Robin Hardy's Abbey Lands
Funny Short Bits
Table of Bits
In this scene from Book 10: Lord Efran and the Runaway Bride, Efran and Minka have been at the Abbey Fortress for about 17 months with a growing number of men who have come to serve in the Abbey Lands Army. (One of these men is their Westford Commander Wendt, who has been blinded.) The husband and wife are in the second-floor workroom with his Steward Estes and Administrator DeWitt.
At that time, Wyeth, beaming, walked in with the Commander. “Ah! Captain Efran! Lady Minka,” Wyeth said, bowing to her.
Efran narrowed his eyes at him. “A happy Polonti is a suspicious thing. What’ve you been up to, Wyeth?”
“Captain, we have found that Commander Wendt can see me as he does the Lady Minka!” Wyeth said, greatly pleased.
Estes looked up, open-mouthed, and DeWitt exclaimed, “Really? In outline? Why, do you suppose?” Efran was interested and Minka conflicted as they studied the Commander and the Fight Instructor.
Wyeth said, “Yes, Administrator, in outline, but why I do not know, only, I have seen faerie for years.”
Minka roused herself to come kiss the Commander’s cheek. “I am very glad, Commander—that opens up great new opportunities for you. Please sit and have your tea.”
Wendt opened his mouth but Wyeth said, “I am sorry, Lady Minka, but I am to take him out to the sparring fields to watch, since he can see me.”
“But he hasn’t had his morning tea,” Minka objected.
“Forgive me, Lady Minka, but we do not want to keep the men waiting,” Wyeth said.
Minka looked up at the Polonti warrior, recently decorated with the coveted Meritorious Cross, and said, “I will fight you for him.”
The men, including Wendt, looked at her in astonishment. “What?” Wyeth said, uncomprehending.
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“You heard me,” Minka said, tossing her curls, compliant without pomade. “I will fight you to keep him here for his tea.”
“Minka, I—” Wyeth, he of the gentle soul, newly married, could hardly express his consternation. Efran’s shoulders started shaking.
“You think I am unserious,” she said in her chickening clothes, “but I can take you down with a simple trick that Geneve [his wife] showed me.”
She took his large brown hand in her little ones and separated out a finger. Efran bent to the table, shoulders shaking and tears in his eyes, while Wendt watched the combatants in fascination. Despite his blind eyes, he could see both Wyeth and Minka in bright outline.
“This is very simple; I’ve seen her do it frequently,” Minka explained, attempting to bend his finger.
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“May I show you how?” Wyeth asked submissively, head bowed.
“No, I can do it,” she asserted. By this time, Efran had to sit to lean his head on his arms on the table. Estes and DeWitt watched with smiling faces.
“There. Is that not excruciating?” she said, holding up his hand with one finger crooked.
“Minka, I am married,” Wyeth said plaintively, which caused Efran to fall back over the chair, holding his head to laugh.
In this scene from Book 2: Lord Efran and the Man of Science, Minka's father, Surchatain Lightfoot, has arrived at the Abbey Fortress mentally impaired. To forestall his being deposed by an enemy, Efran, Minka and Estes give him shelter and begin issuing proclamations in his name, including a drastic reduction of taxes. Suspicious of their legitimacy, Lightfoot's scribes come to the fortress demanding an interview with him.
Doane, standing as door sentry, approached Efran briskly. “Captain, three of the Surchatain’s clerks are here. They demand to speak to him.” Estes came from the foyer as Doane was giving the message.
“Graduliere?” Efran asked, his stomach knotting.
Estes replied, “No, it’s three of his long-time clerks. They have a copy of the proclamation.” Minka came up to listen.
Efran exhaled, “They want to validate it.”
“Understandable,” Estes admitted.
“We have to let them speak to him, or it won’t be regarded as legitimate,” Efran said.
“That is correct,” said Estes.
“But not in this room. We need a setting conveying authority. Where are they?” Efran asked.
“In the foyer, Captain,” Doane replied.
Efran instructed, “Put them in the receiving room off the foyer to wait. Give them refreshments.” As Doane saluted and trotted off, Efran turned to Estes. “Have the large chair that looks like a throne placed before the crucifix in the keep. I am going to change into a dress uniform and stand beside him.”
“Captain,” sighed Estes, “once they hear him—”
“If we are exposed, then we are exposed. I intend to play it out,” Efran said.
“I am standing with you,” Minka said, adding, “I happen to be already dressed.” She smoothed Elvey’s handiwork in pride. He looked at her, and smiled.
Shortly, Lightfoot was led by the hand to sit in the great chair in the keep, with Efran standing at his right hand and Minka at his left. Efran had started to explain to him what was about to happen, then gave up the idea.
The three clerks were brought in to stand before Lightfoot, and a crowd of soldiers entered behind them to watch. Surveying the clerks, Efran recognized one of them, Wedderburn, as having presided at his aborted hanging.
After the clerks had bowed, Efran said, “As you requested, Surchatain Lightfoot has condescended to grant you an audience. State your purpose.”
Wedderburn began, “Surchatain—”
Sitting on what appeared to be a throne and seeing people advance to bow put Lightfoot in a familiar frame of mind, even without the clarity. “Who are you?” he barked.
Wedderburn was caught off-guard. “Sir, I am—”
“This is my son-in-law Efran and my daughter Minka!” Lightfoot shouted.
“Yes, Surchatain, I recognize—”
“You are a potato!” Lightfoot said.
As they gaped at him, Minka cleared her throat. “That is a family idiom for a . . . dullard,” she explained with reluctant sweetness.
