Composed by Kaiter Enless.
The Ironworks (Sibranth I). Composed by Kaiter Enless.
Old Man Centipede was a quiet sort, given to reverie within the multi-chambered dampness of The Hollow Mount, a path up from which afforded him clear observation of the hatchlings, hunting spiders in The Wasteland beyond the great burrow of the old log which had served as his home for six years. He’d heard rumblings of late that the Formican Horde had conquered all the eastern lands of the Outer Wild and now sought dominion over the Inner Reach. He was concerned, but confident the horde would never make ingress to the mount when so many proud centipedes yet lingered.
One day, as he strode atop the rotting log, as was his custom, Old Man Centipede chanced across a centipede of but a single season, known as Spider-Carver, picking feverishly at his mandibles with his forelegs, as if to pry them from his face.
“What are you doing?”
“Blasted forcipules! Mirages! Fakes! I know it. I know it! We did not have them… in the sea… in the long before when electric-eyed and many-gilled, we sucked the bloodied muck of the great, wet dark…”
The Old Man was sure the youth had gone quite mad and attempted to dissuade him from the venture. Yet, time and time again, Old Man Centipede was rebuffed. He might as well, he decided, teach the art of burrowing to a moth, or spider-hunting to a fly, and so left the youngling to its freakish exercise and headed off to tell his kin what he had witnessed.
The next day, as he made his languid rounds upon the top of The Hollow Mount, he noticed Spider-Carver once more, surrounded by a gaggle of young centipedes and the Old Matriarch. Much to Old Man Centipede’s horror, Spider-Carver had hewn his forcipules clear of his face, leaving only coagulated stumps, which he had painfully stuffed with two short, pronged twigs. He scuttled to and fro, wriggling his prosthetic claws as if in a trance.
“To be one with the essential form – the ur-ancestor – one must return to the sea!”
“What madness is this?”
“He does not believe he is a centipede,” replied the matriarch, “But that we have erred in our development, have forgotten from whence we’ve come, and, succumbed to an unnatural turning.”
“One’s mandibles are a sorry price to pay for the comfort of such a delusion.”
“There was nothing any of us could have done, for he had removed them before we arrived. I will ensure that he is seen to. Besides, he seems happy.”
“I can think of several things more important than the heady delirium of transient happiness.”
As the time-worn duo conversed, a throng of chilopods steadily built up around the mad arthropod, who seemed to simultaneously fascinate and repel them.
In the days that followed the incident, Spider-Carver’s crowd grew considerably in size and, by the end of the week had even attracted the attention of some symphylans, who gazed on from their chthonic burrows, perplexed, by the twig-faced and twirling creature. During this time, Old Man Centipede sensed ants in the close distance, betrayed by their pheromones, just beyond the Inner Reach. In time he knew they would come for the nest and so swiftly returned to his fellows to spread the news. When he arrived at the burrow he was horrified to see that the centipedes had all removed their mandibles and replaced them with sticks. Some had died in the process and lay, coiled about themselves upon the sodden floor. Insides slick-spilling from rent faces. Spider-Carver presided over the gathering, giving a strange speech about the sea, and moving side to side, across the mulchy walls.
When Old Man Centipede protested and sought to warn them, the matriarch intervened. She too had removed her jaws.
“You must not get so heated, old one.”
“But they have ruined themselves, just as you have, and at the moment in which the ants advance upon us!”
“Your concern is a relic.”
At that moment a large red ant entered the cool dwelling, bearing in its mouth, a twig.
“See there! The formicans have arrived! We must prepare!”
“No,” replied the ant, “I am no formican, but sea-like as thee.”
“This is not so. I am no sea-thing. I am a centipede.”
“Who are you to say, old one?”
The matriarch waved her feelers and turned her aged eyes to the ant, dimly observing the tiny branch in its maw.
“He is no ant, old one. He is like us.”
“He is a spy and you are insane. We must not let him escape to tell the hive the lay of the log.”
With that, Old Man Centipede made for the ant and would have easily overtaken it, were it not for the intervention of the matriarch, who stabbed her twigs into his side.
“The centipedes attack us!” She screamed, “Help!”
Swiftly Carver’s acolytes came, jawless and wrathful, and crashed upon the great old chilopod until his chitin cracked and his legs were torn and his feelers rent.
As Old Man Centipede lay at his last, the ant dropped its twig and sped off into the darkness to rouse the hive.
Regular readers of the site will be aware that circulars have been few and far between of late. That is not because I’ve discontinued the series, but simply because I’ve been focused on various other projects (namely music composition and writing). With that said—Merry Christmas! to all our readers and supporters.
