Works in progress (2) - Floreskand: Prophecy

For many years the mythical land of Floreskand has been developed and expanded upon by its creator, Gordon Faulkner. He began during an extended stay in hospital, markedly influenced by Oriental culture, especially Chinese. In the late 1960s he started training in Oriental martial arts and after joining the RAF in the early 1970s, during his off-duty time he specialised in Chinese martial arts and Daoist philosophy. During his 22 year career in the RAF, he was one of the founders and General Secretary of the RAF Martial Arts Federation, a post he held until his retirement from military service, when he became a full-time Daoist Arts teacher. This resulted in extensive travel within Europe and North America where he was invited to run seminars and give lectures.

                                                                             Gordon

Gordon met me in Malta, where I was based with the Royal Navy. We both were involved in martial arts training, though Gordon was considerably more advanced than me! 

Me martial arts training in Malta, 1975

 

When he mentioned his mythical Floreskand, its characters, coinage, history, geology, religion and myths, I became intrigued.  So, in 1974 we decided to work on a series of novels set in this colourfully imagined land, and we settled on the pen-name Morton Faulkner. Not long afterwards, Gordon was re-posted back to UK.

These were the pre-computer days. I typed out the story on a portable Remington, with a carbon copy. We communicated by post. I’d write the story and Gordon would supply hand-written (and sometimes typed) background information. Out of this grew a 106,000-word fantasy novel, Wings of the Overlord, which had a few near-misses with a handful of publishers over the years...

Finally, in 2014 we found a publisher willing to take on the series, The Chronicles of Floreskand. Sadly, although we supplied the second installment on time, there were delays and problems in getting it published, so we amicably severed our ties. At this point, both by now getting a little long in the tooth, we determined to go it alone and self-publish. The first volume was revised and published as Floreskand: Wings and we promptly followed it with Floreskand:King, both in 2017.  This year, we completed the third book, Floreskand:Madurava and published it in May (in Floreskand, a madurava is a compass though it possesses arcane qualities too). We are now working on the fourth installment, Floreskand: Prophecy.

There are a number of recurring characters in the series. There’s Ulran, the mystical innman, Ranell his son, the despot King Saurosen, the Underpeople, also known as the Ratava, the wormlike schwarm, good and bad wizards and mages, ordinary soldiers, workers, tradesmen, generals, Aurelan Crossis, a soldier on a quest of vengeance, queens and powerful women, including Lorar, the kidnapped girlfriend of Ranell, destined for subjugation and humiliation at the hands of her tormentor, Epal Danorr… And of course there are maps – plenty of maps – and comprehensive glossaries.

Wings - Three disparate adventurers set out from Lornwater on a quest, Ulran, Courdour Alomar and Cobrora Fhord. Plagued by assassins, forces of nature and magic, they cross the plains of Floreskand, combat Baronculer hordes, scale snow-clad Sonalume Mountains and penetrate the dark heart of Arisa. Here they uncover truth, evil and find pain and death.

King - Lornwater city was ripe for rebellion against King Saurosen. Subterfuge, betrayal, conspiracy, greed, revenge and thirst for power motivate rich and poor alike. Muddying the fight are the Sardan mystics. At stake is the Black Sword, the powerful symbol that entitles the holder to take the throne of Lornwater.

Madurava - Lornwater's Madurava House signifies a change in the alignment of the sacred compass – pointing to the dunsaron. Also heading in that direction are the Ratava, the schwarm, Lord Tanellor, the daughter of Arqitor, Charja Nev, First-commander Nimentan Pellas, and almaturge Rait Falo, all destined for conflict... And we meet again Ulran, Ranell, Lorar, Epal Danorr and Watchman Dep.

The blurb for Prophecy reads:

As the events in Madurava unfold, Lornwater’s Madurava House undergoes a significant alteration in the alignment of its spirit statues, signifying the prophet is coming! Though it is not clear from which direction…

If there is any truth in the prophecy, then many of the city kingdoms of Floreskand will be shaken to their core.

Barely recovered from his ordeal in King, Aurelan Crossis sets out on a journey of vengeance against the deposed king Saurosen, which takes him into the midst of pilgrims heading for the Sacred Hills, where he will be sorely tested.

Bindar, a survivor of the strife in Wings, now trains mountain troops in Arion. In the Vale of Belet he comes into contact with the Haram Sect as well as a powerful fugitive from his past.

The ordeal for Lorar worsens as she is taken by her tormentor Danorr to Arisa…

The emperor of Tarakanda is faced with heightened political and religious tensions that threaten to destabilise the empire.

