home. Strange runes and symbols were impressed within the inner shell of the tree and along the table, reminiscent of Celtic design.

Various nooks and flat protrusions in the tree formed crude shelves, on which all manner of items were stored. Small candles placed thereabouts further illuminated the inside of the tree, casting the hollow in an amber light.

My eyes wandered over the tapestries, and I took notice of a small representation depicting a tall, thin being that I first thought to be an elf, but something told me that despite the elfin features, this fey was something different. He stood within a ring of other creatures, and possessed a regal look. His stance set him apart from the depictions of the other fey that regarded him. They seemed awed yet warmed by his presence. A subtle smile on the central fey’s lips revealed a multitude of characteristics; kindness, understanding, strength, confidence, and more. I do not know how I was able to discern all that from the tapestry, and Monohan interrupted any further thoughts of it.

He sat himself down across from me. I noticed then that Cluny was gone. He must have flown off at some point during the walk, but I was too lost in the wonders that surrounded me to have noticed.

“Now, while that tea is getting hot, let’s talk.” He clasped his hands in front of him.

“Alright,” I said. “Why have I been brought here then?”

The old man’s face brightened, and he smiled. “Ah, good lad, now you are asking the right questions.” He paused, and then grew very serious.

“You’ve been brought here,” he said, “to tell the tales of Tanglewood.”

He smiled again, but I was merely confused.

“You don’t look pleased,” he said.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I replied.

“You are a writer, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Well, I mean, I used to be.”

“Nonsense! There is no such thing as used-to-be. You are a writer, whether it has been ten minutes or ten years since you’ve picked up a pen. Look there, on the shelf.” He pointed.

The shelf he indicated held a large stack of parchment, and several quills and bottles of ink.

“They are yours,” he continued. “To write the tales of Tanglewood.”

He said this matter-of-factly, as though everything should have been understood.
It wasn’t.

The old man spoke. “Much has happened in the ‘wood these many years past. Much that needs telling. It has been my charge to record the events of the ‘wood and instill them within the Well of Knowledge, but I have fallen behind in my task, as I was busy with other matters, and will soon be called away again. So I entrust this chore to you. You need to write, and the ‘wood needs a suitable scribe.”

He rose from the table and proceeded to take two wooden mugs from a small nook.
“I wrote stories,” I explained. “Fiction. And sometimes newspaper articles. But I was never a famous writer. Why me?”

“Why? Because you believe. And also, because when you wrote, you wrote from the heart. You wrote with feelings and emotion. You let it flow from your heart and soul, to your pen, to the paper. You have a magic in you that can manifest itself in the words you write, should you choose to let it out.”

“Magic? I don’t think so. I imagine I would have been more successful as a writer if that were true.”

“You were not meant to write for the ‘kynney deiney’. You were meant to write for the ‘wood. Until now, your magic has been suppressed. Here in the ‘wood, it can be free.”
Monahan rose from the table but continued talking. “You feel it now, don’t you? You feel it stirring in your heart, like a sleeping beast that has been dreaming for very, very long, and is only now opening its eyes to a new world. No doubt there is a flurry of words and sentences and descriptive passages already forming quite a storm in your head.”

Monohan removed the teapot from the hook, and poured each of us a steaming mug of dark purplish tea. The sweet scent of blackberries and various other spices wafted through the hollow of the tree. It smelled absolutely heavenly as I breathed in deep the steam that rose from within the mug.

“Not just anyone can write these tales,” he continued, seating himself at the table again. “But you have always been a Soul of the ‘Wood, even if you were never actually in the ‘wood”

“Soul of the ‘Wood?”

The old man looked at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “You like repeating after me, don’t you? Well, to answer your question, a Soul of the ‘Wood is one who has always believed, one who has always had the wild spirit of nature contained within. You are at peace in the forest, and a friend to animals. You find the beauty in nature, and your soul is open to the magic of the world. That, my good man, is a Soul of the ‘Wood. Now, drink your tea.”

I did, and the sweet-hot liquid was like nothing I’d ever tasted. Its warmth enveloped me in a comforting embrace, while my senses were affected by a rushing wave of sprightly exuberance.