“Is this your proclamation?” Wedderburn shouted, waving the document.
“Did I sign it?” Lightfoot out-shouted him.
A secondary clerk said in a conciliatory manner, “It looks like your signature, Surchatain, but—”
“Who asked you, potato head?” Lightfoot erupted, now red in the face. “How dare you question me.” This last statement, uttered in a flat tone, caused silence to fall in the hall.
Wedderburn swallowed. “Forgive us, Surchatain—”
“I will have you hanged,” Lightfoot said in that same toneless voice.
The clerks backed away, paling. Efran stepped forward to say, “Gentlemen, if you leave now, I will attempt to mollify my father-in-law over your presumption.”
They bowed low to the throne and to Efran, then jostled each other to get out.
Those remaining in the keep listened quietly to the retreating footsteps and the great doors closing. Efran gestured at Neale, who ran out. Momentarily he returned to say, “Their carriage is off the switchback and away.”
Everyone in the hall let out his breath and started laughing in relief. Efran turned to catch Minka up and kiss her. “Tell me that ‘potato’ is truly an idiom in your family.”
“It is now,” she said impishly, and his smile faded in tenderness as he held her. But she asked, “How did you know it would work out like that?”
“I didn’t,” he said helplessly. Then Efran turned to face the crucifix. “God of heaven, you are the Master of subtlety. Again You have saved us.”
“Amen!” some said heartily, and some laughed on their way out of the keep.
“The wine is terrible!” Lightfoot said, offended.
Sighing, Efran mounted the steps under the crucifix to place his hands on the arms of the chair and look his father-in-law in the face. “Surchatain, you have earned the good wine. I will have you sent a bottle.”
Regarding him, Lightfoot said thoughtfully, “I am glad I did not hang you.”
Efran looked down, his heart breaking all over again for Blake. But he murmured, “I as well.” Turning, he gestured to Shane. “Take him back to his quarters and fetch him a bottle.”
Minka came up to take her father’s hand. “Come, I will sit with you till it arrives.”
“Who are you?” he said.
“I am your daughter Minka. Efran is your son-in-law,” she said, smiling, and half the keep repeated it with her.
In this scene from Book 24, Lord Efran and the Girl Troll, Efran is trapped in a hut with a dangerous faerie, Solace, who wants to be Queen but needs the power of her signet ring, which she thinks he has (but he doesn’t). While she is torturing him to make him give it up, another faerie friend has summoned his rescuers.
A mass of roaring trolls was surging toward the old stone bridge, and the wall gates. Their stocky, subhuman bodies wore filthy rags that might once have been saddle blankets or feed bags. Their thick, wiry hair, home to many small creatures, fanned out in their excitement, and their bulbous noses twitched in detecting their prey. Their great mouths gaped even when not bellowing, and their tiny brains could nonetheless focus on a joint course which they pursued to the death.
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They poured through the playground gates to the open door of the hut. Solace paused in torturing Efran; he, sweating profusely, looked over his shoulder at the approaching mass. His horse Kraken bounded away from the door.
Like Kraken, the trolls found themselves blocked from entering it—the leaders rebounded off the invisible barrier to knock over everyone behind them until two-thirds of them lay sprawled in the dirt. However, they saw Efran, recognized him, and saw the woman behind him.
(The following actions can only be understood along with the dialogue among the trolls. This Nibor reproduced faithfully in her account. However, the Librarian’s speed translating proved unequal to the task of rendering troll grunts, whistles, and diaphragmatic utterances to be both comprehensible and faithful to the original, which was a high trollish language comparable to Shakespearean or King James English. Therefore, the following dialogue, while accurate as to the essential meaning, falls short of the true linguistic experience. Readers are thus advised to read the following aloud with troll vocalizations and farts at the appropriate places.)
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The troll leader, Number One, said, “The obstruction to the entrance of yonder habitation has been erected by the power within, which is our reward. Gaining entry is a test of our worth thereunto. Hence we must find another means of ingress.”
Troll Number Two said, “Is that not Captain Efran guarding our prize? At hand is his horse, which is a beast of wondrous strength. He, also desiring entrance, may be enticed to create an opening.”
Number Three: “Let us inquire.”
The trolls then surrounded Kraken, who reared and struck out at them. However, they bypassed him to pat the side wall of the hut. Number One enjoined him: “O noble animal, thou wishest entrance to thy master? We also have been summoned to this place. Despite the might of our arms and the strength of our numbers, we perceive that the vast amount of time it would require us to break asunder these walls, constructed by cunning Polonti criminals, is unacceptable to our purpose. However, if thou settest upon them with thy sharp hooves, that may suffice to accomplish all our ends.”
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Kraken, smarter than even high trolls, understood the suggestion. He snorted, jerking his head, and they shuffled a short distance away to watch. Despite the encumbrance of the saddle, Kraken turned his back side to the wall to kick mightily. After three shuddering blows, the layers of wattle and daub crumbled inward, creating a jagged hole. This was possible because Solace’s power, not great without the signet, was mostly consumed in blocking the door and burning Efran.
With the crashing, she and he wheeled to look at the hooves appearing through the large gap in the wall. So she left off the torture and raised a hand preparatory to blocking the new entrance. But Efran, also freed, grabbed her hands and threw her to the ground, falling on her. With one hand, he turned her head to the side, covering her whole face to prevent her invoking a blocking spell.
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Now the trolls were shoving through the hole, which was sufficient for them but not Kraken. As they came roaring upon Efran, he rolled off Solace to land against the far wall, his shirt in tatters along the burn lines. Straightening on the wall, bracing himself to fight, he paused instead.
