WELL it has been a minute since I wrote anything on this substack, but I am hauling it out of the bog it has crawled into. I am opening a new journal (okay, it is actually one I was gifted years ago but have been too precious to use, until now) and reinking my fountain pen (with evergreen ink) and beginning again because there is a LOT happening and I want to bring you along for the ride, whether you’re new or old here!

So if you like stories, fantasy, dismantling the patriarchy, whimsy and behind the scenes authoring adventures, then stick around because there is some exciting news on the way that I’ve been dying to share for many months now.

Watch this space…

O x

Leave a comment

Share Olive Morris - Author Page

This morning I took part in a little local writing competition. We arrived at 10 am and were given a location in which to write, mine was a busy cafe venue and a prompt. We had to write a short story and be back to the organisers at 1 pm with a finished tale. The prompt was The Kindness of Strangers. Here is what I wrote in those 3 hours of bustling hubbub..

Gorin Keep and The Kindness of Strangers

Joleth pushed his way through the crowd, the stench of sweat and overripe fruit assaulting his sensitive nose. He was not made for crowds. He was not made for cities. He had asked the village Elder to send someone, anyone else to Gorin but Joleth was the most qualified. He was the only one who knew how to translate the forgotten language of the Norl, and the only one who could gain entry to Gorin Keep. Only those with the bloodline of the Haeg had the capacity to cross the threshold of the tower of sorcerers because of the blood seal. He had the right blood, unfortunately, thought Joleth, for he cursed it on a daily basis. His Haeg heritage made his hearing keener, and his senses heightened. Though it should give him an advantage in life, more often than not it caused him no end of hassle. He preferred solitude and peace, keeping out of the way of the folk that often pushed him to the edges of society. He wasn’t an outcast, not as such, but he was markedly different and was treated as such. Now more than ever he cursed his bloodline as the smell of slightly rotting meat almost knocked him out. He bit down a gag, his acorn-coloured skin turning somewhat green. He pushed onwards, not caring who he knocked from his path as he ran to a small alley and emptied the contents of his stomach. He leaned against the wall, beads of sweat on his brow, sucking in stale air and steadying his pulse. He cursed the Elder in the most colourful language he knew, both in Yent and in Norl. The quicker he got into the Keep the sooner he could get back to his garden and solitude.

“Chin up!” A burly man patted him on the back as he passed. Joleth could smell the blood on his apron and the fish guts on his knife. He heaved again and a great chuckle rumbled from the passer-by as he walked to his shop. Joleth wanted to curl up and die.

Steeling himself he sucked in a final breath and straightened, smoothing his green leather coat and adjusting his satchel. The contents were precious, more valuable than his Elder even realised. Joleth had wrapped the book in waxed parchment and tied it with a thick ribbon, before wrapping it once more in an old piece of muslin. Now it was protected while still looking inconspicuous. It didn’t look at all like it was one of only four remaining ancient Norl texts denoting the ancient rituals of the Haeg. Rituals that in the wrong hands could destroy lives. Rituals that Joleth had sworn to protect.

He'd grown up in a remote cottage in the mountains of Killen with his parents. His kind father with a shock of black hair that always fell in his eyes. His mother, her hair the pure white of the Haeg, golden eyes as piercing as the dawn. They’d taught him to hone his magic and to hide it. When he was only twelve years old when everything had come crashing down, when he realised the world was a crueller place than he had ever dreamed possible. Gor Knights had come in the dead of dark and torn his world apart. His mother had pushed him into a small cupboard and kissed him once on the head before he never saw her again. She didn’t even scream. The next morning when a shivering Joleth appeared, he only saw their blood. Their bodies had been dumped somewhere. Joleth never even had the luxury of mourning, nor of honouring them with the Haeg rites. They just vanished and he was left alone in the world. He learned a valuable lesson that day. Haeg blood was a curse, as was the magic in his veins. People would kill for his power if they knew the true depth of it. His parents had died for it. There were so few pure-blooded Haeg left in the world that it was easy for Joleth to pretend he was simply a distant descendent, that there was only the smallest drop of power in his veins, only enough to point his ears and widen his eyes, but not give him any real magic. That was how he stayed alive. That was how things had to be.

The only good thing about being in a city, in Gorin, home of the Gor Knights of all accursed folk, was that there were so many people here that he was hardly spared a second glance. He could do what he needed to do without any trouble. He hoped.