Tasting of ripe blackberries, woody herbs and sharp spices, I felt as though the spirit of the ‘wood itself was contained within this magical elixir.

It tasted familiar. It tasted like home, a home I had never seen, but at last returned to.

My mind was a flurry of ideas, and I looked at the parchment and quills, suddenly eager to begin work on these tales of the ‘wood.

I had denied myself the comfort and thrill of writing for far too long.

“These stories, these tales of Tanglewood you wish me to write,” I said, taking another healthy sip. “Who will tell them to me?”

Monohan sipped his own tea and smiled.

“Listen to the trees, my friend. The trees will tell you the stories, and perhaps much more.”

I listened, and the whispering wind rustled the leaves of the trees. The very air had found a voice, deep and ancient. There were no clear words, but rather a weighty moaning that penetrated my mind. From this engrossing chant I could discern a meaning.

Behind my eyes, I beheld new images of the ‘wood, places I had never been to, and strange creatures I had never seen.

The voice of the ‘wood suffused itself into my soul with startling intensity. It spoke as though it were just another part of myself, familiar yet detached, muted as though immersed under water, a rumbling echo within a deep cavern.

The great trees had witnessed much in their millennia, and had an abundance of stories to tell. But they chose to speak to me first of a little boy named Colin, who reminded me much of myself when I was his age.

But Colin had found Tanglewood much faster, much easier than I did…

Prologue Pt. 1

When I was a young boy, the world outside my house was a magical realm. My yard was full of clover and toadstools, which I spent considerable time looking through on sunny afternoons, searching for evidence of fairies, pixies or elves. I made sure never to step on the bright green moss beds that hugged the base of the trees. The soft moss was fairy carpeting, and I wanted the fey to have a comfortable, inviting place to relax, should they ever decide to visit my yard.

Many summers came and went, and my view of the world began to change. Distracted by homework, and video games, and mundane tasks and chores, the yard slowly transformed from something mysterious and magical to just your plain, ordinary, everyday backyard.

I had begun to grow discouraged after never finding any sign of the fey. But an advantage came with being older; I was now allowed to enter the woods alone. A small forest bordered the yard behind my house, and it was there, I thought, that I would stand a better chance of meeting a creature of the fey, for the woods were their true home, where they likely lived in abundance.

Every hidden pathway was an adventure leading to secret places, every knothole in a tree a possible lair for sprites, every clearing a possible meeting ground for elves. I walked the paths until I knew them all by heart, and watched and waited and listened, and I never found any sign of the fey.

Several more summers passed, and the woods, though undeniably beautiful, no longer seemed a haven for mystery and myth. The forest was home to typical woodland animals such as raccoons, squirrels, birds, and the occasional fox or owl, but little else.

I gave up my quest to find and meet the creatures of the fey. I had other things to be concerned about now anyway. College, a girlfriend, a job, followed by a house, a wife, a career. The magic of the world and my memories of the woods faded away to a far distant place, overtaken by real world technology. Steel and glass and concrete and plastic began to replace trees and grass.

All about me, the world changed at the hands of my fellow man, intent on removing all that was once bright and magical from the earth. Once, acres of farmland, and endless miles of woodland dominated my hometown. Now, most of that was gone, replaced by obscenely large cookie-cutter homes and unnecessary shopping malls boasting rows of cookie-cutter shops.

Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall; the changing scenery repeated itself in a constant cycle, and I grew older still, watching with detachment. I grew bored, restless, and saddened by the state of the world and what it had become. I realized that a world without magic, whether real or imagined, is not a fun world at all. And if you can no longer find any magic in the world, then you must find it within yourself.

And so it was that one day, when I was very old, I decided I would take a walk in the woods once again. Away from the cities, technology still had far to go before it could completely erase every patch of nature from the world. I had moved far away from my old home and my old hometown, but here in this new town where I resided, there was a large area of woodland just within walking distance, and I felt a renewed sense of childlike energy as I approached it.

