Swan's Song: A Fantasy Idyl

I am a man detached from reality.

This, some might argue, is a bad thing; to detach oneself from that which keeps most normal folks grounded is to allow one to be sent to a place with padded walls and men with drug-filled needles and long-sleeved white jackets. I happen to disagree wholeheartedly. I believe that to be politely detached in any way from reality is to keep alive the spark of imagination that is missing from the lives of the folk of the everyday world.

As a rule, I love to use my imagination. There are moments that I can envision myself somewhere in the future as a great storyteller, a man so caught up within the worlds of his creation that they've sprung to life in all but physical fact. It is within this setting that I set this idyl. If, after all, this is to fit within the bounds of a truly 'idyllic' life, reminiscence, or imagining, I can see no better place than the world that I call home, a place that should remind anyone of a quaint northern town. To quote myself—or rather, to quote my character Darrin Trailsong, whom I see as an extension of myself—Naridale is a bit like this following bits from an NPIP (novel perpetually in progress; that is, a work when God only knows will be finished) of mine:

"Imagine, if you will, a quiet little town— a village, really— situated on an inland lake. It's not a big lake, just large enough to support a little light boating on a pleasant summer's day. Like today, for example. That's where I am. Boating... and thinking."

Darrin goes on to further soliloquize about his beloved Naridale:

"So this is really my last good chance to enjoy myself and take in the peace and beauty surrounding my life and my home. And that, I guess, is why I'm out in this little dinghy. Dipping my feet into the clear waters of Lake Narilan. Looking at the myriad buildings on the shoreline that make up my home of Naridale. Staring at the spectacle that is the world famous College of Magical Arts, always being built or added to at many a wizard's or apprentice's whim. And looking at the inn— rather, at my inn— The Whistling Swan Inn, the very first place I ever played an instrument for money, imported piece by piece from Marnet."

—opening lines of

Quest of the Three Kingdoms,

Part Three: Silver Swords

Were I the master bard Trailsong, I would oft find myself within the confines of my taproom and inn, the Whistling Swan, with my wife Ailen, our three children, perhaps my employees, and, of course, the colorful cast of wandering characters that makes up the place that I call home. It's not a fancy inn, nor is it extraordinarily sparse. It's a place of warmth and comfort, where friends old and new can meet and talk over a few tankards of the world's finest drinks. To wit, it may be one of the few places, in fact or in fiction, where everybody truly does know your name.

I know not why I have chosen this form for my idyl; perhaps because, when writing, it seems more natural to me than does the slang of the modern era. Maybe it's because I like to sound pretentious, like I know what I am doing. Most likely, it is because I feel comfortable when writing so. For years, these characters and this inn were a home to my ramblings; it only seems fair that I return a favor long overdue by giving Darrin a voice in this brave new world.

The Swan’s Song

The night shone softly through the room;

The lunar orbs hath chased the gloom

Of night, and rev'lers who drunk so deep—

Of wines and ales, and spirits gold

And drinks with names strange to behold— 5

Have crept upstairs to fast asleep.

I stand behind my bar and dream

Of alabaster spires' gleam:

A life I lived, once, long ago

Where, among the cherrywoods did grow 10

A town from forest into sky

Whence starry magics once did lie.

‘Twas times long ago, in ages past,

An era where hope might everlast:

Some centuries and more ago 15

When waters deep and wide did flow

Past trees and towns both far and wide

Where, in my youth, my time I'd bide.

I look outside my window, west.

The quiet center of Naridale 20

Lies bathed in moonlight, houses pale,

As my home lies down to take its rest.

Servants and family, all gone to bed:

Fair Lindsey, my wife's right hand;

Adoralee, the centaur wild;

The hiding Dragon from a different land; 25

Sweet Darcilyn, her mother's child—

On wings of silver my daughter flies,

Her feathers bright, destroyed by fire,

From raising an evil dragon's ire;

She dreams, I'm sure, at last, of safer skies. 30

I look about, with heavy heart and head.

This taproom, my Whistling Swan—

Twice perilously close to gone

From duels versus gods gone mad

To spells intended to make men glad— 35

Has been for eighty years my home,

A place to call my very own.

The bartop itself, made of strong oak wood,

Has stood through times both bad and good.

With space behind for Ailen's wings, 40

The stuff of every angel's dreams:

Of ivory white, their feathers sheen,

She brushes past the glass and things

Behind the bar, lined on the wall

Her feathers touch, but no glass falls. 45

A smile, a wink, a gentle nod,

Her congeniality needs no prod.

Off to the rear, when there's a lull

I step within my office full

Of books and papers and bills of sale 50

(For almost a year's worth of ale).

Once within, the memories come

Of adventures, and times less fun:

The SwordQuest, the blades of the world,

Thirteen blades, to save a people 55

From corrupted kin— the blackest evil.

A rescue mission, so I'm told:

To save this poor bard from the deep,

A crazed mermaid, my soul she'd keep.

These, though, are tales from times gone by, 60

A place where merely memories fly.

To the north, a single spire,

A circular thing, not much higher

Than the Swan itself, but up it doth rise

To take its place in starlight skies. 65

A stage it houses, where music plays,

Or the tales of old, or the wisdom I'd say.

The thoughts of friendships lost to time:

Of Ryld and Lauri, warrior and mage,

Of Rone Meadowwood, the royal page, 70

Or Aernath, the golden sage.

The Elven 'gift' of long life, mine.

At times, less blessing than a curse;

It forces actions to be terse,

Emotions bottled up inside 75

Where demons and spirits darker hide.

But then, upon that stage I peer:

The friendships of the past are near.

And though the Darkness stakes its claim,

With them, I'll see the Light again! 80

As seven moons pass through the skies,

I look out 'cross Lake Narilan

To wonder— and I think it's wise—

To dream as often as I can.

Dream tales of races underwater: 85

The mermaid and the farmer's daughter.

Dream of wishes unfulfilled;

Adventure lies just o'er the hills.

The seventh moon's pass'd through the skies.

Within the hour, the sun will rise 90

To chase away my living fears

Upon a night both bright and clear.

But from those stairs beyond the bar,

From hallowed halls atop the stairs,

Her wings perfect, her feet bare, 95

The moonlight filt'ring through golden hair,

My angel, my Ailen, soon takes my hand,

Beckoning me to sleep again.

As I douse the last candle with one short breath,

I dwell on what for me is left: 100

This self-described legend, rogue, and bard,

Long since having been retired.

I follow my angel up to bed,

The place to rest my weary head,

And leave that dwelling for another night— 105

I know, for all worries, that all will turn out right.

Then, up to bed, under starry skies,

Where dreams of past and future lie.

With all my futures set aright,

I rest, and dream, for another night. 110