He skirted the main streets, dodging street vendors and beggars, until he found himself staring up at Gorin Keep. A knot formed in his stomach as he stared ahead, up at his fate, at the destiny of his blood. He was lost in thought as he was jostled. Thrown off balance he found himself kneeling in the mud. His satchel swung off his shoulder and slapped into a puddle. He scrambled to collect it, desperately wanting to check the contents were safe, but not wanting to draw attention to the book. He turned, a snide remark on his tongue, but it faded as he beheld who had tripped him. A shadowy figure crouched before him, dirty arms outstretched to help Joleth up, an apology creasing their brow and yet curiosity alight in their eyes. Joleth smiled awkwardly, almost apologetically, pity roiling in his stomach at the stranger. He couldn’t tell their age, or their gender under such a thick layer of dirt. And yet, there was something familiar in the hollows of their face. The stranger nodded and began to scurry away. Before Joleth knew what he was doing, he reached out and grabbed their arm. They spun on their grubby heel to face Joleth, fear radiating off them in palpable waves. Joleth quickly released them, instantly regretting his firmness and he raised his hands apologetically in a sign of peace. The figure hunched but didn’t move as Joleth carefully reached into his satchel, drawing out a handful of coins and a peach, the fruit a favourite of his since he was a boy, for they grew in the mountains of Killen in abundance. Joleth offered them tentatively to the stranger.

“Don’t go givin’ them nuthin’, or else they’ll take yer arm,” called an elderly woman sitting on the back of a cart amidst a pile of barrels. She was bundled in blankets, swinging her legs off the edge of the cart as her son heaved her through the streets, red-faced and dripping with sweat.

“I tells ya, give them an inch they’ll tek yer leg!” The son didn’t slow as his mother spoke to Joleth, calling more warnings as she disappeared into the crowd.

Joleth turned back to the stranger who seemed to shrink even further into themselves at the old woman’s remarks. Joleth paid no heed and extended his arms even further, urging them to take what he presented. As if sensing a trap, they carefully picked up the peach and smiled, and even through the dirt, Joleth could see the delight in their eyes. He pressed the coins into their hand, smiling encouragingly. The figure tried to refuse but Joleth backed away, swinging his soggy satchel over his shoulder, waving goodbye as he made his way beneath the iron gateway to Gorin Keep, satisfied he’d done a good deed, his nerves forgotten for a moment.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. His palm was sliced upon entry to the Keep, the blood seal satisfied with his right to enter, swirling and clicking and unlocking the great door. He slunk through, the oppressive scale of the great grey walls dwarfing him. He found himself shrinking into himself, fear and panic clawing at his throat. He must continue. He climbed spiral staircase after spiral staircase until his head spun. Wooden doors with brass inscriptions swam across his vision. Hermetical Studies, Enochian Scrolls, Fae Specimens… rooms that tugged at his attention, his curiosity begging to be sated, but he pushed on. He sought the Old Library, where the other three Haeg books lay. The texts Joleth’s Elder had sent him to study, hoping to find the secrets of alchemy to bring wealth to their village. Joleth had no intention of researching alchemy. He’d make up some harmless potion and let the Elder puzzle out immortality or the secrets of turning lead to gold. Joleth knew the Haeg books had no such magic in them. They were designed for one thing, and one thing only, death. Once all four texts were combined, hell would be unleashed. And here Joleth was, carrying the doom of the world towards its end. Only he wasn’t going to let that happen, not now, not ever. He would not be reading the books. He would be destroying them.

Joleth stood alone in the Old Library, the three Haeg books of death on a table in front of him. He stood in silence, hands shaking as he reached into his satchel and pulled out his tome. Unwrapping it with trembling fingers, he placed it in the empty spot on the table. The moment all four books were aligned, sparks flew, and dark shadows swirled from their pages. Joleth choked on the stench of death that overcame him. Fumbling, his nerves weaker than he would like to admit, he pulled a match and flint from his pocket. Muttering a prayer to the Goddess, he struck true and cast the flames over the books. Drawing on his magic, largely untrained as it was, he had enough control to spread the fire across the pages, the flames burning white hot. Whispering, he spoke an incantation this mother had taught him, and the books disintegrated into ash. He sighed, relief washing over him. His mother had taught him from a young age that his destiny was to destroy these books, to destroy the evil magic of his ancestors. She would be proud. It had taken him years to track down the fourth book, tracking it all the way to a small unsuspecting village in the middle of nowhere, where an Elder just so happened to have the lost artefact he required. So Joleth had moved in, settled on the outskirts of the village, and made himself useful enough that the Elder’s greed took hold. Ever the reluctant scholar, Joleth had accepted the Elder’s task, for the years of feeding him promises of alchemical lore had paid off. And now Joleth was here, his mission complete. And yet he felt hollow.