Where he stood, he watched the trolls cluster around Solace, lifting her in their midst. And Number One cried, “Here, as promised, is our very own Queen, who shall henceforth be known as Queen Faeces of Troop Dunghill!”
“Hail!” “Hail Queen Faeces of Troop Dunghill!” “Hail to the most beauteous Queen of all troll queens of all the Earth!” they cried, rushing her out of the hut.
Held aloft in victory, she was being slowly transformed from a delicate faerie into the troll idea of a perfect beauty, with a stocky body, wiry hair, fleshy red nose, little black eyes, and especially breasts that sagged down to her lower ribs. And the trolls bounded up the road into the woods with their prize.
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This excerpt from Book 26: Lord Efran at the Faire involves an unemployed visitor to the Abbey Lands, Verlice, who is looking for work on Main Street. He pauses to watch Efran and Minka at an outdoor eatery across the street.
Without knowing what he was doing, Verlice crossed the street toward them. A cart driver shouted profanities along with the word “crosswalk” again, and Efran’s head jerked toward him.
But a woman in a strange dress chose that moment to step on the sidewalk between the two men and turn toward Efran. So Verlice was treated to a view of her back that extended from her neck to the top of her buttocks.
He was shocked. Was this the style of Abbey Lands women? Walking around with naked backs? “What are you thinking?” Verlice exploded at her. “Why in the world would you parade your whole backside like this? Can’t you leave any surprises for the bedroom?”
As there was a burst of laughter around them, she wheeled to stare at him. “Oh, and you’re so lovely,” Verlice groaned. “Did your mother never tell you about buttons?”
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The object of his scrutiny, Leila, was speechless. Because she was one of Elvey’s models, Lady Elvey herself, who had just come out of Croft’s, heard his harangue and began to stalk over to them.
Heedless, Verlice was saying, “Oh, no, no. See here, what you want to do is tease, not give away the whole show on the street.” So saying, he took hold of the back of her dress to begin rearranging its layers, folding them over the wide gaps. A number of people, men and women, stopped to watch.
Leila hissed at Efran, “Will you tell him to shut up and stop it?”
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He winced, “I can’t. I agree with him.” Minka hid her face on his neck under the lilies so that no one could see her chortling. “Shut up,” he whispered, laughing.
“No, here, look,” Verlice was telling Leila as Elvey drew up behind them. Due to the crowd gathering on the sidewalk, Firmin came out to look. Verlice went on, “Here, drape that part around your neck and your chest. Keep some of these assets behind the door lock instead of on parade.” Efran’s men behind his table were grinning broadly at the show.
Leila couldn’t see what Verlice was doing with the back part of her dress, but Elvey stood at his elbow to watch as he rearranged the layers this way and that. Then he tied the sash authoritatively. “There. Isn’t that better?” he asked Elvey with no comprehension of who she was. “Then they’re looking at the dress instead of her body parts. And unless the shop’s a meat market, they want customers to look at the clothes, right?” The crowd around them laughed, some applauding.
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The owner of that shop studied him, then said, “I am Elvey. Who are you?”
“Hello, Elvey. I am Lord Verlice of Wirrin Valley,” he said, glancing up as he made minor alterations to the back of the dress.
Firmin, trying to get his attention, called, “Lord Verlice? Are you an actor? We have openings for performers here at Firmin’s.”
Verlice opened his mouth but Elvey said, “Firmin! You have an opera star and a sommelier! Can’t you see that we need him to do something with all these clothes that no one can wear? Come with me, Lord Verlice. We need to talk about a position for you.”
​
She took his arm firmly to lead him back to her sprawling complex. Firmin went back into his restaurant; Leila tried to see what the back of her dress looked like; Wystan came out to help Delano finish unloading the wagon, and Minka nestled happily on Efran with her lilies.
By the time Verlice came out of Elvey’s a few hours later, Efran’s party had left. As Elvey’s new stylist, Verlice wore a sleek blue-gray suit with feathered hat and dashing cape. And he walked around Main so that everyone could see him in it, especially Justinian.
In this excerpt from Book 33, Lord Efran in Two Parts: A Tale and a Promise, Efran and 20 of his men have possibly been exposed to dangerous parasites. So the skilled butler Hartshough has brought antidotes to the Fortress for them:​
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Hartshough appeared at the door of the dining hall with a large basket on his arm. “Yes, Lady Minka. Lord Efran, I have medicines to counteract any possible parasitic infection, so those of your men who were injured this afternoon need to come receive a bottle.”
So saying, he placed a four-ounce stoppered bottle before Efran. Hartshough added, “This is not an application for the skin, but to be taken by mouth.”
Picking it up with immediate suspicion, Efran took out the cork stopper to sniff the milky white substance that filled half of it. “What’s in it?” he asked, grimacing slightly.
“I do not know, Lord Efran; the treatment was prepared by my clan the Guppenbergers, who are experienced with such matters,” Hartshough said.
The men gathered around him to take the small bottles. But they all waited for the Captain to drink his first. He looked increasingly dubious, tilting the bottle to watch the viscous liquid slowly progress to the opening. Abruptly, he put it down to demand, “Where is Mattias? I haven’t seen him since we dropped him off at Featheringham. Hasn’t he come to the Lands yet?”
This was the wounded Hollowan boy who didn’t want the undertaker to bury him. Efran had left him at Featheringham to recuperate about seven weeks ago. There was laughter at the obvious dodge, and Captain Rigdon said, “He’s still at Featheringham, Captain, because Commander Barr made him Chief Utility Officer. His donkey Qui is wearing a yeoman’s badge.”