— K. E., Logos Editor.
From Dan Klefstad Elevens (2001) – an new excerpt from his forthcoming novel, Fiona’s Guardians.
From yours truly, chapters 1 through 15 of The Dauntless Rook (a novella), the remasters of the tracks Suzerainty (a march) and Blood For Butterflies (a organ-driven leitmotif), as well as a new arrangement of the track Legerdemain (a waltz) and a short essay on the etymology of culture.
Additionally, for those interested in downloading site-published tracks, the Logos patreon-exclusive music archive is now live (and will be updated daily).
LITERATURE (verse and prose)
From New Pop Lit, the Tale of the Christmas Bear.
From The American Literary Blog, a republication of a Christmas poem, written by the Virginian, W. G. McCabe during the Civil War.
From the always colorful Examining The Odd, a vibrant, eye-catching illustration.
From PMu at the Daily Doodle, a charming Christmas tree sketch.
And a statue of the Roman Sun-God Mithras (whose birthday is Dec. 25th).
For your listening pleasure, a wonderful performance of Rossini’s The Thieving Magpie Overture by Jonathan Scott on the great Willis Organ of Hereford Cathedral. If the title doesn’t sound familiar to you, give it a listen and you might be surprised that you’ve heard (a part of) it somewhere before.
HISTORY & CULTURE
One of the most enduring icons of yuletide in America (and various other places around the world) is Santa Claus. When one thinks of Jolly Ole St. Nick one is likely to conjure an image very similar to that created by the American artist Thomas Nast in 1881, an illustration which Smithsonian Magazine describes as “the face that launched a thousand Christmas letters.”
New tracks (in wav file format) added to our patreon music archive include:
- Blood For Butterflies – remastered arr. (2019)
- Legerdemain – chamber arr. (2019)
- The Lord Paramount’s Court – organ leitmotif (2019)
- Suzerainty – Avarr’s Theme – remastered arr. (2019)
- Legerdemain – piano arr. (2019)
- The Dauntless Rook – waltz (2019)
- Blood For Butterflies – original arr. (2019)
- Theatrum Mundi – organ leitmotif (2019)
- Who Would Live In A Windmill? – waltz (2019)
- Prince Of Plots – organ arr. (2019)
- Damnation ad bestias – organ toccata (2019)
- Feathers Clipped, Shadows Long – orchestral leitmotif (2019)
- Partridge Manor – waltz (2019)
- Scharlachroter Übertreter – electronic dance music (2019)
- Prince Of Plots – multi-instrumental arr. (2019)
- The Man With The Chrysanthemum Jacket – synthwave (2017)
- Todeskopftanz – industrial (2017)
- The Crow Of Coribahn – waltz for piano (2012)
Note: Other previously published tracks will be continuously added to the archive on a daily basis. New compositions will now be uploaded to the music archive prior to publication on Logos. A ebook pdf archive is also being developed.
Continued from §.14
Luned gasped as she spied Oeric Adair through the keyhole of her flat. The comitem walked patiently, yet eagerly, behind the corpulent, key-jangling landlord, Hoston Sprill. Both men advanced slowly, but steadily, down the corridor; scant minutes from the door.
“Damn that conniving wind-tossed scoundrel. This is all his fault.” She muttered, backing past the divan and the sofa, swiftly towards the tiny apartment’s only window. When she turned full round, she nearly screamed.
Casually lounging upon the sill was Drake Dren, shorn of his recently riven coat, smiling like a jackal.
“How goes it?”
“How many times must I tell ya not to do that, damn thee. Where in blazes have ya been?”
Luned straightened as the sound of Hoston’s fist resounded upon the door of the cramped and peeling flat. Then a pause and a voice following.
“Ms. Luned? Mr. Dren? Anyone home? Its Hoston. Hello? I’ve a gentleman whose most desirous to meet ye.”
“What say you? Shall we stay and chat with Hoston and his friend?”
“Of course not – its Adair. Thou hath said-”
“Of that later. Come.”
Without hesitation, Drake took the woman’s left arm and guided her through the open window to a ladder he’d laid against the side of the tenement to reach the sill. Where he acquired the ladder, Luned had no idea. The man threw his legs out, grabbed the sides of the ladder and slid down a little, smiling at his own successful display of agility, as Luned gasped and redoubled her grasp.
“Curb thy trepidation. Manful make thy heart.” He whispered up to the woman with a grin before sliding all the way down to the bottom of the contraption.
“Mettlesome blighter.” She huffed hotly before beginning her descent.