A roar echoed through his very bones as the smouldering books made one final act of defiance. The flames around them soared and engulfed the table and spreading to the shelves beyond. Joleth leapt back, desperately flinging out his magic to control the blaze. He was not powerful enough. His lack of training and the years of suppressing his magic had affected him more than he realised. He couldn’t stop the blaze. The entire library would go up in smoke, and him with it. He made the snap decision to flee. Turning on his heel he stopped in his tracks. Before him, the shadowy stranger from the street stood, arms outstretched. Joleth didn’t have time to be surprised. Though their hood was pulled tight, Joleth could see their mouth moving, speaking quietly, as a great beam of white light poured from their hands. It shimmered and rippled like a wave, washing over Joleth and engulfing the fire beyond in swirling radiance. The figure began to chant, their voice light and yet deeply powerful. Joleth recognised the ancient words, the spell vaguely familiar. In a moment, the blaze was under control, the flames shrinking back until they were contained to the books and the books alone. With an audible pop, the ash of the books caught one last time and disappeared into dust. Joleth stood in awe, sucking in deep breaths of cool fresh air that flowed in the wake of the stranger’s magic. How they had even got into the library, he didn’t know. Unless…

Joleth bowed his thanks to the stranger, mumbling words of gratitude and excuses in a jumbled mess of apologies. The stranger stilled.

“A kindness for a kindness,” they said. Their voice was female, and older than Joleth had thought from their small frame.

“A peach and a few coins are hardly the same as saving my life,” said Joleth. “I must offer you more, and…” he moved closer to her and hesitated, unsure of how to beg the stranger to not alert the guards.

As though reading his mind, she said, “I will not tell, for you have done the world a great service.” She bowed and as she raised her head, her hood fell backwards to reveal long white hair. As she looked into his face, earnest and open, Joleth’s heart stopped as he gazed upon her golden eyes. He fell to his knees as the stranger said, “You’ve done me proud, my sweet boy.”

Joleth wept. For the sake of kindness, a peach and a few coins, he had found a greater prize than he’d ever thought imaginable. He had found his mother.

A fun exercise, about thinking and writing on the spot. I’m used to the peace of my desk, the only sound the crows in the trees and my shih tzu snuffling in the background. Trying to hold conversations while creating a fantasy world and story was hard but rewarding. I’ll definitely push myself out of my comfort writing zone again….

Subscribe now

Peace

Olive x

Hello Folks!

It has been a while. I have been reading a lot. I am aiming to devour 50 books by the end of the year, a luxurious goal since I have spent the last decade in academia, reading for pleasure without guilt has been rare. Although now I have replaced the guilt of avoiding academic work to read with the guilt of not working on my book…but I’ll adjust. It’s essential, after all, to read widely in the genre I write in. The more I remind myself that, the more I can bask in the joy of reading for fun again.

I am back for an update to Mergin’s tale, the Orb of Light. If you haven’t yet read it, it is here… Orb of Light and it is best you read it before reading this! After many messages asking for a part two, I have done so. I so enjoy writing about Mergin. There will be many more short stories about his adventures to come!

Subscribe now

The Eyes of the Future

Mergin opened and closed his mouth, somewhat resembling a fish as he tried and failed to come up with an excuse for his presence in the tower. Should he lie? Say he’d got lost in the storm and wandered into the wrong room? A weak excuse, particularly given the way he had been found kneeling at the altar of the Orb of Light. For Mergin was certain that was what sat in the box before him. He had finally found it. He would not let an old Scholar stand in his way now. Just one look was all he needed…

“Spare me the trouble of listening to your lies, I know why you are here,” said the old man, jerking his chin towards the Orb before walking to a nearby table. He began stacking some papers, haphazardly strewn across the desk. The normality of the action unsettled Mergin. The Scholar had the nerve to act like Mergin hadn’t just trespassed into a forbidden tower, a hair’s breadth from a priceless and ancient magical artefact. He was almost offended that the Scholar didn’t deem him a threat, though Mergin knew it to be true, it bruised his small but obstinate ego.