“Oh.” Efran regarded the bottle in resignation as his men looked on, grinning. Everyone knew how particular the Captain was about what he put in his mouth. Taking a breath, he upended the bottle to chug it, which was the fastest way to get down something nasty.
Except, it wouldn’t chug. It was too thick. Indifferent to Efran’s impatience, it made its way leisurely down to the mouth of the bottle to pause maddeningly at the very precipice over the waiting throat. Then it dropped in a unified glob right at the epiglottis, where it then had to decide which part of the blob would lead the way down the esophagus.
Efran sat up, gagging, then made several concerted efforts to swallow, the last of which was more or less successful. He coughed to clear his throat, then looked with watering eyes at Minka, who was watching guardedly.
“Very good, Hartshough,” he gasped. “There’s, ah, beeswax, obviously, with a touch of honey, and, ah—”
Since he was stuck there, the men began eyeing their own bottles. But Youshock, across from Minka, uncorked his bottle and shook it upside down vigorously until it evacuated the blob, which landed with a splat on the flatbread on his plate. Then he took up his knife to spread the medicine evenly over the flatbread and eat it contemplatively.
The men scattered to their places to do likewise. Efran nodded at Youshock, who raised his flatbread as a toast and said, “Thank you for the warning, Cap’n.”
“You’re welcome,” Efran grunted, tossing the empty bottle in Hartshough’s basket.
In this bit from Book 7 Lord Efran and Master Crowe, a Committee of Concerned Citizens of the Abbey Lands has come to the fortress with complaints. Captain Efran, his Steward Estes, and Administrator DeWitt meet with them. After the first few items on their list prove baseless, there is a momentary silence.
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Then Lady Neanne spoke. “I was assaulted by a Polonti in this very fortress but a month ago.”
Efran leaned forward. “That is outrageous, madam. Can you identify him?”
“If I saw him again, certainly,” she said, lifting her face courageously, as she had done right before he kissed her.
“Then let us ascertain the assault,” Efran said, while Estes and DeWitt watched in alarm. “Did he approach you at a run or a walk?”
She looked off, thinking. “At a walk. He walked toward me in a very threatening manner.”
“What did he say?” Efran asked.
“Nothing,” she said.
“Did he slide his arms slowly around your waist?” Efran asked.
Still looking off, she nodded.
“Did he bend his face to yours?” Efran asked. Estes covered his face with a hand, knowing the identity of the perpetrator.
“Yes,” she said.
“Did he caress your lips with his?” Efran asked in a near whisper. The other committee members stared at him. DeWitt put his head in both hands, also knowing.
“Yes,” she said, also in a whisper, eyes on the corner of the ceiling.
“For a long time?” Efran asked.
She raised a shoulder. “Maybe a minute.”
“Did you open your mouth?” Efran suggested. The woman didn’t answer, looking conflicted. “Did you put your arms around his neck?” Efran pressed.
“I don’t remember,” she gasped. The citizens were concerned that this interview was turning into an assault itself, but they didn’t interrupt, waiting to hear more.
“How long did it last?” Efran asked gently.
“A while,” she breathed.
“Did you enjoy it?” he murmured, smiling.
“No, of course not,” she said, breathing heavily.
“It certainly seemed to me that you did,” he said. “And I was pleasantly surprised at how well you kissed,” Efran continued, leaning back.
The committee members stared at him; Neanne finally looked hard at him, then giggled.
Efran got up for a cup and a bottle of Goadby’s. This he poured to place both cup and bottle in front of her. “We can reenact it, if you’re unsure of the details.”
She sat back laughing, a hand at her chest, and drank the ale while Efran drank his, laughing with her. DeWitt shook his head. Estes looked resigned.
The committee members rose silently from the table and began filing out. Efran stood by the door to catch Neanne by the hand as she was leaving. “Come complain to me any time,” he said, leaning down. And she reached up to kiss him quickly.
After the Committee of Concerned Citizens of the Abbey Lands had departed the foyer, Efran said, “That was fun.” DeWitt tore the meeting notes in half, and Efran objected, “Those are official documents.”
“Efran,” Estes began, then couldn’t find the words to express all of his mixed feelings.
They exited the small dining room into the foyer. “Moekolohe,” Efran told DeWitt. “That’s the word for Southerners’ sexual attraction to Polonti whom they otherwise treat like dirt. Minka taught me how to turn it inside out,” he said contemplatively.
“Did you really kiss the woman like that in the foyer?” DeWitt demanded.
“In front of a foyer full of people, after she walked in and objected to my kissing my wife,” Efran said. “I’m pleased that Lady Neanne got into the spirit of it today.”
In Book 9 Lord Efran and the Provision for a Wronged Husband, the Fortress faeries Sir Ditson and Sir Nutbin have volunteered to help Justinian with a dangerous job involving a wizard, DeVenter. (Ditson is a little man and Nutbin is a large squirrel—see their pics below.) They and Justinian have set out in a carriage from the Fortress to their assignment in Eurus:
Once on the road, Justinian removed his hat and leaned back on the cushioned carriage seat. “Well, gentlemen, you may want to rest on the way. We’ll arrive at Marguerite’s late in the afternoon, and entrust her with arranging an interview with our target DeVenter hopefully for tomorrow. Then we’ll play it from there.” With that, he closed his eyes and began melodiously snoring.