When the woman made it to the bottom of the ladder, Drake withdrew the device from the side of the tenement and, to Luned’s very great surprize, began folding it up as one might a newspaper, speaking in tones of feigned offense all the while.
“To reproach me for thy own proclivities is to reproach thyself. Or didst thee forget how came our divan and sofa? A simple ‘thank ye’ would be sufficient.”
When the portable ladder was folded to the size of a large suitcase, Drake stuffed it in a heavy and battered leather pack that lay in the alley adjacent their sill and surveyed the alley.
“Where on earth did ya get that?” Luned inquired, gesturing to the pack.
He shushed the woman and drew up his hood, turning away from the woman, and moving into the shadows as a grim figure ambled into view at the leftern end of the alley.
“A man best avoided,” he whispered without pausing, heading to the right exitway.
“Its him isn’t it – the assassin?”
“Aye. He knows me not in my present state and thou art wholly foreign to his experience. Quell thy tongue and shift away.”
She nodded and moved up to his side. Together they passed swiftly to the far right side of the alley, whereupon a considerable throng had gathered in the great thoroughfare beyond. The avenue, however, was obstructed by two large men who stood shoulder to shoulder, clad in heavy haurberks of the paramount.
“Excuse me, sirs, may we pass?”
“Sorry miss,” the smaller of the two guards replied courteously, “Baron Avarr has recently arrived at the outskirts, enroute to Tor. Consequently, the Lord Paramount has commanded the main thoroughfare sealed, to make way for his lauded guest’s procession. Considerable is the host, even now, and word has yet to fully spread; when it does, there will doubtless be all manner of disorder, which our dispensation shall, our lord hopes, in some measure abate.”
The sound of cheers, trumpets and drums flared in the distance.
“I’ve heard he contributed considerably to the war-effort.”
“Aye. Victoriously he returnth.”
The larger guard gesturing flippantly towards the opposite end of the lane, “We’ve answered ya query. Begone. Both of ye.”
Luned and Dren exchanged looks whereupon Dren drew forth, cleared his throat and pulled from his shoulder-slung pack Adair’s plumed cap, revealing the tag to the guards.
The guards furrowed their brows, perplexed.
“Recognize ye the crest?” the thief intoned in his best Adair impression.
The smaller guard’s eyes widened.
“The crest of House Adair! My comitem… please accept my apologies. I recognized thee not.”
“That is precisely as I had intended it – for thou art doubtless primed of the dire circumstance which previously dogged me.”
“Aye milord. And so the cloak.”
“A wise precaution. We are pleased to see thee safe.”
The guards then parted and Dren, assuming an air of amiable regality, extended his arm to Luned who took it with a grin.
Arm in arm, the designing pair passed beyond the lane to the great and crowded thoroughfare as a cacophony of ringing steel foretokened the baron’s arrival.
continued in part 16 (forthcoming)
Sergei Taneyev : String Trio in E-flat major Op. 31 (1910-11) – a performance on violin, viola and cello.
Vasily Kalinnikov – Symphony no. 1. – a majestic symphony.
Frescobaldi’s Toccata by Rob Dougan (Orchestral Session) – a lively, commanding rearrangement of Cassadó Gaspar’s Toccata in the Style of Frescobaldi (1925).
Sergei Rachmaninov : The Isle of the Dead, Symphonic poem Op. 29 – Andrew Davis – performed by the philharmonic orchestra; conducted by Sir Andrew Davis. Inspired by the work of the Swiss painter, Arnold Böcklin.
S. Prokofiev : Dance Of The Knights by the Boston Symphony Orchestra – one of the better recordings of the piece I’ve heard (its often played far too fast).
Froberger Suite by Marco Mencoboni – a excellent harpsichord performance.
Given the amount of music which has been published on this site of late, I thought it prudent to briefly list and explain some common muscial terms.
12″ – twelve-inch single (a type of gramophone record).
adagio – a down-tempo passage / a comparatively slow piece (60-80 bpm).
allegro – a up-tempo passage / a comparatively fast piece (120-168 bpm).
chamber – like a classical chamber piece (similar to an orchestral piece, but with fewer instruments).
fugue – a piece that, in its main structure, repeats a theme or themes with variation.
leitmotif – a short motif (theme).
orchestral – like a live or simulated orchestra (similar to ‘chamber’ but with more instruments).
presto – a very fast passage (168-200 bpm).
remaster[ed] – a track that has been subjected to a complete sound-quality modification.
toccata – (from toccare, “to touch”) a piece for keyboard (organ, harpsichord or piano) characterized by intricate variation, swift runs, high harmonies and speed.
All music published to the site is available for download via the Logos Patreon Music Archive.