Tag Archives: evil

Oh, my dears. It’s been a long week. And it is Friday night. The sky is dark, the moon is traveling past the stars, and much of the world is readying for bed. Curl up and listen to the tales I weave, until your eyes grow heavy and you slip into slumber, ready for the Dream Maker.

In Alfheimr, home of the Light-Elves and one of the Nine Worlds of Old Norse mythology, the erter vinter (winter peas) dwell. These tiny elves sing and fly through the heavens on the dreams of dead animals. They smell like salt and when they sing make whistling and tinkling sounds like bells and chimes in the wind. They are happy beings and welcome spirits to heaven with a warmth that seems unfathomable for a Norwegian winter.

Here on earth, we live with the Dark-Elves, creatures dark as pitch and thick with evil. It is easy to become mired in their darkness, to believe the terrible things they whisper, and this is exactly what they want.

As is written in the eddic poem Gylfaginning:

That which is called Álfheim is one, where dwell the peoples called Light elves [Ljósálfar]; but the Dark-elves [dökkálfar] dwell down in the earth, and they are unlike in appearance, but by far more unlike in nature. The Light-elves are fairer to look upon than the sun, but the Dark-elves are blacker than pitch.

Yes, the erter vinter are tiny. And yes, they are silly and happy creatures that could easily somersault across the palm of your hand. But they battle the dökkálfar each and every day. They ride on clouds of otter dreams, singing songs to remind us of the simple strength of the snowflake and to remind us that our world is beautiful and that we are each loved. The dökkálfar are fierce and impressive, but the erter vinter are fiercer.

And they’re cute, too.

The next time you succumb to the insidious whispers of the dökkálfar, take a moment to listen for the chimes and bells that are the songs of the erter vinter. Take a deep breath of the salt in the air that means the erter vinter are near. Let their soft songs seep into your subconscious. It can be warm even in the coldest winter.

Sleep tight, my pets. Dream deep.

This past week-end, as you undoubtedly know, was Memorial Day, a time to celebrate and remember the men and women who died in honor and defense of this country. Mordecai and I wanted to participate in the festivities and show our thanks, so we pulled the old Revolutionary War-era cannon out of the attic and onto the widow’s walk. We are not naive enough to believe that shooting off a cannon into Brooklyn is a good idea, so we loaded the old thing with fireworks. This, of course, is also incredibly illegal.

We learned just how illegal when the fine officers of the local police unit showed up at the door. Mordecai, in his typical manner, disappeared before the police were even out of their patrol cars, leaving me, as usual, to take care of things.

Have you ever had to explain why you were up on your roof, setting off fireworks illegally, with a great horned owl, a sea horse in a bell jar, and an over-sized Sherlock Holmes-style pipe? Fortunately for us all, I am rather meticulous in my record-keeping and permit registering.

I think we are all relieved that the officers did not notice the rather gamy odor wafting down the stairs from the laboratory. Apparently some specimens were frightened by the cannon.

Inevitably, Mordecai will return with a gift for me, to thank me for my efforts in keeping us on the correct side of the law. The last time we danced this dance, he gave me MoodPaper, wall paper that changes color and design according to the room occupant’s mood.

Seems like a marvelous item, doesn’t it? Unfortunately, my dreams are so vivid that the MoodPaper would dance in an explosion of color and light each night, waking me rather rudely and leaving me alarmed.

Mordecai’s best-laid plans always seem to take a sinister turn. Unsurprising, really, when you look at the MoodPaper in his guest room; it is constantly undulating in a prism of greys and greens. Sinister, indeed.

I should have known.

Mordecai has come.

I’ve spent today in the garden, taking advantage of the cooler weather and the breeze to put the water seal on the one-man catamaran in time for summer.

When I entered the house for my 4 o’clock tea, I noticed that my dictionary was open to H and my magnifying glass was positioned over hysteria.

There was also the distinct odor of burnt molasses and all the windows were open.

I should have recognized that this wind was not only bringing a storm, but also something wicked. I’ve combed the house and locked all the windows.

Bubo has settled into the oval window in the corner of the East Tower and is quietly humming Schubert. Not a good sign, indeed.