And Lornwater is still recovering from the civil strife, where factions of Remainers continue to threaten the life of the rightful king. Watchman Welde Dep finds his investigations bring him closer to Queen Tantian, risking the jealousy and enmity of the king.

The saga of Floreskand continues…

***

We hope to complete Prophecy this year (2018) and even move on to its successor, tentatively entitled Tarakanda.

Maybe writers who have hit proverbial brick walls with their works will be consoled by our experience. Many traits are required of a writer – and among them are perseverance and self-belief. Never give up!

***

More about Gordon:

He is a member of the Society for Anglo-Chinese Understanding and a Fellow of the Royal Asiatic Society. In 1990 he had the first of what was to eventually become annual trips to China. These trips take students to study at the Beijing University of Physical Education (BUPE) and visit various research establishments, hospitals, temples, markets, bars, etc. He is the Principal Instructor of the Chanquanshu School of Daoist Arts which he founded in 1983; it now has in excess of 300 registered students. At a ceremony held at BUPE he became Ru Shi Dizi (an outstanding and close disciple) of Professor Zhang Guangde, the creator of Daoyin Yangsheng Gong which is a part of the Chinese National Fitness Program. And at a Ba Shi ceremony in a temple on Mount Wudang, Central China, he was initiated as a 15^th generation Wudang Boxing disciple of Daoist Master You Xuande. He is the author of Managing Stress with Qigong. Gordon and his wife, Maria have two children and six grandchildren and live in the Scottish Highlands.

A Dance to the Music of Time (3 of 12)

Third in Anthony Powell’s 12-volume novel, The Acceptance World was published in 1955, three years after his previous book in the series. I’m finding it fascinating that he kept his readership despite the long periods between books. It’s as if the characters he wrote about lingered in the memory like real people, as if the reader knew them. The special intimacy of first person narrative would help in this regard.

 

This book covers the period 1931-1933. Nick Jenkins begins with a visit to his Uncle Giles who is ensconced in a private hotel in Bayswater. The place is ‘tarnished by the years and reduced to ignoble uses like traffic in tourists, pilgrims, or even illegal immigrants; pervaded – to borrow an appropriately Conradian mannerism – with uneasy memories of the strife of men. That was the feeling the Ufford gave, riding at anchor on the sluggish Bayswater tides.’ (p7)

Here, we also meet Mrs Myra Erdleigh, another resident, who ‘seemed to glide rather than walk across the carpet, giving the impression almost of a phantom, a being from another world…’ (p12) Great description in these scenes, notably when she uses playing cards to look into Nick’s and his uncle’s future. And perhaps she has it right when she tells Nick, ‘You are thought cold, but you possess deep affections, sometimes for people worthless in themselves… You must try to understand life.’ (p21)

One acquaintance of Nick’s is the novelist St. John Clarke. Unlike we struggling authors, it appears that his ‘sales did not depend on favourable reviews, although, in spite of this, he was said to be – like so many financially successful writers – painfully sensitive to hostile criticism.’ (p29) Nick’s old school friend Manners was the novelist’s secretary.

Widmerpool, another school friend, crops up again; he’s changing jobs, becoming a bill-broker – joining the ‘Acceptance World’, possibly an early version of futures dealing. There’s talk of goods to sell to a firm in Bolivia, for example, but don’t touch the money until the goods arrive, yet certain houses will ‘accept’ the debt and ‘advance the money on the strength of your reputation’… Of course it might be shaky business, what with a vacillating exchange rate or even a revolution…! Thus, Nick can see that some old friends and acquaintances are moving on, while he isn’t…

Nick meets Jean again, having both been invited to the Templers’ house. Now, she’s married. ‘There was still a curious fascination about her grey-blue eyes, slanting a little, as it were caught tightly between soft, lazy lids and dark, luxurious lashes.’ (p64)  He kids himself he no longer felt he would lose his head over her, as he had in the past; his observation and reignited memory give the lie to that belief. And when they’re pushed against each other in the back seat of the car on their way, he ‘took Jean in my arms.’ On arrival, they arrange a secret assignation in her room…

Mrs Erdleigh’s observation seems amiss: certainly, we’re not privy to any strong emotions from Nick: ‘… my own violent feelings about Jean which had to be reduced inwardly to some manageable order.’ Later, he observes, ‘There is always an element of unreality, perhaps even of slight absurdity, about someone you love.’ (p94)  And he’s rather critical of the fair sex in general: ‘all that unreasoning bitterness and mortification to which women are so subject.’ (p108) And: ‘A measure of capriciousness is, after all, natural in women; perhaps fulfils some physiological need for both sexes.’ (p111)

On the other hand, when Jean opens the door to welcome Nick, she is naked: ‘There is, after all, no pleasure like that given by a woman who really wants to see you.’ (p145)

He is aware of a strange possessiveness. ‘When you are in love with someone, their life, past, present and future becomes in a curious way part of your life…’ (p150) And then he opines, ‘In love, however, there is no rationality.’ (p151)

Their group at the Templers’ is increased with the arrival of Quiggin, making up an ‘oddly assorted company’ (p91). After dinner, they indulge in an Ouija session, which turns awkward when Marxist sentiment intrudes in the esoteric messages!