It seemed funny that I had never really paid attention to the woods that I had likely driven by so many times. Had it really been so long ago that I wandered a simple dirt pathway looking for fairies and elves? Had my childhood been abandoned and forgotten so easily?
As I walked through the woods, I appreciated the beauty of the trees, the serenity of nature, and the warmth of the powerful sunlight that split the trees. Fey or no fey, I found magic in the woods once again. I had to stop and pause a moment, to simply bask in the moment of peace that had overcome me. It was the peace of being a child, of having no worries or concerns. Such trivial things had been left behind at the border of the woods, and I stood here now with a happy heart, the heart of a child finding wonder and magic for the first time.

The moment had captured me so completely that it took a few minutes to notice the butterfly circling lazily before me. It was a colorful splendor of purples and yellows, and appeared to be dancing in the air just for me. I smiled and observed the small insect that seemed to mirror my happiness.

I held out my hand, and the butterfly lighted upon it, and I marveled at the insect, which was casually staring back at me, slowly waving its antennae. Then it caught a breeze and flew before me again, remaining close. I strode forward to continue my walk and the butterfly moved forward with me, ahead of me.

If it hadn’t been such a crazy notion, I would have thought that I was supposed to follow the beautiful insect. Since I had nothing else to do with my time but enjoy all that the woods had to offer, if they offered me a butterfly to lead my way, then I would follow.

We walked for some time, the butterfly and I, down a path that narrowed considerably, and into an area where the trees grew thick and the sunlight struggled to penetrate the canopy of leaves overhead. Still, I was certain that I could find my way back at ease, and I was enjoying the camaraderie of the butterfly in this enchanting environment.

The butterfly picked up speed, darting through a small tunnel of birch trees, and I followed.

Emerging from beneath the archway, the forest suddenly changed. It wasn’t something immediately noticeable in appearance, but rather a subtle feeling that enveloped me gracefully.

Though I had already been walking for some time, the weariness was gone from my bones, chased away by a sudden onset of vigorous anticipation.
My skin tingled.

I began to notice small differences in my surroundings. The forest was radiant; bright beams of sunlight trickled through the leaves to kiss the ground below, and cast a lustrous glow about the forest. The very air seemed to shimmer excitedly and the leaves and the grass sparkled with fresh morning dew. The twittering of woodland birds was musical, and the wind rustling the leaves of the trees and tickling my hair was a soothing, comforting whisper.

The butterfly still fluttered by, and I glanced at the insect suspiciously. I suddenly wondered if perhaps there was real magic to be found in the woods after all.

The rational part of my mind wanted to dispel the silly idea, but the child in me was wholly stronger here. Fueled by memories and desires of childlike longing, I easily dispatched rationality to a faraway corner where it was unable to cause any trouble or sway me from continuing.

I could taste the very essence of the forest on my tongue, a morning mist of earthy flavor. The aroma of the woods was fresh and primal; I could sense the richness of the deep earth beneath my feet, and the scent of pine was seductively inviting, mingling with subtler notes of clover and sweet honeysuckle, orange blossoms and wild berries.

My ears were wide open to the welcoming song of the birds hidden within the surrounding trees. The woods were lush with color; a bold array of greens, majestically strong browns, the effervescent glow of sunlight glancing off patches of delicate, golden-white flowers.

The whispering wind hinted at secrets and assured me that the magic I was feeling was real.

The forest was alive, and for some reason, the butterfly had led me here, to the heart of it, to witness these sensations for myself.

I was gazing at the woods around me in silent admiration, when a quiet voice startled me.

“I wasn’t sure you would come,” the voice said.

I whirled, frightened to find myself suddenly not alone. Had I not been so old, I might have run.

When I saw that the owner of the voice that addressed me was an old man, much older than myself, I realized there was no need to take flight. He was likely just another old soul out for a walk in the woods, and our paths had crossed. My heartbeat settled back to its normal rhythm.

I had not immediately considered his words to me.

I then noticed his appearance and strange manner of dress.