Ditson and Nutbin regarded their companion, and Ditson said, “Interesting how motion knocks them right out, isn’t it, Nutbin?”
“You have stated the case exactly, dear Ditson,” replied Nutbin. “Though I believe his exertions in the night deprived him of approximately three and a quarter hours of sleep.”
“I must concur with your calculations, dear Nutbin,” said Ditson. “The young woman was similarly affected, in that she was unable to regain consciousness for our departure this morning.” According to protocol for top hats in closed carriages, he sat with his purple hat on his knee, frequently smoothing his copper-colored hair. Aside from the color—Justinian’s being dark brown—Ditson’s hair looked very much like his, both in the cut and the curl.
“Your observation entirely coincides with mine, Ditson,” said Nutbin. “Since our travel host requires to address his deficit of rest on the way up, shall we use our time to scout out our destination?” He removed his monocle to clean it with a wee hankie from the pocket of his vest.
“The plan you propose is an admirable one, Nutbin,” said Ditson. “But are you speaking of the Lady Marguerite’s Featherstone or the Lord DeVenter’s Cotterill?”
“Featherstone has already been reviewed by Faerie Flight Guide with a four-star rating, dear Ditson,” said Nutbin. “It’s Cotterill that requires our immediate attention, I would say.” He critically screwed the monocle back onto his furry face.
“Worthy Nutbin, your research is a credit to our profession!” exclaimed Ditson, almost losing hold of his hat in his excitement.
“No, no, Ditson; you would have noted the rating in the Guide had not Batfin accidentally used it to set the troll’s hair on fire. However, I am intrigued by the Meritorious Cross which this Wyeth has obtained,” Nutbin admitted.
“I also would like to study this man’s style, Nutbin. Do you suppose it was the clapping of hands that clenched it for him?” Ditson asked. Over his hat, he reproduced Wyeth’s powerful gesture.
“That’s hard to say, Ditson, though it was unquestionably admirable,” Nutbin said thoughtfully.
“Then we should defer this conversation until we can obtain an opinion from others at the club, don’t you think, Nutbin?” Ditson asked.
“I agree wholeheartedly, Ditson. Shall we be on our way, then?” Nutbin inquired.
“Indubitably. After you, my good Nutbin.” Ditson placed his hat on his head and extended his hand.
“You are too kind, Ditson,” Nutbin said. And they vanished out of the carriage window.
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While readers may choose the best pic of Justinian on Pick Your Favorites,
Ditson and Nutbin are shown here, cropped from the illustration for Book 21 Lord Efran in the Hall of Memories, "More Sheep Brains":
In Book 23 Lord Efran on the Game Board, Justinian breaks out in song:
​"Just one more kiss before we part
To soothe a loving, aching heart
For all the world is still asleep
As you and I our secret keep
Just one more smile ere I arise
Just one more look into your eyes
For that to me were paradise
Just—One—More—Kiss!"​
These lyrics are from an actual hit vaudeville song written by Archie Bell in 1923, and if I could sing at all, I swear I'd record it and upload it here. Are there any singers out there?
Also in Book 23 Lord Efran on the Game Board, Efran and Minka have come from the library to sit on the bench under the walnut tree. He has a book to study while Minka brought out a book to read to the children titled Verses to Make One Smile. Minka begins reading:
​“‘When upon the boat I rest
Doughnut crumbs across my breast,
Could there be a more divine
Way in which to pass the time
Than squishing little balls?
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“‘Worms may slither off the hooks,
Minnows give you dirty looks,
But doughnuts deeply fatted fried
Will make those fishes satisfied
With every little bite.
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“‘So chuck that pail of stinky bait,
Throw out them lures all reprobate;
Invest instead for peace of mind
And guarantied results each time
In doughnuts firmly packed.’”
The children studied her, and even Efran raised his eyes from his book to dubiously evaluate this poem.
“Wait, now,” Toby said as though quelling a riot. “Doughnuts. Is that the sugar bread that’s fried? Crispels?”
“Yes, it sounds like it,” Minka said.
Toby continued, “And the poet is saying that little balls of crispels make good fish bait?”
Minka looked down at the poem again. “Yes, that is what he maintains.”
“We should try that,” Noah said. “Except, we’d need a lot of crispels, or doughnuts.”
“A lot. Buckets,” Calix agreed. “Buckets and buckets.”
Elwell said, “Efran, could we take buckets of crispels to Cavern Lake to see if we can catch perch with them?”
“Oh, yes, let’s!” Hassie cried.
“That sounds like wonderful fishing,” Jera admitted.
“Let me . . . think on that,” Efran said warily, returning to his book.
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[The poem is from Sammy: On Vacation.]
All right, here's what happened: the model I preferred to use for Efran in the illustrations suddenly started wearing this black-and-white floral shirt that Efran himself would never put on. Since I had no way of getting around the stupid shirt, I decided to make Efran wear it. So I added the following scene to Book 29 Lord Efran and the Reciprocal Gift:
As Efran and Minka entered the foyer, a woman’s voice said, “There he is! Lord Efran!”
He stopped abruptly, Minka at his side. But Soames veered away to continue to the door.
Frozen, Efran watched Lady Neanne bustle up to him with a young woman by her side. Efran had kissed Neanne jokingly, and did not wish to do it again to her or anyone else other than Minka. But Neanne was gushing, “Lord Efran, this is my niece Gwynne, who wants to start her own clothing design shop here, and she’s made this beautiful shirt for you which she hopes you’ll enjoy.”
Neanne then shook out a man’s short-sleeve shirt in a black and white floral design. While Efran stared blankly at Neanne, the plump young woman beside her gazed at him with stars in her eyes.