Some days later Nick and Jean witness a ‘hunger march’ joined by St. John Clarke in a wheelchair accompanied by Quiggin and Mona Templer, the harbinger of a collapsed marriage. Nick learns of a number of marriages disintegrate and there’s a strong whiff of betrayal and dissatisfaction with women.

Powell’s descriptions of characters always amuse: ‘(Sir Gavin Walpole-Wilson) looked no older; perhaps a shade less sane.’ (p114)

At an old boys’ reunion Nick meets Maiden who ‘was in the margarine business.’ A short while later, Maiden ‘screwed up his yellowish, worried face, which seemed to have taken on sympathetic colouring from the commodity he marketed.’ (p189)

The reunion throws in the fact that one old boy had given a maiden speech in parliament, ‘tearing Ramsay MacDonald into shreds’, while another talked of India’s eventual independence, and another talked of Tanganyika. In short, the orbit these old boys covered encompassed the world painted pink.

The passion and ardour Nick experiences with Jean are muted; left to the imagination: ‘There was no sound except her sharp intake of breath… because passion in its transcendence cannot be shared with any other element, I could not speak of what had happened…’ (p146)

And yet he can capture an emotion sometimes. ‘I was myself overcome with a horrible feeling of nausea, as if one had suddenly woken from sleep and found oneself chained to a corpse.’ (p149)

Throughout, Powell exhibits gentle humour. ‘Coronets on the table napkins, but no kind hearts between the sheets.’ (p208) He could be alluding to the 1949 film or the Tennyson poem. In a closing scene where Nick is coping with a drunken Stringham, there’s an amusing interchange:

‘For your own good.’

‘I haven’t got my own good at heart,’ says Stringham.

‘We will get you anything you want.’

‘Curse your charity.’

The presumed forward planning of the series is worthy of note. Here, he writes, ‘Duport (who, as I was to discover years later, had a deep respect for “intelligence”)…’ (p149)

Towards the end he neatly links to the beginning, as he viewed a postcard of a hotel room: ‘Indeed, the style of furnishing was reminiscent of the Ufford.’

Despite the mention of the abandonment of the Gold Standard, the formation of the National Government, and the other references above, there was in my view little feeling for the period. Certainly, Marxism was raising its head – no doubt in the background, recruiting spies in the University cities. But I’ve still to perceive ‘a remarkable picture of the history of our times’ as espoused by the Sunday Times blurb. Maybe that will come after a few more books. This is not a criticism of the books, naturally, but of the blurb writers!

The cover sketch by Mark Boxer shows Mrs Erdleigh.

Next: 4 – At Lady Molly’s

Editorial comment

When Nick witnesses a demonstration, he merely states: ‘a banner upon which was inscribed the purpose and location of the gathering.’ Why didn’t Powell write what the banner said? This is not good visual narrative.

Again: ‘Still only partly dressed, she took up the telephone and lay on the sofa.’ (p147) A moment prior to this she’d pulled on the other stocking; so we don’t quite get any visuals about how she appears on that sofa, yet if Nick was in love with her, it might be a cherished memory…

He describes the Italian Foppa with his ‘tiny feet encased in excruciatingly tight shoes…’ (p153) They might look tight, but Nick couldn’t know they were excruciating.

Pulp Den Awards

Publisher, author and avid reader Tom Johnson issues a variety of awards at the end of each year, and these are for stand-alone science fiction novel, best new pulp novel, best SF/horror novel, best mystery/thriller, best fantasy novel that he has read in 2017. See here

"The 2017 PULP DEN AWARD for the best Spy series I read in 2017 is the Tana Standish female psychic spy from Britain. There is good action in this well written series, and the stories flow smoothly. This is a great new series for spy fiction fans."

Thank you, sir!

 

What did it portend?

In the Overlord’s all-seeing eyes, such men are like unto murderers and idolaters,

less to Him than a mote.

– The Tanlin, 241.14

Snow-clad and ice-bound, the two peaks opposite rose in ragged splendour to pierce the egg-blue sky of dawn. Wisps of cloud gusted and swathed about the rock formations, occasionally obscuring the chasm far below. Scattered on narrow ledges and precipitous ridges, thousands of drab-clothed men stood or crouched, waiting.