Mergin opened his mouth to speak, but only a weak noise came out. He was lost for words, frozen where he stood. A rare thing indeed. This Scholar had taken him completely off guard and his usual charm had vanished.

“Give me a hand, will you?” the Scholar gestured to a wobbling pile of leather-bound books on the desk, as he glided to the central table with his now neatly stacked papers, his long robes sweeping the floor as he went. Mergin could do nothing but cast a backward glance of intense longing at the Orb before collecting the books and following the Scholar who was already peering through an eye scope of a brass instrument with shifting gears and a crystal centre.

“There’s no point trying, you don’t have the cypher key,” he said, right eye still attached to the scope, left hand scrawling messily on a piece of parchment, ink smearing as he wrote.

“But I have this…” Mergin began before hesitating. He didn’t want to show the Scholar the book, not when he was this close. But he also didn’t enjoy being underestimated. He already had what he needed to gaze into the Orb, the cypher book that matched those runic tiles. If the Scholar assumed he was a common thief… Mergin’s blood boiled. He was a treasure hunter for the thrill of the mystery, not to sell or steal historic artefacts. The nighthawks of this world were barrel dwellers in Mergin’s eyes. He sought only knowledge.

“Ah, one of my better works but still, no cypher key. I couldn’t make it so obvious for the nighthawks you so dislike. They’d all be knocking on my door.” Mergin choked on his breath as the Scholar stood back from the scope and peered at him. Mergin looked at him properly for the first time, wondering who or what he was.

“Jaelen Douglas, at your service,” said the Scholar holding out an ink-stained hand. Mergin took it automatically, his mind whirring. “Though, as you now see, I used to write under Jae.” The book Mergin had taken from the library was old. Really old. Far too old for this Scholar to have had anything to do with it by at least a century. But it was his name, somehow his words…

“You’re admiring my youthfulness I presume?” Jaelen said, smirking. The deep lines in his worn face crinkled in a smile that looked more like a grimace. “Yes, well…” Jaelen turned on his heel at Mergin’s expression. “You’ll have to take my word on it, I look rather good for my age all things considered.”

“How?” Mergin stopped, re-evaluating what question to ask. “Who?” He stopped again, frustrated at how poorly he was articulating himself. He shook his head, shaking some sense into himself. “You were expecting me?”

“Ah, that’s the right question to ask, for you know all the others you began with. Now we’re getting somewhere. The next question, however, is more important.”

“How did you know to expect me?” asked Mergin.

The Scholar plopped into a leather armchair, clasping his hands in his lap. “Now we begin.”

Minutes turned to hours, or hours to minutes. Mergin lost track of time as the storm raged outside the Tower. His world had been turned on its head. He had sought the Orb for knowledge of the future and instead met someone from the distant past who knew of things that made Mergin’s head swim. Fear, excitement, wonder, and uncertainty passed through him as he sat opposite Jaelen. Speaking to the Scholar was like passing a series of riddles. Mergin would often speak before truly considering what he was asking, and the Scholar would simply raise his brows and wait until Mergin had found the more sensible question. It was as though Jaelen knew exactly how this conversation would happen, and when Mergin strayed from the path, Jaelen would stop engaging until he found his way back. The Scholar wouldn’t help, wouldn’t sway or impact Mergin’s decisions on what to say or how to phrase his questions, he’d merely let Mergin figure it out on his own, as though interfering was beyond the laws of whatever fate Jaelen respected.

“The Orb is merely a vessel. The power contained within could be contained by a dozen ordinary items, from your pocket watch to a stable boy’s rake. The Orb was chosen by a rather flamboyant Scholar who had a penchant for geology.”

“What power?”

Jaelen remained quiet. Mergin sighed, as frustrated with himself as he was with Jaelen’s silence. He had asked the wrong question, again.

“Whose power?”

Jaelen shifted, like an automaton at a fair, waking up when it’s turned on after a coin is pushed through the slot.

“Precisely. The Night Class has been searching for that answer for centuries. We consider the power to come from a higher power. We are not theologians, you understand, that is left to the realm of the Chamber Class, we do not concern ourselves with the words or teachings, or even the existence of the gods and goddesses of the world. No, this higher power is beyond. Sentient somehow but also Other.”

“Fate?” Mergin asked.

