Autobiography of a Parrot

Written about the time that Mages of Mâvarin takes place, this is King Jor's faithful transcription of his parrot's life story. (In Mâvarin, parrots know what they're talking about, if they talk at all.)

Autobiography of a Parrot
By Skwok
As Told to King Jor of Mâvarin

Hatched in Derio. Long time ago. Island. Tall trees. Soft nest. Three baby birds in nest. One fell. Parents fed babies in nest. Me. Sister.

Grew big. Flew. Storm. Wind blew north. White waves. Blue water. Land. Dark trees. Gath moss. Green water.

Spring. Lady bird. Nest. Two eggs. Two babies. Birds flew south. Skwok alone in Gathmak.

Spring again. Same lady bird. Nest. Two eggs. One baby bird. Flew south. Skwok alone.

Many springs. Lady bird gone. Sad. No parrots in Gathmak.

Saw food in box. Caught. Tengrem-man put me in castle. King Jor in castle. Nice man. Sad man. Sat all day on chair. Trapped together.

Jor taught me human talk. Too many words to learn. King Jor said okay.

Spring. No nest. Stayed with sad king. Spring again. Spring again. No lady bird. No nest. Many springs, no nest. King friend. Good biscuits. Good man.

Carli came for Jor. Jor brought me. Magic door. Different, bigger castle. Fly free. Still stay with king. Still no nest.

King Jor not sad now. Bird happy.

Biscuit?

Art by Sherlock

From the Diary of Mera Sinan, Innkeeper

(written about the time of Chapter Four, Mages of Mâvarin)

Thaledu, 9th Day of Ranosem, 897 MMY

Events are heating up again in the shadow world of my Dad's visions, so he's suffering more than usual. I've hardly seen him sober this past week. This time, the alcohol is not enough. He's just stumbling from vision to vision now, unable to stop seeing things that are impossible, unable to stop worrying about people who aren't really there.

He never complains, and would never tell me what happens in the visions if I didn't keep asking. Sometimes I think I should leave him alone about it, and not ask what he saw. Most of the time, though, I do ask. As painful as it is for him to talk about it, he seems to feel a little better afterward. He thinks it's useless, this magic gone so terribly wrong, and it helps him to know that I take his shadow world seriously. I can't believe that the Gods send my dad these visions, year after year, consistent with each other but not with the real world, and yet it all means nothing. It has to mean something! That shadow world with Cathma and Carli and Rani and the rest is important somehow. I'm sure of it.

Listening to his sometimes incoherent words, I gather that the worst of his suffering this time comes because his shadow self is suffering, too. The mage he never became woke up a few days ago thinking he was dead. He wasn't, but it was still a trauma. It's only gotten worse since then. There was a storm in my dad's vision, and a shipwreck, and an escape engineered by the shadow version of someone my dad loved in college. Then last night, according to the visions, the mage confronted Sunestri's daughter, a very different person from the one in the real world. She did something terrible to him. Now he's far away from home, with no memory of who he is. The best part of him, the spirit, is trapped in a bottle.

It would be easily to believe that it's all just dream symbolism, the stronger, happier version of my dad now helpless and trapped by alcohol. It's not like that, though. Cause and effect don't run in that direction. My dad drinks because it hurts him to see his other self suffer, along with all those other shadow people he's come to know over the decades since these visions started. Dad only reacts to what he sees. He doesn't cause it. Besides, the mage of the visions isn't drunk. It's a physical bottle, stuck in a knapsack. If the spirit inside it doesn't reunite with the lost man in the western cave, the spirit will pass from this world to the next, and the man without a memory will be as handicapped in his world as my dad is in this one.

How will my dad survive then, if even his shadow self can never be whole or happy again?

www.mavarin.com

A Letter from Rutana

Dear Barselti--

One of these days I really ought to reestablish the portal between here and Gathmak so that I came come down and see you, but you know how I hate to travel, and I doubt that Lord Albi would welcome my visit. For now, you're just going to have to settle for one of your mother's nagging letters instead.

I've been surprisingly busy up here the last several days, ever since Fayubi's projection turned up, demanding a portal between my beach and a stretch of ocean halfway between Sûtelmar and Eplimar. The poor man was on a ship that was about to sink in a mage-induced storm. We managed to save everyone on board the Seeker, but the ship itself sank. I don't think we've ever found out who sent the storm. Or, at least, I haven't. I haven't heard from Fayubi since the day of the rescue.