Reaching over to begin unbuttoning the stained, frayed shirt he was wearing, Minka said, “Oh, that looks wonderful! Look at the detailing, Efran! And such a fresh, original pattern! He’ll wear it gratefully, Gwynne!”
While the women watched, pleased (and the rest of the foyer watched, amused) Minka stripped off his old shirt to drop it to the floor and dress him in the new one. (Fortunately, he was wearing an undershirt.) He half turned his blank face to Minka while Neanne began fussily buttoning the shirt with many pats and adjustments.
Minka exclaimed, “Look how well it fits!”
“She just had to guess his measurements, but she has a good eye for it,” Neanne said in satisfaction.
“Isn’t that lovely? Thank you, Gwynne. We have to get down to Ryal’s now,” Minka said, pulling him along as she fluttered her fingers at them. Neanne blew a kiss and Gwynne clasped her hands. The courtyard gate guards saluted him with frozen faces as he and Minka began down the old switchback.
And here is our smirking model, having gotten his way in his attire for this illustration. Photograph by Leonardo Hidalgo.
This next bit is from Book 33 Lord Efran in Two Parts: A Tale and A Promise:
At that time, with dinner in the fortress concluded, Efran stood in the corridor at his closed door and said, “Minka. Unlock the door.”
“No,” she said from within the room.
He said, “You always want me to explain things to the children. They didn’t believe I could toss you up in the air.”
“You embarrassed me in front of the whole dining hall,” she said.
“You were laughing,” he observed.
“That was before I saw everyone watching,” she said.
“They were laughing,” he said.
“That’s why I was embarrassed,” she said.
Lowering his face, he said, “All right. I apologize. It was insensitive of me to toss you up in the air even though the children enjoyed it and you didn’t expose anything coming down.”
“Are you sure?” she gasped.
“Yes,” he said, when he simply didn’t know.
When she said nothing more, he looked off, then asked, “Well, will you get me a change of clothes so I can wash under the waterfall in the third-floor room?”
Although she said nothing, he detected sounds of movement in the room, so he waited. A few minutes later, she opened the door to extend his clothes to him. Taking them, he saw that she was also holding the luxurious robe that she had found in the wardrobe up there.
Careful to not smile, he asked, “Do you want to come?”
She exited the room into the corridor, holding up the key to the third-floor room. Now he was smiling as he draped an arm over her shoulder to walk her up the stairs.
This bit is from Book 34 Lord Efran's Thousand Royals:
At this time, Marguerite was leading Minka quietly to the back patio, where two little girls were drawing pictures on the patio stones. They were wearing play clothes, with their hair clean and dressed. The dark-haired girl, Pember, was around six, slighter older than her playmate, Aune, who had light blonde hair.
They used compressed sticks of colored chalk to make their art—there were wobbly faces with big toothy smiles and no noses, flowers on crooked stalks, and birds with great wings. Minka watched, grinning, until Pember looked up with serious eyes to ask, “Do you want to draw?”
“Yes,” Minka said, sitting with them. She told Aune, “I love your flowers. They look happy.”
“They don’t hurt anymore,” Aune said. Glancing up at Auntie, who had slipped into a patio chair, Minka leaned over for a stick of red chalk. Hartshough came up with Efran behind them, who looked on without speaking. Pember glanced at him in disapproval. “There’s not room for you.”
“Can I just watch?” he asked, sitting beside Marguerite.
She gave silent, grudging approval, but warned, “Keep your big feet away.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, drawing his feet back under the chair. Pember complacently returned to her crested bird, while Aune added smiling faces to her flowers. Hartshough placed three bright-pink bracers on the table, at which Efran glanced up in silent appreciation.
The girls worked on their art silently, then Aune stopped to watch Minka. “What are you drawing?” she asked.
“Efran’s feet,” Minka said aloofly. He looked at her over his glass, and Pember stopped what she was doing to watch the drawing in progress. Minka went on, “He has such cute toes. They look like little men, soldiers, all lined up, following the Captain. That’s the big toe, you see.”
Pember abandoned her art to lean over the work in creation. “They need eyes,” she observed.
“You’re right,” Minka said, sitting back on her heels. Scanning the chalk box, she selected the black stick to dot two little eyes on each toe.
“They’re skinny men,” Aune observed.
“Because Efran has beautiful toes. They’re not all gnarly,” Minka said.
The little girls swung to look at Efran’s booted feet, and his eyes widened in alarm. Pember said, “Show us your toes.
Efran winced. “Oh, no, no. They smell—very bad.”
Hartshough materialized over his shoulder with a large pan of water. “Perhaps this will help, Lord Efran—rose water with just a touch of salts, for comfort.” With that, he placed the pan in front of Efran’s chair legs.
Aghast at this betrayal, Efran gazed at him. But the little girls waited steadfastly while Minka eyed Efran sidewise, so he stripped off his boots and socks, then rolled up his pants legs to place his large feet in the pan. Immediately he leaned back, sighing, “Oh, that’s nice.”
“It will take only a few minutes to be effective,” Hartshough said, placing a towel beside the pan. Efran had his head back and eyes closed.
Meanwhile, Minka continued her portrait. Pember squinted at it, asking, “What are the black circles on their heads?”
“Flat caps. You’ll see all the men wearing them,” Minka said.
“What’s the red?” Aune asked.
“Their uniforms. Efran’s got his sword on, here,” Minka said, pointing out a short black stroke.
Turning back to him, Pember ordered, “That’s enough time. Show us your toes.”