“Some call it such. Others wyrd, others providence. Some call it simply the inevitability of life. What that does not explain, however, is why the Orb, and a handful of other similar artefacts, show only certain people the future. Those few people join the Night Class. For example, I have long seen your coming here. Long seen your many days under the sun, with golden leaves and spiced honey tea and oil paintings over your hearth.” Mergin opened his mouth to ask for more, more about what his life had in store for him, but Jaelen put up a hand to stop him.

“We cannot share the visions we are given. We cannot even share the cypher to that code,” he nodded towards the book Mergin still held tightly. “For there isn’t one.” Mergin’s brow furrowed in confusion and Jaelen continued. “There are many. We do not know the cypher key until we are given the vision. Then we just know. We then use the cypher key to unlock the specifics of what we have seen. Dates, times, names et cetera. That is how I knew you, Mergin, would find the Orb. Only, I did not know when exactly, only that it would be within this decade. Since we are seven years in, you took your time.” He smiled, the lines around his eyes deepening to almost engulf them entirely.

“So, if I looked into the Orb…?” Mergin began, knowing the answer but gazing longingly towards the crystal.

“You would see merely clouded smoke and disappointment.”

Mergin couldn’t hide his disappointment, though the snippets of what Jaelen had said gave him cause to pause. He had found the Orb after all, and he had uncovered some secret knowledge that not even he, in all his searching, had known existed. The Night Class Scholars sought understanding of destiny. He considered Jaelen. Was he their leader or an ordinary Night Scholar? Mergin almost laughed, there was nothing ordinary about Jaelen. As realisation dawned, Mergin’s eyes widened. He might not have discovered the secrets of the Orb but he had found someone who had unlocked some semblance of immortality. That was a prize worth more than a thousand Orbs. That was a treasure beyond recognition. Mergin’s pulse quickened.

Jaelen sighed, rising and crossing to a huge arched window. The sky beyond was dark, but the storm had eased.

“And now is when you leave. I had hoped for more discussion before we reached this point, but the human mind always tracks the same path.” He turned to Mergin, disappointment evident on his face. “I can offer you one trinket from this room; almost any you should choose but then you must leave and never come back. Not to the Tower and not to The Croft. You must never speak of our time together and you must not seek the ancient wisdom of the Orb ever again.” He moved to a desk and pulled out a small leather pouch and then turned, watching Mergin. When Mergin made no sign of moving, Jaelen urged him on.

“The moment your mind turns to immortality, it is too late. You are beyond talking to of the secrets of the world. Your lust for long life makes you a threat and we do not stand for threats. We have not lived this long in secrecy without particular measures.” He sighed. “I always dislike this bit. So transactional. Choose your prize.” He nodded to the room, hands clasped in front of him, leather pouch clutched within.

Mergin couldn’t hide his disappointment. He cursed himself for letting his mind wander. If he’d waited, and asked more questions, he could have found out more. Learned more about his future. Instead, he was being cast out, punished like a child for an unconscious thought.

“I do not want anything, thank you,” Mergin said, rising, intending on expressing his gratitude and saying his farewells.

“It is part of the deal, unfortunately, you must leave with something. The Orb is off limits, as you can understand.” He gestured to a tall glass cabinet filled with twirling golden gyros and glittering crystals. “Items in here usually pique peoples’ interest.” He said it casually, but Mergin realised he was not the first that had sought the Orb and from the look on resignation on Jaelen’s face, certainly not the last.

Mergin considered the cabinet and looked around the room. Everything was so beautiful and precious but none of it meant anything to him.

“Can I keep this?” he asked, holding the book he still carried. Jaelen looked pleased.

“My own work? I’m flattered. Though it is not technically part of the Tower, I’m sure the bargain can be struck. I’ll work it out with Kell tomorrow, say I required it for further study and got it from you. It is yours now.”

Mergin nodded gratefully. With one final look at the Orb, glinting in the candlelight, he made for the door. Jaelen trailed behind, to see him out. As Mergin reached for the door, about to cross the threshold, Jaelen spoke.

“Mergin?” he asked.

Mergin turned to the old Scholar and at that moment, Jaelen reached into the leather pouch and blew indigo powder into Mergin’s face, before Mergin fell into the oblivion of forgetting.

