The Adventure of Igdryll the Drunken Gnome (Intermission and uncogent diatribe sprinkled with lack of focus)


I am taking a break from posting more of Igdryll’s drunken shenanigans for a while as I’ve run out of copy and must trudge, once more, into the great unknown. I’ve revamped much of what was posted on this blog (it was barely a second draft) and added several more chapters. I think the wordcount is a little over 11,000 now with a target of around the typical 40k to 50k novel range.

Why am I telling you all of this? No idea. Probably I’m tired of working and reworking the story and need a diversion.

Continuing, I am intrigued by reading about the writing process but lousy when it comes to writing about the writing process. I read a lot about the writing process which may or may not be evidenced in any of my work. I’m intrigued especially by all of those tips floating around about how to get motivated as a writer. Tips for managing time, eliminating distractions, how to defeat writer’s block, and so forth and so on. I read or heard once, I can’t remember, about a writer who would set an alarm clock for “X” number of hours and when the alarm went off, BAM, he was done, oftentimes walking away mid-sentence. That’s some serious discipline. Other writers hole up in an office, isolated from the world, and hammer out whatever number of chapters they set as a goal for themselves for that day. Others can’t turn it off and work in a feverish, meal-missing, no-sleep-getting orgy of word vomit as if some great muse came down from the heavens and threatened to shove a sharp stick up the author’s bum if they dare stop. Regardless, it boils down to plain old work, I suppose. Writing, re-writing, putting the work away and letting it simmer, then coming back and re-writing again. No magic formula, I guess, which I find depressing because I want the magic experience, the sit-bolt-upright-in-the-middle-of-the-night-magic that changes paradigms. Instead, it’s often a tedious sludge, cold-soup eating, full steam ahead.

Signing off. Good night.

The Adventure of Igdryll the Drunken Gnome (Part 6)