He wore a shirt of a roughly woven green cloth, and brown pants of a similar material, reminding me of something you might find in a thrift store back in the year 1500. The legs of his pants were folded over a pair of pointed brown boots of worn suede or leather, hardly what I would call a comfortable walking shoe. A tall, wooden walking stick, smoothed and topped with a gnarled clump of a head, was clutched in his hands.
His hair was cropped short, mostly white with the slightest tinge of red, and his beard was straight and long, framing a softly wrinkled face. His eyes, however, were not soft. Though seemingly kind, they were also hard and strong and lively. They watched me intently.

He leaned his staff against a tree and reached into a faded brown satchel that was slung over one shoulder, and produced a wooden flask.

“Something to drink? You’ve walked far to get here, you must be thirsty.”

I was thirsty, but I was not yet ready to accept an odd flask from an even odder man.
“No thank you, “ I replied.

He raised his eyebrows slightly. “Suit yourself. But you’re passing up a fine blackberry tea.”

He put the flask away, and when I witnessed the butterfly set itself down on the shoulder of the old man, it was my turn to raise my eyebrows.

The stranger glanced at the insect on his shoulder, and then returned his gaze to me. “Yes,” he said. “The butterfly is mine. Rather, he’s my friend. You two have already been acquainted, but you haven’t been properly introduced. His name is Cluny. I am Monohan.”

It seemed absurd to introduce myself to a butterfly, but I found myself starting to anyway, out of politeness. “I am–“

“We know who you are, of course. Why do you think I sent Cluny to find you and lead you here?”

This was all getting a little too bizarre for me. I was about ready to turn around and head home.

The old man uncannily sensed my thoughts.

“Don’t go, please. Not after all the trouble I’ve gone through to find you. The ‘wood needs you.”

“The ‘wood?” I asked.

“Tanglewood, to be more precise. This is where you stand now, just beyond the Gateway, the entrance to Tanglewood.” He pointed to the copse of birch trees I had just walked beneath.

“You would not have found it on your own, I assure you. Only the fey can show you the way. That is why Cluny led you here.”

The butterfly left the shoulder of the old man and flew about my head enthusiastically, and then returned to its shoulder perch.

I was more interested in what the stranger, Monohan, had just said, I asked him to repeat it. “What did you just say?”

“I said only the fey can show you the way. No one can get into Tanglewood otherwise.”

All my childhood endeavors of searching for the fey came rushing back into my head, but I forced myself to remember that I wasn’t a child anymore. Old notions of magic and innocence had been joined by doubt and suspicion, and I wasn’t quite ready to believe I was in the presence of a fey. Not yet.

Once again, the old man seemed to sense my apprehension. “You have questions?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather follow me to my dwelling, where we can discuss all this over a mug of fine blackberry tea?”

“No, I’d rather ask them right here.”

Monohan nodded. “Alright. Ask your questions. But leave your heart open to receive the answers.”

Fair enough, I thought. “Okay. Are you telling me that you are one of the fey?”

The man chuckled. “Me, no. I do live among them, however, for quite some time. I have been away from the world of man, the ‘kynney deiney’, for quite a long time indeed.”

“Then the butterfly–“

“Cluny,” Monohan corrected.

“Yes. Cluny.”

“He is a creature of the fey, possessed of intelligence and some minor magics. You’ll find that many of the creatures of Tanglewood, the birds, the foxes, sometimes even the fish, are no ordinary animals. But we are getting off topic. We have much to discuss, so please try to keep your questions related to the topic at hand.”
“I’m not even sure exactly what the topic is.”

“That’s easy. The topic is contained within this simple question. Are you ready to accept that the fey and their magic are real, and always have been?”

I paused, unsure of myself. It was here I knew I had to make a decision. I could dismiss the ramblings of this man as harmless lunacy, or I could accept what he had told me, and follow him to his home, wherever that may be.

A gentle wind caressed the trees once more. Watching with curious perception, listening keenly, I heard the whispers of the woods and the song of the sky resonating within my mind. A primeval feeling of enlightenment overcame me.

I realized then that I had truly never stopped believing, and these extraordinary woods, full of untamed life and strange enchantment, had cast a spell over me.

Monohan took hold of his walking staff and gestured me over, turning toward a path I had not seen before.