Wrapped in an inadequate fawn-fur cloak which freezing gusts of air threatened to whip from him, General Foo-sep braced himself and, his clean-shaven chin set with annoyance, looked down upon his suffering men. His gums ached dully with the insidious cold, yellow teeth chattering. In vain he rubbed fur-gloved hands together.

     An entire toumen! Ten thousand men! And they were to take orders from an accursed civilian! He seethed, casting an embittered glare to his right, at a black-clad man of slight frame, parchment-coloured skin and ebony pebbles for eyes.

The wind slapped at the man’s fur cloak and whistled over the bare out-jutting rocks nearby.

Wind-howl was deafening on the outcrop up here, yet only a step back into the shelter of the overhang no sound penetrated; and from here the entire range of the Sonalume Mountains seemed enveloped in this same eerie stillness.

“They will be along soon,” said the civilian, visibly tensing as he leaned over the sloping ledge. His bear-hide boots crackled as he moved, shifting ice from the soles.

Below – a dizzying drop that had claimed too many men already – the bottom indistinct in a slithering purple haze.

Foo-sep discerned the tiny motes of black in the sky and, as the shapes approached, he was struck by their immense size. Framed by the two grey-blue peaks, the birds were coming; he had to admit, grudgingly, as predicted.

“Now!” howled the civilian.

Hoarfrost encrusted brows scowling, Foo-sep lifted his arm and signalled to his men on both sides of the wide, gaping chasm.

Soundlessly, with military precision, the prepare signal was passed through the dispersed ranks.

Foo-sep raised his eyeglass, careful lest he touched his skin with its icy rim.

Stern-faced with the cold and, at last, a sense of purpose, his loyal soldiers were now unfurling nets and arranging stones for quick reloading of their sling-shots.

Foo-sep slowly scanned across the striated rock face.

Abruptly, the birds leapt into focus, their presence taking away his breath in cold wisps. Such an enormous wingspan! And red, O so red! He hesitated at the thought of the task ahead.

His momentary indecision must have been communicated to the other, or perhaps the civilian possessed even more arcane powers than those with which he was credited; “The King desires it,” was all he said.

Foo-sep nodded and moved the eyeglass across to the other rock face where the remaining soldiers were trying in vain to keep warm, quivers ready, bowstrings taut and poised.

Now the birds were entering between the peaks.

Foo-sep waved to a signaller who blew three great blasts on his horn. The sound echoed among the peaks.

In a constant flurry, ice-coated nets looped out, a few attached to arrows, entwining many of the creatures’ wings. Some birds swooped beneath the heavy mesh then swerved, talons raking the men responsible. Others used their wings to sweep soldiers from the ledges as though dusting furniture. Stones hit a few on their bright red crests and they plummeted, stunned, to be caught by outstretched nets beneath; nets that were slowly filling up, straining at their supports.

Watching through his eyeglass, Foo-sep was amazed at the weird silence of the birds: only their frenetically beating wings generated any sound; all other noise originated from his yelling and shrieking soldiers as they flung nets and stones or were dragged from precarious positions. He scowled as a group of fools forgot to keep clear of their own nets; entangled, they were wrenched to giddy, plunging deaths.

Pacing from side to side, Foo-sep watched helplessly as his beloved toumen was decimated. And for what? A few hundred birds!

His attention was diverted to an uncannily large specimen ensnared in nets, its feathers flying as it clawed at two soldiers on a ledge while they loosed sling-stones at the creature.

Yet the missiles had no effect, and the massive curved beak snapped through the brittle mesh as though it was flimsy plains-grass.

As the bird looped, Foo-sep noticed a distinctive marking none of the others seemed to possess – a white patch on its throat.

The civilian must have observed it also, because at that instant he gripped Foo-sep’s arm, lips visibly trembling, black pebble-eyes shining. Then, in desperation, the idiot shouted an order that made no sense at all: “Let that one go!”

Numb with cold, bitterly aware of how many good men had suffered already at the talons of that gigantic bird, Foo-sep steeled himself against his better instinct and cupped gloved hands round his mouth.

“Let that one go!” he called.

And the words echoed, mocking: “Let that one go!”

[From Floreskand: Wings, pp3-5]

***

The midday sky was brimful with red tellars. The entire populace of Lornwater seemed to be out – on the street, rooftops, city walls or at windows – looking at these mystical creatures.