          “For this to work,” the Elder said, “I will need to cross us through the Vale. That means they could see us easier so you must be very careful. Crossing the Vale also means…well, you’ll see.”
          The Elder raised his staff and chanted words similar to what Igdryll heard earlier at the council door. This time he did not lose consciousness but, instead, suddenly felt very ill. As the Elder’s chant reached a crescendo, Igdryll felt something wash over his body, like a cold breeze, and his senses dulled as if he had drunk too much cider. Darkness enveloped him for a moment and then he could see again, it was as if all of the world’s colors had been muted. He vomited.
          “That sometimes happens, Igdryll. It’s nothing to worry about.”
          “Why no warning?” Igdryll asked while wiping his mouth on his sleeve.
          “Not everyone has that reaction. Listen, we are in the mortal sphere now. Things are different here. You probably noticed the colors are dull. Sound is heavier, uglier. Also, we can’t speak with other creatures so easily.”
          “I don’t like it here.”
          “Fear poisons this world. That is what you are feeling.”
          “What a darkish place.”
          The Elder walked through the field with Igdryll. They used the tufts of grass stalks as cover. A rabbit darted and all three of them were startled. They continued, making their way to the edge of the field. They were now less than twenty feet away from the two Tall Men and their moving house. The noise from the machine sounded like the growl from some beast and shook the ground.
          The Elder held up his staff, it flashed and the house shuddered and stopped. A close silence fell over the valley. The two Tall Men could be heard talking back and forth. They walked around the machine, occasionally climbing up and down parts of it and scratching their heads while they conversed.
          “Now, do you see those wheels, Igdryll, and the metal band that goes around them?”
          “Okay, I will send the two Talls away and I need for you to smash those pieces apart. Got it?”
          “Got it? That’s forging stupid talk. How my wooden hammer break up that metal craft?”
          The Elder took Igdryll’s hammer from his belt and gently blew on it. The implement glowed softly. He handed it back to him.
          “It’s heavyish now,” Igdrll said.
          “It will work now.”
          The Elder raised his staff again and chanted. Nothing seemed to happen but then in a far off corner of the work site, a loud whump reverberated through the air followed by a rising tendril of black smoke. The two men ducked, then turned towards the source of the explosion. They both ran off towards it.
          “Okay, Igdryll.”
          Igdryll ran across the clearing. His hat fell off, he stooped to pick it up and continued running. He stopped at the base of the machine. ‘It’s farking huge,” he thought. He raised his hammer and brought it down on the track. A hollow thud traveled from the hammer, up his arm and into his skull.
          “Fark,” he shouted, “it no working!”
          “Keep going!”
          Igdryll raised the hammer again and brought it down, more gingerly this time. The metal gave way slightly as if it were ice cracking. Encouraged, he struck again and the track shattered.
          He continued, smashing more of the track, the guides and even several items that the Elder hadn’t pointed out. He was making good progress on the house’s scooper thing when he heard the Elder shouting. He turned to look. The Elder was waving frantically and pointing towards something in the distance. The bigger Tall Man was walking towards the machine.
          “Shayt,” Igdryll said as he turned and ran back across the field. He slid to a stop next to the Elder and turned to look. The Tall Man was climbing onto the top of the house. He grabbed something and walked back towards the direction from where he came.
          “That was close, Igdryll.”
          “Should I go back?”
          “Nay. That’s enough. They are crippled for now.”
          “But what about sendin’ ’em to the Spirit?”
          “Not today, Igdryll. We need to get back now.”
          Igdryll thought that the Elder looked very tired. The two of them retreated into the underbrush and walked towards the river. As they approached the Vale, the Elder raised his staff and Igdryll passed out. He woke a moment later and he felt normal again. They were both back on the other side of the Vale again. Colors and smells returned to normal. The oppressive fear subsided.
          “I need to sit for a moment,” the Elder said. He sat down on a smooth stone near the river and closed his eyes.
          “You okay, Oldish?”
          The Elder breathed deeply for several moments before opening his eyes again. He looked at Idgryll and smiled.
          “I’m okay, Igg. We aren’t what we once were.”
          “What you mean?”
          “Our magic grows tired which means I grow tired.”
          Igdryll sat down next to the Elder. The two of them gazed out at the river saying nothing for several minutes.
          “Are you dying, Elder?” Igdryll asked.
          The Elder turned to Idgryll. “Let’s go, Igg.”
          The Elder stood up and walked to the river bank. Igdryll followed.
          “Remember, relax,” the Elder said.
          The two of them floated back across the river. Igdryll felt much more comfortable now as he what to expect. They both landed on the far side safely and walked into the woods together.
          “Why you no answer?” Igdryll asked.
          “I think you know the answer, Igdryll.”
          “We’re all dying, aren’t we?”
          The Elder didn’t answer and the two of them walked back to the village in silence.

The Adventure of Igdryll the Gnome (Part 5)

          Morning broke cool and still. Fog clung to the village. Igdryll was awake, had been awake for most of the night. He sat down on the edge of his bed and looked outside through a grimy window. A few were out going about their business but most were still asleep. There are younger folks in the village who would have been better suited for this type of business.
           ‘Why those bones choose me?’ he thought.
          He stood and walked to a nearby table. Moving clear some papers and a broken hammer, he picked up a jug of cider and poured himself a drink into a tin cup. A knock at the door.
          “Who be it?” Igdryll asked.
           “It’s time,” the Elder replied. “Let’s go.”
          Igdryll opened the door and let the Elder in. An assortment of woodworking tools, a plate of half-eaten bread and cider bottles emerged in the gloomy morning light let in through the open door. An ancient looking clock sat on the fireplace mantle. The Elder glanced at it.
          “I think your clock stopped,” the Elder said.
          “Didn’t stop. Never started.” Igdryll rummaged through a pile of clothes on the floor. “Just a sec’, oldish.” He paused. “So what does I bring to war anyhow?”
          “Well, a stout heart, fortitude, spirit…”
          “I’ve got a hammer,” Igdryll said lifting it up from underneath a shirt. “I bringin’ a hammer.” He slipped the mallet into his belt, grabbed a walking staff from beside the door and they left.