**

Two years later Mergin walked between the stalls of a spice market in Northern Gurien. His stomach grumbled as he headed towards the inn on the far side of the road. The spices and wares being sold for extreme prices made his stomach growl but not enough to part with quite as much coin as they asked. He’d settle for a plainer meal by the fire. Though, a handful of cinnamon would make his morning porridge so much sweeter. He paused at a stall with an old man behind the counter, his beard plaited and eyes golden and smiling. Mergin pointed towards the cinnamon and after some expert-level haggling, he handed over a few coins. The merchant packaged up the cinnamon, tying it in a neat cloth bundle and passing it to Mergin. As he did so, the corner of his sleeve caught a dish on the stall, only a fraction but enough to send a small puff of the purple spice into the air. Mergin didn’t remember taking the cinnamon, nor how he got to the inn that night. All he saw was a pale green crystal, a guttering candle, and an old man with a wrinkled face.

Share Folk of Folly Forest

Leave a comment

Olive xx

Hi folks!

I am very lucky to live in the south west of England, a place rich with history and folklore and an abundance of beautiful wildlife. One of my favourite things to go and see at this time of year is a starling murmuration. I have a secret spot I’ve found is a little bit special because its not where the starlings roost, its where they gather before heading off to bed. That means I get to see thousands of these magical creatures flying like confetti on the wind, landing in trees and fields until enough of them gather and head off to roost. It can be truly breathtaking. The sound of thousands of chirping voices raised in chatter and the instant silence as they all lift from the trees in harmony, flying over my head as I stand in the shadow of Avalon watching, eyes wide and peace in my soul. The sound of their wings is that of the sea lapping upon a pebble shore, the rush of feathers the sound of the ocean air drifting over shingle. It is truly magical. I took this video, you can find the link below. It was such a beautiful sight I have written a little verse about it.

Starling Inspiration Video

Share

The Shifting Seasons of Avalon

There was once a land, abundant with luscious greenery. Water ran in still streams through the meadows, rushes danced along their shores, and swans nested amongst the reeds. The air smelled of apples, and deer pranced across the plains in joyful peace. This was the realm of Avalon, a place where time stood still and magic seeped from the soil.

Centuries passed in harmony, in perpetual summer under a golden sun. Evenings were balmy and mornings fresh with dew, as Avalon remained untouched by time.

But nothing lasts forever.

For beyond Avalon’s shimmering veil, a war waged through the world. Great factories coughed plumes of smoke into the once-clear sky and guns exploded in showers of sulphur. Trees were cut down in their prime and vast swathes of land turned from green gardens to grey graveyards. The world was changing, and before long, Avalon felt its effects. The sky clouded and the evenings grew colder. Rain fell in great droplets and the small streams broke their banks, overflowing into the meadows beyond, turning them into a vast bog.

Summer passed for the first time. A chill crept into the air and fragile leaves fell from the trees, now cast in shades of rust. Life began to wilt.

Yet the land was still abundant. The wildlife adapted. New birds and beasts flocked to the newly marshy land, while others retreated to areas of woodland, at a distance and safe from the rivulets that now split the land, safe under the canopy of trees. Soon enough all found happiness in their new golden world.

Until winter came. The waters iced over and snow blanketed the land. The trees were bare and fruit sparse, and all struggled to find warmth and sustenance. They looked to one another for comfort and strength, finding new friendships among those they shared their home with. No one was alone, and though the winter was tough, love persisted, bringing with it its own light and warmth. And just when they thought the cold would never end, small white flowers burst from the snow in little white droplets, and the air began to warm if only a fraction and the days slowly lengthened.

The trees were still bare but now they had new hope and new decoration. Flocks of small black birds with iridescent wings perched upon the cold branches, warming the trees as their leaves once had. The trees felt alive again, with new leaves that now sang, the chorus of chimes echoing across the landscape, heralding the coming of spring, a season of hope and warmth and new life. The birds reminded the trees of their old leaves, and as they flew away, they left green buds in their wake, the trees remembering how to grow thanks to their new singing leaves. The birds went from tree to tree in great twisting ribbons, so grand and so intricate that every creature in Avalon couldn’t help but gaze up at them, cast in jewel tones in the sky as the sun began to set. And the birds kept travelling, from tree to tree until every one in Avalon had felt their life, their hope and their song. Every creature in Avalon had watched them dance. Like a dandelion blowing in the breeze, they flew across the meadow marshes, spreading joy and peace in their wake.

For spring was coming, and they had all survived.