With a renewed sense of adventure and my curiosity piqued beyond habitual limits, I eagerly followed.

Interview posted on Author's Den

An interview with me has been posted on Author's Den. The interview was conducted by Lorna Suzuki, who can be followed on Twitter at twitter.com/LornaSuzuki

L.T. Suzuki lives in Canada and is the author of the Imago book series.

Follow me on Twitter at twitter.com/Scott_Kessman, and join the Tales of Tanglewood Facebook Group!

Tales of Tanglewood now listed on Feybound.com

The Tales of Tanglewood has now been listed on Feybound.com.

Feybound.com is an online magazine with fresh content updated regularly and a place to come browse and enjoy. It regularly features fantasy, horror, science fiction and manga books, reviews and interviews with authors in those genres, as well as genre-related news.

My listing can be found at Scott Michael Kessman – The Tales of Tanglewood: The Lon Dubh Whistle

2nd Interview on BlogTalkRadio

2nd Interview hosted by Yolanda Renee on BlogTalkRadio on 6/18/09

I discuss my ideas and inspiration for The Tales of Tanglewood, and also writing and other subjects related to the book, the publishing industry and fantasy in general.

Tales of Tanglewood radio interview with author Scott Michael Kessman

The Second Tale of Tanglewood will soon be told!

The 2nd book is complete at long last. Just need to do the illustrations, which will be far better than the pictures in the first book, as I'll be pulling my mighty artistic talent of the storage closet. In the meantime, I'll also be submitting the second novel to larger publishers as well, so not entirely sure when the book may be out, but you can always download the preview from the website http://www.talesoftanglewood.com

The Second Tale Coming Soon

The Tales of Tanglewood:
The Curse of Satyr Stump

Colin, Blood of the Fey, returns to Tanglewood shortly before Sahwen night, a time when the magic of the 'wood has a strange effect on all things within it. Things have entered the ‘wood that should not be there, and the pathways are no longer safe.

The blackberries have spoiled, a pooka roams the ‘wood, and a strong calling pulls Colin close to Satyr Stump, where Fionn the satyr has been cursed by Grainne, the Grey Lady.

Tasked to face the dark druidess and help break the curse upon Fionn, Colin seeks help from the druid Bairtlemead Muffingrow, the ferrish Ailfrid, and the elfin girl Deidre. But it will be the satyr chieftain himself who joins Colin, seeking to help restore another piece of Tanglewood that has been claimed by deiney corruption.

But the Grey Lady will not yield so easily, and Colin and Fionn are both nearly powerless in her domain. Colin learns very quickly that during Sahwen, Tanglewood can be a very dangerous place indeed.

Sahwen is the Gaelic pronunciation of Halloween, which is actually spelled "Samhain."

Visit the official Tales of Tanglewood website to download a preview of The Second Tale.

Guest Author at I-Con 28

I will be a guest author at I-Con 28 at SCCC Brentwood Campus, April 4th & 5th. I will be available to sign my book from 1pm - 2pm on Saturday, and will be on panels discussing fantasy and other subjects on both Saturday and Sunday, along with Spiderwick author Holly Black & others. (See the I-Con schedule for full details)

I-Con 28 website & schedule information

The blackberries have spoiled!

There will be no more blackberry tea for some time. With the coming of Samhain, so too has come the pookha. The presence of the strange, shapeshifting creature has caused the blackberries to spoil.

A small matter, as the spiced apple tea is no less alluring and flavorful.

Monohan has given me a handful of coins to carry with me. He insists I keep them on my person whenver I journey through the 'wood. Should I encounter the pookha, I am to give these coins to the creature, and make my escape quickly while it is distracted.

Alastar, A Star too Far

I now know that the central figure depicted in the tapestry above Monohan's hearth is Alastar. The star too far still watches over Tanglewood, and I think Colin in particular. I wonder if there is some undiscovered relation there that the trees have not yet revealed to me. Perhaps even the trees do not know themselves.

But there is the mystery of Colin's fey blood to consider. And Bairtlemead has his own suspicions as well. I can only hope that all will be revealed in another tale.