          They walked in silence together through the village. A few pockets of activity stirred here and there but the main road was vacant. As they walked past the Old Tower which marked the village boundary, an old toad stared at them a moment before hopping off into the undergrowth.
          The Elder quietly hummed. Igdryll recognized the tune. It was sung during the Great War in the ancient days, or at least that is what his Gram told him.
          “So why you need me, anyways?” Igdryll asked.
          “The bones advised it.”
          “Farking bones. I mean yesterdays you went alones and did finely. What difference will I make?”
          “I am an old man, Igdryll, and this type of magic, war magic I mean, doesn’t come easily to me anymore. The council knows this and advised that I find help. You see, many moons before you came to us, our folk lived in a far off land…”
          “Yeah, I know this, the Eldervale. So what?”
          “So,” the Elder continued, “the Tall Men came. One or two at first, then families, then villages. At first we lived side by side in relative peace. Some even became our friends, in a manner of speaking. But, you see, Tall Men live short lives and have short memories. Friends became foes and it was decided that we should cut off any contact with them. The council was created and through great and ancient magic created the Eldervale to shield us from the Tall Men. It protected us for many moons thereafter and they forgot about us. We became myth and that was our greatest protection. But their great machines found us again and we left.”
          “They find us again?”
          “Aye. Some in the council wanted to reach out to them and see if their ways had changed. Others disagreed. A vote was taken and war won.”
          “Wouldn’t friends be easier?”
          “We are almost to the Stream.”
          The clouds had cleared and dappled sunlight danced across the mossy forest floor. A cool breeze vacated the heavy morning air. They continued for a few more minutes in silence. The Old Gray Stream emerged ahead. The Elder crossed over the water in a shallow spot and waited as Igdryll crossed. They continued on until the sound of the Great River could be heard ahead. The Elder stopped and motioned for Igdryll to be quiet. The two of them crept forward and peered through a copse of sycamores. Through the undergrowth they could see the yellow colored moving house.
          “No,” the Elder said.
          “There are two tall men. I sent that chubby one to the spirit yesterday. I was sure of it.”
          “To the spirit? You never said that yesterday.”
          “He fell. I saw him. They are such fragile things.”
          “Well, now what, oldish?”
          The Elder watched the two men as they went about their business of clearing dirt. He motioned Igdryll forward and the two of them approached the bank of the Great River.
          “I’m going to do something, Igdryll,” the Elder said. “Stay very calm.”
          “Uh, what…” Igdryll slowly rose into the air. “Holy fark, oldish!”
          “Stay calm or the magic will break.”
          Igdryll managed to regain his composure. He slowly floated out over the river. Below him, whitecaps swirled and tore at the rocks reaching up from the water. Looking behind him, he could see the Elder also floating about a stone’s throw away. Igdryll closed his eyes.
          ‘One, two, three, four…”he counted.
          At twenty-three, Igdryll’s feet felt firm ground beneath them. He opened his eyes and saw that he was safely on the other side of the river. The Elder shortly joined him.
          “Okay, oldish,” Igdryll said. “Why didn’t we just floatish our happy feet here all the way from the village?”
          “As I said, Iggs.” The Elder paused, short of breath. “I’m old and my magic is old.”
          The Elder climbed the embankment and motioned for Igdryll to follow. At the top, they could hear machinery running and the Tall Men shouting things in a strange language. They walked closer to the noise until they reached a clearing. Using an elderberry bush as cover, the two of them watched the moving house take dirt from one spot and move it to another spot.
          “What they doing?” Igdryll asked.
          “I think they are building a house.”
          “A dirt house?”
          “Aye. Not good.”
          “So what’s the plan?”
          Igdryll felt more adventurous now. As he watched the Tall Men work in the field, he now felt like he was part of something much larger than himself. Like he was a warrior in one of the ancient battle stories.
          “We need to break their yellow house,” the Elder said. “I think I know how but I will need your help.”