Even Ulran’s height was dwarfed by the bird’s wingspan. With bristling carmine red feathers, yellow irises and darting black slit-pupils, the red tellar appeared a formidable bird, predatory in mien, an aspect completed with lethal talons and huge curved beak. And yet not one living soul, Ulran included, had once reported seeing a red tellar eat. To compound the enigma surrounding them, they were rarely observed landing anywhere. And apart from the muted whisper of their wings, they created no sound at all – unlike the local avians that infested most eaves, lofts and trees in the city.

Ulran burst out onto the inn’s flat roof as a shadow darkened the area.

A solitary red tellar broke formation and dived down from the main body. Ulran instinctively glanced back at Aeleg and Ranell; but Scalrin’s sharp eyes had spotted them and he veered over to the opposite side of the roof.

A slight crack of mighty wings, then the bird was down, talons gripping the low wall by a shrine to Opasor, lesslord of birds.

Ulran motioned for the others to stay where they were.

Aeleg and Ranell stared, as if thunderstruck that a red tellar should land on their roof.

Recognition flickered in Scalrin’s eyes as Ulran knelt before the bird’s great feathered chest. Without hesitation the innman reached out, gently stroked the upper ridge of the bird’s beak and smoothed the silken soft crest.

In answer, Scalrin’s ear feathers ruffled and he settled, pulling his greater wing coverts well into his body.

The innman exhaled through his nose, then relaxed, steadying his breathing till it was shallow. Ulran closed his eyes and slowly outstretched his hand again, palm flat upon Scalrin’s breast. A rapid heartbeat pulsed under his palpating hand and transmitted sympathetic vibrations through his own frame.

Their rapport created a bridge and across this span came primitive communication, sense-impressions. Ulran gathered that something was seriously amiss in Arion.

Something terrible, something concerning Scalrin.

Ulran opened his eyes, surprised to discover moisture brimmed his lids for the first time since his wife Ellorn’s death.

Then Scalrin was gone, powerful primaries lifting him up to the vast multitude of his brethren. As far as the horizon they still flocked.

But what did it portend?

***

“Trouble in Arion?” the stranger enquired as Ulran stepped from the stairs into the passage.

Ulran did not show the surprise he felt at this disclosure.

The wiry stranger was evidently chagrined at the innman’s negative response but, poise quickly regained, explained, soft spoken, “I walk with Osasor.” An offered hand.

Ulran’s enfolded it completely: a gentle, yielding handshake. Not the usual type who would follow the white lord of fire, the innman thought.

“Cobrora Fhord,” the stranger made the introduction, dressed sombrely in a grey cloak, charcoal tunic and trousers, colourless face angular and thin. “I can enlighten you a little on the behaviour of the red tellars. And I would like to join you on your journey to Arion.”

Ranell appraised the stranger with quickened interest; Aeleg stared at Cobrora shrewdly.

Ulran, unblinking, said, “But I haven’t mentioned that I’d go – though I was considering it.”

Cobrora nervously stroked long lank black hair. Ulran noticed the glint of some kind of amulet beneath Cobrora’s grey cloak. Big brown eyes suddenly evasive, Cobrora Fhord murmured, “My – er, properties might prove useful – should you decide to go.”

In preference, Ulran always travelled alone, in this way being responsible for himself and nobody else. But, this Cobrora presented a conundrum. The roumers regularly and swiftly carried messages along their established routes complete with staging posts, unmolested by villains and Devastator hordes, but even they could not have carried news of Arion’s dire affairs in such a short time. And, as conclusive proof of this psychic’s ability, Cobrora knew of Ulran’s intentions to travel to Arion. It was just possible that the strange powers of Cobrora’s spirit-lord could be of some use on the long trek.

“All right,” said Ulran decisively. “But first we must arrange equipment.” And, looking at Cobrora’s thin city clothes, he added, “We must dress you properly for the long journey ahead. It may be summer – but the nights are harsh and the mountains will prove inhospitable.”

[From Floreskand: Wings, pp34-36]

Thus begins the quest to solve the riddle of the red tellars. Ulran discovers he must get to Arisa within seventy days and unlock the secret of the scheduled rites. He is joined in his quest by the ascetic Cobrora Fhord, who harbours a secret or two, and also the mighty warrior Courdour Alomar, who has his own reasons for going to Arisa. They learn more about each other – whether it’s the strange link Ulran has with the red tellar Scalrin, the lost love of Alomar, or the superstitious heart of Cobrora.

Plagued by assassins, forces of nature and magic, they cross the plains of Floreskand, combat Baronculer hordes, scale snow-clad Sonalume Mountains and penetrate the dark heart of Arisa. Here they uncover truth, evil and find pain and death.

Floreskand: Wings

Paperback & e-book from Amazon here

£7.50/€8.84/$12.95US

330 pages (complete with maps, indexes and a glossary)