Path: usenet.ins.cwru.edu!agate!howland.reston.ans.net!gatech!news-feed-1.peachnet.e du!insosf1.infonet.net!newshost.marcam.com!charnel.ecst.csuchico.edu!news.xmis sion.com!xmission.xmission.com!not-for-mail From: mara@the.garden.of.night Newsgroups: alt.devilbunnies Subject: Re: [STORY] Mara Dreams Followup-To: alt.devilbunnies Date: 24 Mar 1995 09:24:44 -0700 Organization: DevilBunnies News<->Mail Gateway Lines: 146 Sender: snowhare@xmission.xmission.com Message-ID: <3kuroc$md9@xmission.xmission.com> Reply-To: mara@the.garden.of.night NNTP-Posting-Host: xmission.xmission.com > > Just over the rise of a knoll, she comes to the end of the forest > of steel. A high hedge blocks her way; the leaves exude the bitter smell > that drew her here. The bushes grow in an unbroken circle; as she > walks around this obstacle, Mara can find no way to break through. > Settling down on her haunches, she ponders how to get inside. > > A clash of metal makes her whirl about. Mara stares at the > armor-clad figure looming over her. It carries a sword, kin to the ones > growing out of the dirt. > > The Huntsman raises his weapon for a killing blow. Part II ------- "You are where you shouldn't be, little dreamer." The Huntsman's undead features are a vulpine mask of contempt. His sword flicks out; Mara scurries back until the thick brambles of the hedge press into her spine. "Please! I'll leave! I didn't know--" She covers her eyes with her paws. Again, the demon's weapon rushes towards her throat. This time, leaves fall about her as the unearthly steel severs branches an inch from her skull. "Naughty little kit." The blades in the field clash together. "My Lord War was most clear: the Lady beyond must not be disturbed. I'm afraid, trespasser, you will have to die..." The point of the sword stabs down. Its edge whistles as it travels through the air. Behind that sound Mara can hear the slap of Clarence's belt, the slap of Beryl's palm, a thousand unkind and undeserved curses. Bully, she thinks. He hates me and he hits me and I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHY! Anger courses through her veins; her head hurts, as if a thundercloud rages within. Unnoticed, an emerald radiance sparks off her extended claws. Screaming, Mara tears a vine from the hedge and throws it at her enemy. Power, a torrent of vicious heat, pours out of her foreleg. The vine blurs in mid-air, transforming... The garland of roses wraps around the Huntsman. His sword clatters into the dirt as his arms are pinned to his side. Chuckles of amusement turn to cries of fear when the rose thorns pierce his armor. The flowers twine about his legs, toppling him onto his back; their barbs dig deeper into his flesh with each attempt to escape. "I said I would go! I said it!" Mara jumps onto his chest. The Huntsman realizes--too late--whom he has dared to attack. "Mistress, I cry mercy! I did not see--" "I won't let you hurt me! I won't I won't I won't!" Instinctively, Mara traces a complex rune in the earth. The sigil burns with jade fire. Doves fly down from the heavens, to settle on the recumbent demon. The Huntsman screams in agony as the birds peck him apart. ****** Clods of soil fly past her shoulders. The earth beneath the hedge is rich loam, easy to tunnel through. Sometimes Mara uncovers thick roots that bar further progress. These she carefully nibbles through. She knows there is a faster way--the power has not yet leached away. Pins and needles prick her paws as dribbles of it leak out. With a wave, she could blast her way clear in a second. Instead, she digs. The tunnel face in front of her crumbles away. Startled, she cautiously pokes her muzzles through the opening. The space before her is large; her breathing returns as an echo amplified tenfold. The air in the place is musty, and too many things seem to walk in its darkened recesses. Reluctantly, Mara releases a bit of the strange energy lurking within her. A pale green mass of light forms on her upturned forepaws. Patting it into a ball, she rolls the foxfire into the darkness. Its pallid light reveals a large cavern. Quartz stalactites jut down from the roof, and boulders lie scattered on the floor. Nothing moves save the slow trickle of water. Her fear segues into marvel. As a human girl, she had a postcard from the Carlsbad Caverns in her collection. Late at night, she would slip it out and study it by flashlight. She peopled the world of stone with elves and gremlins; maybe the Little People haunted this place, too. She could imagine furtive movement in the shadows, lithe bodies sneaking about her... A blast of fire sears a boulder a foot from her twitching nose. Her foreleg is weighed down with the power running though it. Mara yells, a volley of darts issuing forth from a shaking paw. A reptilian head rears back in agony. Mara watches in awe while the drake falls heavily on its side. It hisses with pain from the wounds dotting its flank. Ichor falls, steaming, onto the cavern floor. Shame possesses Mara. The young kit hops over to the stricken dragon. Gazing deep into its eyes, Mara...searches. Another instinct she cannot explain, but seems as natural as breathing. The cavern fades away, and a red world that throbs like a drum replaces it. She sees a man dressed in fool's motley dancing. He holds two masks--at one step he raises that of a laughing human, at another the visage of a roaring beast. Whirling in a circle, he prances around a withered tree. Protective. Watchful. She runs a paw along its flank. The bleeding ceases. Gathering up a handful of stones, she flings them into the air. Golden coins, precious gems, the treasure of a hundred kings descends. The dragon sleeps, healing under a mound of treasure. ******* The garden is lush. Nightblooming plants grow in the flower beds, and aspens stretch their branches across an ever-starlit sky. A depression forms at the centre of a circle of three statues. Mara climbs out of the tunnel, shaking dirt free from her fur. Mara claps her paws in delight. Why, there's daddy! And the man who dances! This must be Uncle Cheshire, too. The bitter scent which lured her out of the desert perfumes the air. She knows the one who wears it is near. Mara understands who that is; her identity is as familiar as the whiskers on her muzzle. She is-- Rotting tendrils whip out, capturing Mara in a net of coiling vines. She relaxes. They can kill her, she knows. But their grip is comforting--like the touch of an attentive parent. "Silverblu! I warned you not to return!" A devilbunny hops up the garden path. The doe is horribly disfigured, her lapine form twisted into a mockery. Her chrome fur is blinding in the moonlight. "What is this? A kit?" Sightless eyes examine Mara. The doe appears unsure, vaguely apprehensive. "How did you get past my wards? Who are you?" Mara lowers her head in reverence. "Hi, mom," she replies. TBC (take it, Sib!)