The Adventure of Igdryll the Drunken Gnome (Part 4)

          The Elder stood on a podium at the base of the steps in front of Town Hall. Word spread quickly in the town, particularly after Igdryll mentioned what happened to Tragdyll. A crowd gathered and they were eager to hear more. War was big news, the only news really to have occurred in many months. The last event of any interest was Oyroll’s mushroom barn burning down.
           “Quiet now,” the Elder shouted. “I know war is an unhappy business but it is a business we must do.” The crowd pressed closer. “Now, I have gone to the Vale and seen for myself of what Igdryll and Evelya spoke. I have ill news,” the Elder paused. “It’s Tall Men.”
          The crowd gasped. Adralla, the town’s oldest woman, fainted.
          “No one likes to send anyone, not even Tall Men, to the spirit,” the Elder continued. “But, I fear it may necessary.” He waved his staff to silence the crowd. “Now, the Council commands me to go back tomorrow and for this they say I need volunteers to come with me.”
          Everyone fell silent as the Elder scanned the crowd but he only encountered averted gazes.
          “Very well,” he said. “I will consult the bones.” He removed a small pouch from his belt and shook several small bones into his gnarled hand. “Behold,” he said while lifting up his hand.
          He closed his eyes, mumbled something and threw the bones onto the dirt before the crowd. He opened his eyes and stared at the jumble. The bones trembled, then spun before settling to a stop. The Elder smiled.
          “The bones have chosen,” the Elder paused. “Igdryll Tradagast.”
           “Fark me, oldish!” Igdryll shouted from the back of the crowd. He pushed his way to the front and glared at the Elder. “Them bones didn’t ask me, so it don’t count none. I’m not cut for warish activities.”
          “Now, Igdryll,” the Elder said. “The bones have spoken and, as always, spoken true.”
          “How says? Only you can read them anyhows. Coulda said we need to eat more acorn stew or hurl our poos at each other.”
          “The matter is settled. We leave in the morning.” The Elder descended from the podium and walked up the Town Hall’s steps.
          “Wait, now. You said volunteers. Who more?”
          The Elder turned. “The bones said just you, Igdryll. They seem to fancy you a great deal.” The Elder opened the door, went inside and the door slowly closed behind him.
          “Great,” Igdryll said.

The Adventure of Igdryll the Drunken Gnome (Part 2)

          “What talk is this?” The Elder asked, eyeing Igdryll suspiciously.
           “I say it twice times now. A third won’t change it.”
           “You say you were on your way to Mr. Dallver’s?”
           “Aye. To, nay from. “We,” he motioned to Evellya, “see yellow moving house that lifts dirt. More dirt than our town size, it seemed.”
           “Consult the others, I must.”
           The Elder ascended the steps of the town hall and opened the large, carved door. The door closed behind him with a labored creak. A few bystanders had gathered near the steps and discussed the event. Igdryll sat down and Evellya sat beside him.
           “What you think it is?” she asked.
           “Dunno. Know it’s not good though. Know it by my bones, Eva.” Igdryll removed his peaked cap and smoothed his hair back. “Goin’ to Dallver’s now.”
           “But the Elder comin’ back in short.”
           “The Elder use his magic to find me if he need me.”