Reluctantly, he sat up, grunting, “They don’t look anything like that.”
But the girls maintained silence while he extracted his feet to place them on the towel Hartshough had provided. The little girls leaned over to study them. Minka asserted, “He can make them march.”
“March!” Pember ordered. So Efran wiggled his toes. “The one on the end is too slow,” Pember observed, then began wiggling it herself at a faster pace.
Efran drew in a sudden breath, and all three girls eyed him. “What’s wrong?” Pember demanded.
“Nothing,” he said, stone-faced.
But Aune, with an impish look, reached over to his other little toe to exercise it. Efran emitted a high whine through his nose. Aune cried, “He’s ticklish!”
Whereupon the girls fell on his feet to work them vigorously while he grimaced, holding his breath. They laughed over his unsuccessful contortions to remove his feet from their hands while the pan sloshed a little water from being inadvertently kicked.
“All right! All right! I give!” he said, reaching forward to lift each girl on an arm, leaning back with them. They snuggled into him to let the laughs run down. Then they contently lay there, patting his shirt or toying with its buttons.
This next bit is from Book 35 Lord Efran's Guaranty:
​
​Koschat is a long-time soldier, a Polonti. He has been given time off from his duties to help the native Polonti in the Abbey Lands set up their shop to sell their handmade wares. He was wearing native clothing when Windry, the most expensive dress designer in the Lands, invaded the shop. She and Wissowa are ex-girlfriends of Efran’s. Kraken is Efran’s horse.
Windry was shouting and slapping at a native Polonti—Koschat—as he dragged her down the sidewalk toward Ryal’s notary shop. Casual spectators to this drama, attempting to put a context to it, generally decided that this was part of a native mating ritual in which the Polonti dragged his woman of choice to the notary for a marriage license. This, in turn, made a fabulous precursor to the insanity which unfolded in the coming weeks.
Koschat hauled Windry up the steps into the shop. The front door slammed open with a violent tinkling, which startled not only Giardi at the front counter but Soames, Ryal, Efran and Wissowa in the back room. Kraken made a concerted effort to get in the back door, but he was just too broad.
All those who couldn’t see Windry still heard her ranting at the filthy Polonti who escorted her forcefully to the door of the back room. Koschat said, “Lord Ryal, this woman created a disturbance in the Polonti shop by demanding goods at a discount and refusing to leave.”
While he was explaining this, she was vigorously denying it and scanning the room. Kraken’s efforts to enter made so little impression on her that she didn’t stop ranting until she saw who was at the table. “Oh, Wissowa! That dress of mine is a good choice with your complexion. Now, where’s the hat—? Efran! Get out of that chair! You’re squishing the hat!”
As he began to rise, Wissowa said, “Sit, Efran; I’ll put the hat here.” And she draped it over the back of her chair.
Looking from her to him, Windry asked, “What are you all doing here?”
With a heavy-lidded glance, Wissowa purred, “It’s a private matter.”
Unheeding, Windry sat in the fourth chair at the table. “It will have to wait a moment. Ryal, I want charges brought against this Polonti for manhandling me.”
Ryal had opened his mouth when Wissowa laughed, “Who do you think you are, to break into a private conference with your own little demands? You may wait in the outer room until we’re finished.”
Windry returned her a pitying look. “You may think you’re entitled, being one of the few who can afford all my creations, but I’m about to produce something that will strain even what Efran gave you for his son.”
Efran leaned back in utter exasperation so that Kraken was able to reach inside far enough to snuffle his hair. With that lightning strike, Wissowa gaped at Windry. Of all the ripostes surging through her brain, the reply that forced itself out was the one born of curiosity: “What is that?”
Lowering her chin, Windry said confidentially, almost seductively, “‘Native Beaded Designs by Windry.’” They both glanced at Efran, who went pale. In the ensuing silence, Wissowa’s breathing deepened. “Do you have sketches?”
“Not yet, but the designs are bursting out of my head. I have to get right home to start sketching,” Windry said meaningly.
“May I offer input?” Wissowa asked as an acolyte.
“Why not,” Windry murmured with arched brow. In the next instant they were both rushing out of the room, Wissowa barely pausing to snatch up her hat.
While the abandoned men sat silently in the back room, and Koschat stood at the door with his hands hanging, another customer entered for Giardi to wait on.
In Book 21 Lord Efran in the Hall of Memories, Captain Efran has instructed Sirs Ditson and Nutbin to retrieve Auntie Marguerite, Hartshough and Justinian from her mansion Featherstone in Eurus and bring them to the Abbey Lands. However, no one in the Lands knew that Featherstone had been overrun by trolls. When Ditson and Nutbin arrived, this is what they found:
But there were three great bonfires scattered around the grounds, and as the trolls were negligent regarding fire safety, a few slender fingers were already creeping through the grass toward the house. The fifty-odd trolls were also in varying stages of inebriation, having carried out a great quantity of alcohol from the basement to add a sparkling finish to their repast.
Nutbin murmured, “Oh, dear. What do you think?"
Ditson deliberated. “That we may entice them to fight to the death at the pond here. And what troll doesn’t love a fight as much as a Polonti?”
They winked at each other, and Nutbin’s tail bristled in anticipation. “What say we use an Enhanced Impostorization, facilitated by recent events?—such as Lord Efran’s call to fight on the barricade.”
Ditson gasped, “Oh, what a marvelous plan, worthy Nutbin! You do the visuals; I will supply the voice.” And they turned together toward the pond.