There was a second ship on that stretch of ocean, a little one man boat that managed to tack through the portal before I deactivated it. I'm sure you'll be as astonished as I was to learn that the little boat came all the way from Londer. Can you imagine? Fayubi told me, before he left, that the man who sailed it was the Prince of Londer. He was unconscious by the time the sailors from the Seeker put him in the back bedroom, but Li found out the next day that Fayubi was right. He is Prince Talber Edmon Jon Verjul. He's about your age, and seems like a very nice young man. He didn't speak a word of Mâvarinû when he got here, but he is working very hard to learn. Li and I are helping him.

Now, I have a very serious question to ask you, Bari. Have you ever seen any indication that Li has magical talents? If so,why didn't you tell me? Li admitted to me today that he's been using a talent for languages on the Line for over a year without realizing it. It worries me, partly because of what happened with Imuselti last year. Li seems to have survived the experience without the usual consequence, but I'm still concerned that he's had magic all this time without my knowing about it. He hasn't had any instruction, or even the most basic warnings before this morning. I will do my best to rectify the situation, but it's going to be difficult. He's still worried about what your father will think.

How have you been doing down there? I haven't heard from you since winter. I hope you are being careful with your studies and experiments, and even more so with the tengremen, especially Albi. I know that you can take care of yourself, but I worry that the situation will get too dangerous if there's a real power struggle, especially if Albi finds out what you've been doing. Yes, I did hear about that. I think it's a very brave and noble thing you're doing, but please, mind your mother and watch your back!

Please write to me when you receive this, so that I know you're still alive.

Love,

Mother






(Art by Sherlock)

Lore the Emmisary

Just for fun, and to keep this blog going, here's part of the opening scene from the Mâvarin prequel (working titles Prince of Mâvarin or To Rule Mâvarin), which I probably won't get around to writing until next year or later. The character Lore in this snippet will eventually Darsuma's mother, a major villain in Mages of Mâvarin. - KFB

The voyage from Sûtelmar to Linmar took three days. Lore and Jere spent most of it on the aft deck, looking back toward Mâton (not that they could see it, after the first morning) and practicing spells.

“I feel like a hostage,” Lore complained the second afternoon, as she and her sister worked on the final definitions for their illusory dragon. Six feet long, the creature of air and colored light looked almost exactly like the illustration of Londer’s mythical predatory reptile, except that it was three-dimensional and in motion; but they were having trouble adding the right sounds and smells, not to mention the flaming breath. “Look at this thing,” Lore continued. “By the time we’re finished, it will be as good as any illusion Sunestri or Jonono, or even Master Calavica could produce. We should be home getting Robed and Named. Instead we’re going into exile among Mâvarinû singers and sheep ranchers. It’s just not fair. We deserve better, both by birth and by what we’ve accomplished.“

“You’re not a hostage; you’re an emissary, and so am I,” Jere said reasonably. A year younger than Lore and less talented magically, Jere had a tendency to adapt to circumstances rather than try to reshape them, as Lore did. Lore never knew whether to be admiring or infuriated by her sister’s cheerful acceptance of whatever came her way. Usually, Lore was both. “This is an honor, not a punishment,” Jere said.

“I doubt that very much,” Lore said. “If we’re emissaries, then why are we being sent to Odamas instead of Thâlemar? Mâvarin isn’t ruled by the selmûnen. It’s ruled by the Selevars, and the rest of the Twelve Families.”

“The selmûnen have blood ties to the Twelve Families, and political power of their own,” Jere pointed out. “If we can win them over, Mâton will have powerful allies.”

“Then we should just mindpush the selmûnen and be done with it,” Lore said. “Why waste time pretending friendship toward normals?”

“It’s not supposed to be a pretense,” Jere scolded. “Father wants Mâton and Mâvarin to be true friends, as they were at the founding. He specifically said no mindpushing. He wants allies, not slaves.”

“I think that’s incredibly soft-hearted of him, not to mention weak-minded. They’re only normals.”

“They’re not all normals. I hear they have nearly as many magicians as there are on Mâton. And that’s not counting the selmûnen, who have their own system of magic.”

“It’s not much of a system,” Lore scoffed. “Master Calavica says it’s all healing and protective spells, nothing interesting or useful.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you were sick or injured,” Jere said. She looked over at the dragon, lying neglected and half-forgotten as the sisters argued. “Look at that,” Jere said. “We’re been talking for so long that our dragon’s gone to sleep.”