           The pub was nearly empty. Mr. Dallver was wiping down the bar and Tragdryll was sitting in a corner drinking a cider.
           “Hey, Igg,” Tragdryll said. His speech was slurred.
           “Hey, Trag. Hey, Mr. Dallver,” Igdryll raised a hand. “Cider pint, please you.”
           Mr. Dallver filled a mug. The foam spilled over and he handed it across the bar to Igdryll.
           “Thank ye,” he said, taking the pint jug. Igdryll sat down by Tragdryll. No one knows exactly just how old Tragdryll is but he is easily the oldest gnome in town. He lost his wife almost two years ago. Literally lost his wife. They were walking in the Old Wood which is on the other side of town opposite the Vale and she simply vanished. The town spent a halfmoon looking for her but she was never found. Ever since then, Tragdryll spent most of his time in Dallver’s. A few whispered that maybe he helped his wife get lost but he was cleared after the Elder cast the bones. The bones said that he was telling the truth and they never lie.
           “You be pale, Igg.”
           “Aye. Strange day.”
           They both took sips of their ciders. Igdryll had a passing thought that he was looking at his future self.
           “Eva and me see something beyond the Vale. Something I don’t like.”
           “The Vale, eh? Why you kids always be messin’ with it.” He sipped his cider. “When I was youngish, no one went there. We respected it. Respected it because we respected the Elder.”
           “Eh. I heard stories’bout your youngish years and nay one of ’em included the words ‘respect’ and ‘elder’ in em.”
           “What you see, anyways?”
           “Dirt moving house.”
           “A dirt moving house? ‘Kay.”
           “Nay. For real.”
           “I be drunk twice over and I still know your story be shat.” Tragdryll took another sip. “Ain’t nothin’ beyond the Vale but…well, not sure. But it sure as shat ain’t a dirt movin’ house, I can tell ya.”
           “Well, I seen it,” Igdryll sipped his cider. “Smokin’, movin’, yellow house.”
           “How’s, Eva?”
           “I dunno. She does her things. I do my things.”
           “She fancies you, ya know.”
           “Eh,” Igdryll grunted. “I’m out. You want another?”
           Mr. Dallver poured two more ciders. Igdryll took them back over to the table and sat down. The door behind them opened suddenly. The Elder walked in.
           “Fark,” Igdryll muttered.
           “You know I can hear you, Igdryll,” the Elder said. “Come now, the Council needs to talk with ya.”
           “The Council?” Igdryll said. “The Council can talk fine with me right here.”
           “Nay. Come now. Let’s go.”
           “Fine then.” Igdryll stood up. “I’m takin’ me cider though.”
           Igdryll dropped three silver coins on the bar, looked at Tragdryll and dropped one more.
           “Take care of Trag, too.” Mr. Dallver nodded. “See ya,” he said as he waved at Tragdryll and walked out the door.

The Adventure of Idgryll the Drunken Gnome (part one)

I finally dusted off this story which has been lying around my office under various piles of radio gear, other piles of half-finished stories and lord knows what else. I intend to post it here in bite size pieces from time to time.

          It was early Autumn and although Igdryll wasn’t entirely finished with what he was doing, he decided to stop anyway. You see, Igdryll is a gnome and a carpenter. The best one in town–carpenter, that is. That he is the only carpenter did little to dampen his impression of his own abilities. He dusted his hands off on his pants and left the cricket barn to make his way back to the village.
          In the distance, a white tendril of smoke drifted and the faint fragrance of burning leaves filled the air. This was Igdryll’s favorite time of year. The crops are coming in, the orchards are heavy with apples and figs, the combs are thick and dripping with clover honey. And, most importantly, Mr. Dallver rolls up last year’s cider from the cellar and uncorks it.
          Igdryll fully intended to head straight to Mr. Dallver’s at this very moment because it wouldn’t be very crowded since everyone else was working. Lost in this thought, he didn’t notice as Evellya approached from behind.
          “Afta noon, Igg!”
          He dropped his toolbox scattering an assortment of chisels and hammers into the tall grass by the path.
          “Bullfachs, Evey! Ya shorn’t do that.” He stooped down to collect his tools. “Might ya help?”
          “Ya shorn’t curse like that now. I help ya. Here.” She picked up a hammer from under a bush and handed it to him. “Ya know I be in the woods a lot.”
          “Yah,” he said.
          “I see somethin’ peculiar might, I did.”
          “Now I serious, Igg. I seen something beyond the Vale there.”
          “Now you shain’t go beyond that Vale,” Igdryll said. “Nothin’ there for us. You know me Uncle Olltort, he went beyon’ the Vale and came back actin’ all funnyish.” Igdryll picked up his toolbox and walked towards town. “Still all mumble mumbles.”
          “Yer uncle drinks too much,” Evelya said.
          “True told. But the drinkin’ came after the Vale, nay before.”
          “Come see it with me.”
          Igdryll stopped and looked at her. “Nar.”
          “Twice nar.”
          “Two drinks?”
          “Let me drop my tools off firstish.”