Suddenly Efran appeared in the middle of the pond, standing on a row of tree trunks extending up from the water. He called joyfully, “Fight me! You want to end this now? Come fight me up here!”
The trolls spun as one to the larger-than-life Polonti grinning atop his precarious stand. “Fight me! ... Come fight me up here!” he repeated.
The trolls began roaring at him, throwing bottles, firebrands, and half-eaten shanks to splash ineffectively in the water while he grinned maliciously at them. Then he added, “Finish it, trolls! [which word was shouted in a slightly different voice] Throw me down, and we will open the gates to you! Are you troll men or water boys [likewise]?” (Ditson and Nutbin assumed, correctly, that the questionable comment about opening the gates would fly right over the trolls’ thick skulls.)
The leader of the trolls was running around in a frenzied rage, spitting and tearing at his hair. Then he ordered the rest of them, “Down! Down! Down in water for bridge! Link up for bridge!” And he began to throw his hapless underlings into the pond one after another, making each man hold on to the shoulders of the man in front of him. That way he began constructing a troll bridge from the edge of the pond to the trunks on which the infuriating Polonti stood grinning. He was all wet, too.
In the basement, the three prisoners had finally cleared away enough debris so that they could access the metal stairway leading to the storm door. Justinian ascended the stairs first to throw his shoulder against the outward-opening doors—
Which almost rebounded him back down the stairs. “It’s barred on the outside,” he exhaled, rubbing his shoulder. Below him, Marguerite leaned faintly on the hand rail, and even Hartshough hung his head.
But flickering firelight showed in between the doors. Justinian, brows creased, pressed his ear against the crack. “There’s a great hubbub going on out there. If you didn’t think me insane, I’d say that Efran was challenging them to fight.” The other two peered up at him in the faint red light.
Outside, Nutbin and Ditson began stealthily flying across the back grounds while watching the trolls collect in and around the pond. The leader had succeeded in forcing about twenty men into a bridge of shoulders across the pond to the defiant Polonti grinning on the tree stumps. And now the leader was endeavoring to walk over these shoulders to fight as the Polonti demanded.
Ditson paused to shove the illusion back another three feet from the troll bridge, lest the leader reach it too soon. The trolls continued to roar at the maddening Polonti, who periodically wished they’d come fight him. Then Ditson and Nutbin landed at the storm doors on the south side of the house, adjacent to the pond.
Ditson flipped up the bar securing the doors so that he and Nutbin could open them. They looked down on three weary faces blinking up at them. “Quickly, friends,” Ditson urged, whisking them out by faerie levitation. Then he closed the storm doors again.
Nutbin cloaked them all. “To the stables, dear friends, while our hosts are distracted.” The troll leader was floundering at the end of his bridge, but the Impostorization was also fading, as its creators were exerting a great deal of energy elsewhere. So the faeries had to let their people run on their own footpower.
Justinian half-carried Marguerite while Hartshough ran ahead to the stables. Ditson threw out another refreshing burst toward the illusion, but as he was preoccupied at the moment, he accidentally supplied the, er, wrong audio. Instead of Efran calling the trolls to fight, they heard taunts from a favorite faerie play. From his posts in the pond, Efran recited:
“‘For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps,
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall, for that vast of night that they may work,
All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch’d
As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made ’em.’”
And he laughed.
The trolls stood still to listen—except their leader, who was floundering on the next-to-last man’s shoulders. As they finally apprehended that they were being threatened, they began roaring even louder.
Meanwhile, Hartshough was hitching the two remaining horses to Marguerite’s carriage as fast as he could. After Justinian had sat her gently on the padded seat, he darted around to help with the hitching. All this time, Nutbin kept them thoroughly cloaked. When the carriage was ready, Ditson threw one last audio out to the illusion, again from the faerie play.
While the trolls looked on, blinking, the smiling Polonti said,
“‘Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.’”
The trolls watched in dazed bewilderment as the Polonti went silent and slowly faded. And then they understood that they had been bedazzled, bewitched and—worst of all—beguiled as fools.
​
​
(I bet you recognize the "favorite faerie play" or at least the author. If you want to double check, that info is at the end of the story.)
In Book 20 Lord Efran and De’Ath, Sir Ditson and Sir Nutbin are called to the second-floor workroom of the fortress to help the Fortress leadership Efran, DeWitt and Estes in interrogating a prisoner. The faeries propose to do this by impersonating the prisoner’s cohorts, which plan is successfully carried out.
​
Before they could disappear, DeWitt said, “If you don’t mind, I’m deeply interested in learning the difference between an Impostorization and an Impersonation.”
Sir Ditson spread himself in tutorial mode. “Oh, well, Administrator, it is quite elementary. An Impostorization involves replicating a human who is dead and an Impersonation replicates several people who are dead or alive but missing.”
Nutbin’s tail suddenly stood erect and he said, “My dear friend Ditson! We mustn’t confuse our human friends. An Impostorization involves replicating the dead or missing, whereas—”
Ditson burst out, “Oh my goodness, dear Nutbin, your nuts have gone to your head! Surely the Impostorization cannot extend over both living and dead, regardless—”
“But my dear misguided friend Ditson!” cried Nutbin. “Surely you remember that both were once under the umbrella category of Impressions, Imitations and Parodies before the Lower Slaughter Conclave of twelve twenty-two—”
Lurching up so that Minka was fairly pitched from his lap, Efran cried, “Thank you both! You’re dismissed!”
The faeries vanished, but it took a few moments longer for the echoes of their ongoing argument to die away.
You could call it Chataine’s Guardian 2.0​