“That means our third set of definitions is working,” Lore said.

“The dragon was only supposed to go to sleep if we stopped paying attention to the spell—which we did,” Jere said. “So, are we going to keep arguing, or and we going to finish the fourth set of definitions?”

Lore laughed. “Let’s get back to the magic. It’s the only thing that makes this trip bearable for me. We’re never going to agree about the Mâvarinû, anyway.”

“Fine. How about this for a flame?” The dragon opened its emerald eyes, and spat a nine inch plume of yellow fire.

Lore nodded. “Not bad. Let’s see if we can improve on it, though. I want a good three foot flame at least, by the time we’re finished.”

Joshua Wander: Two fragments

The following are two basically unusable snippets about my favorite non-Mâvarin character, Joshua Wander. You can read about his history on my LJ blog, Mâvarin and Other Inspirations. - Karen

The Lives and Times of Joshua Wander
by Karen Funk Blocher

It wasn't the castle itself that was unusual, at least on the outside. If anything, it was unusually ordinary, a standard late Norman keep--four walls and square turrets, with none of the later architectural styles tacked on as so often happens over the centuries.

But then, Toujours Chez Moi wasn't centuries old.

Inside, it had such features as an elevator, central heating and air conditioning, and modern electricity. Except for the elevator, that wasn't all that unusual for a modern-day castle, especially ones that have been refurbished for the tourist trade.

However, Toujours Chez Moi wasn't in the 20th Century. Usually.

Just at the moment, the castle was in a country called Mâvarin, a land with an agrarian economy and a rather laissez-faire take on medieval sensibilities. Two days before, it had been in a country ruled by a talking dog. The week before that, it had been on a planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse.

Still, it wasn't primarily the castle that was unusual. Its owner was. So was the rock from which (and on which) Toujours Chez Moi was built.

The owner was called Joshua Wander. He'd had another name in his youth, but he'd left it behind, many years and many worlds ago. He had once considered renaming himself Billy Pilgrim, but didn't want to be accused of copyright violation. Like the Vonnegut character, Joshua Wander had come unstuck in time. But unlike Billy Pilgrim and many other fictional travelers in time and space, Josh got to bring his home along with him.

***


"Time pollution ," Josh muttered.

"What?"

“Time pollution. Too many people mucking about in time. It’s in all the literature. Everyone wants to time travel until they actually do it, and then they can’t leave well enough alone. Kennedy’s dead, then alive, then dead again, people show up at the Cavern club with camcorders, and half the people at the Crucifixion are tourists. Time pollution.“

Another Mavarin (several, actually)

As noted below, from time to time I check the word "Mavarin" in Google, partly to see which of my blogs and web pages and postings turn up, partly to see what real-world uses of my made-up place name may exist.

Major appearances of the word that don't come from my brain include:

A "Luxury" French Chalet near Mont Blanc.

A person named Marc-André Varin (M A Varin), marketing director of the Palais des congrès de Montréal (Montréal Convention Centre).

A cape that juts into the Bering Sea from (I think) Alaska.

An untranslated word in a bilingual poem in French and Mégevan patois. The Google translation of this page is quite wonderful nonsense. I originally posted two paragraphs of it here because I love it so much, but I think you should really follow the link and see for yourself. Best line: "Sometimes, of 1 small air rascal/She begins to move the Kidneys."

The untranslated original is attributed as "a 'bilingual' song created by the group 'Memories mégevans' in January 1999". © Jean-Marc Lord 1998-2004. The song mentions Megeve, the place in the French Alps where the Chalet Mavarin is.

It seems to me that a search used to turn up a non-English Harry Potter fanfic story also, but I don't see that now.

There's one more Mavarin I know about. My friend Sara Geer is working on a novel in which, as it happens:

"Mavarin is the daughter of Marlin, a pirate from the Island. ... She ends up running river trade on the mainland when she grows up due to some favors he does for Nia during this novel, and she's known as the Pirate Queen of the three rivers."

That's enough. Good night.

Karen

Name change

I noticed on Google that the term "Otherworlds" (or OtherWorlds) is used extensively in gaming and other sf/fantasy communities. To avoid confusion, I've changed the name of this journal.

There is still an "otherworlds" spell used by characters in Mages of Mâvarin, which lends its name to the concept of these journal entries being mostly written by characters from other realities, usually the ones with Mâvarin in them.

In a related Google search, I see there is now a Mavarin chalet resort in France.

Karen