          After stopping by the cricket shed to drop off the toolbox, they entered the nearby woods. Idgryll never liked the woods much. When he was four summers old, his cousin, Myrdrigg, took him deep into the forest to play hide and seek. Well, actually just hide. After burrowing deep into the hollow of a willow tree by the Old Grey Stream, Igdryll promptly got his foot caught. Myrdrigg was more than halfway home by this time and figured that his little cousin would soon figure things out and come home on his own. When the first stars appeared, Myrdrigg got worried and told his mom who, after whipping his backside with a hazel rod, organized the town to search the woods. They found Igdryll pretty quickly. The town’s tanner, Ogdlot, heard him screaming. Although, Idgryll was only stuck in the willow for a few hours, it felt like an eternity to him. Always after that, he swore to anyone who would listen that the willow whispered to him, “Iya eats you now!” Igdryll figured that if the willow felt that way, all the trees harbored similar dispositions so he avoided the woods when possible.
          They ventured deeper into the woods and Idgryll turned around. Noticing that the field was occluded by the cedars, he began to seriously reconsider.
          “Three times,” he said.
          “Aye now,” Evelya asked. “Three times what?”
          “Cider drinks, fowl face.”
          “Two were promised and agreed upon now. Two it stands.”
          “Fine,” he mumbled.
          The cedars gave way to oak and hickory. The ancient canopy of golden and red leaves blocked the afternoon sun, giving the light a cheery but diminished hue. Just ahead was the Old Gray Stream.
          “This a way,” Evelya said, motioning downstream. “We can ford there now.”
          They walked to the edge of the stream. A slow but steady column of water swirled amongst several boulders. A hickory, its bark flaked and ragged, had fallen across the stream. They crossed with little difficulty and continued along the moldy forest floor. Occasional mushroom balls puffed, scattering dark earthy smelling powder into the still, damp air.
          They continued and the hardwood trees slowly gave way to towering sycamores. The Vale was close now.
          “We made it,” Evelya said as she stepped through a cluster of elderberry bushes. Before them a wide river churned and chortled.
          “The Vale,” Evelya whispered.
          “Aye, the Vale,” Igdryll said. “So where be it?”
          “Yonder. Look you.”
          “I be lookin’ but seein’ nothin’.”
          “Through there,” she said pointing between two mammoth sycamores.
          “Fark,” he said. Through the trees he could just discern the top of what appeared to be a yellow house.
          “What is it?” Igdryll asked.
          A puff of black smoke came from the top of the yellow house and it began to move, slowly at first and then more quickly. A giant yellow scooper rose up carrying a pile of dirt and rock.
          “Go back now,” Igdryll said as he turned back to the woods.
          “Stay and see it.”
          “Nay. We tell the Elder. Come now.”
          Igdryll retreated into the woods. He didn’t know what he had just seen but he knew that it wasn’t good. He raced to get away as Evelya struggled to keep up.
          “Slow now, Igg!” Evelya shouted.
          Igdryll stopped running but still continued at a brisk pace not caring if Evelya kept up or not. He crossed the fallen tree and made his way out of the woods. He was in such a hurry that he forgot his toolbox that was still at the barn.