Spring was coming and they had learned so many new things, made so many new friends and could now appreciate the good times. For without struggle, and without hardship, the beauty and the goodness of the world do not seem quite so great. But if you can still see the light, even amid the darkness, you have the strongest heart of all.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Peace and love

Olive xx

A while ago I posted an inspiration photo on Instagram (@olivemmorris) and got my lovely followers to get involved with helping me write a story. I asked ‘where does this door lead?’ I got some brilliant responses and loved reading everyone’s ideas!

Polly.clouds commented “to an observatory, where a hermit lives and works. Nobody’s seen them for years and their door is always locked shut. But today… it’s been left slightly ajar…” and I chose her comment as my favourite as it was so atmospheric and I set about writing a short story to match the brief.

After my story about Mergin’s memories of the magical land ofWillowcliff, I had quite a few people asking me for more of Mergin’s adventures. (If you haven’t read it, you can read it here… Memories of Willowcliff )

SOo0o, I have decided to write a series of short stories about him and the observatory idea just screamed Mergin to me! Thank you to Polly for the inspiration, I hope you enjoy the tale…

The cobbles, worn smooth from centuries of footfall, were slippery in the rain that misted in soft waves across the stone arches. Mergin was careful where he placed his feet, watching intently for the patches of spongey moss that were particularly treacherous. Pulling his wide leather hood further across his face, he huddled over, protecting the package he carried with near reverence. It had taken him months to convince the Librarian of The Croft to lend him this particular tome, for it was usually locked away, hidden from sunlight and wandering eyes. But Mergin had worked in The Croft for years, and the Librarian, Kell, had a soft spot for him since Mergin always brought him a fresh crop of Kell’s favourite broad beans that Mergin tended in The Croft Garden. Kell had finally given in to Mergin’s polite and friendly but incessant requests and had allowed him to take the book for one evening, and one evening only. Mergin, though a resident of The Croft, was not one of the Scholars, so by rights was not allowed access to the books in the library. The Croft, however, recognised that the rule was elitist and archaic, so everyone who worked at The Croft was allowed to read the books on the main floor. Those kept behind the carved wooden screen, however, were for Scholars’ eyes only. But Mergin had been doing his research. Ever since he arrived in Talmea, he had been in pursuit of the rare and apparently forgotten Orb of Light. He’d heard folk songs sung about the mysterious orb, said to be able to show your future, and Mergin had become obsessed. He didn’t long for great riches, but he did long for great adventure, and what better quest than to glimpse your future in a magical sphere?

Mergin had begun travelling when he was old enough to leave his small village, but he started with small-scale pursuits, like searching for the infamous but secretive Bardic College of Monva, just to hear one song from the bards, and then moving onto Alenn to find the Cave of Tears where stalactites fell from the ceiling, dripping into the great lake below. After that adventure ended, he found himself sitting in a small inn on the northern edge of Alenn, relaxing with a frothing ale and feeling very satisfied. The well-earned peace from a successful mission didn’t last long, however, for he heard the old folk songs of the Orb that he knew so well, plucked on a lyre by a young girl by the fire. Lulled into daydreams by the familiar rhythm of the song, he was stunned to hear a final verse that he had never heard before. Lilting and poetic, the new verse was about The Croft of Talmea, and how, rumour had it, somewhere in its walls, the Orb lay, waiting to be found. Mergin could hardly contain his excitement, downing his ale and rushing to his room to scour his maps. Alenn bordered Talmea and though the northern land was cold, The Croft lay to the west, on temperate shores. He would not need to invest in snow gear if he took a boat from Alenn’s western dock and skirted the edge of Talmea to The Croft. So that was what he did, and upon arriving at the great bastion of stone, he smiled and talked his way into the role of a grounds worker. Working his way up, he was now well-known as the friendliest of The Croft’s Grounds Keepers. Two years had passed, and despite enjoying his work and his life, he had not found the Orb. Spending his free time in the library had proved interesting but so far fruitless. That is until he found mention of a mystical sphere in one of the history books in the main hall of the Library. It was written by an old alchemist of The Croft, Jae Douglas. Though only mentioned in passing, the tone with which Douglas wrote gave the impression that he was intimately acquainted with this sphere and when discussed in the same sentence as ancient prophecy, Mergin was certain this was the Orb of Light. Scouring indexes until he thought his eyes would bleed, he finally found Douglas’ own work entitled ‘Prophecies of the Ancient World through the Eyes of the Future’ and shouted out loud with joy. After a prompt telling off and numerous ‘shhhhhh’s from his fellow readers, he began to work on Kell to find the book. After realising it was behind the forbidden screen, Mergin didn’t lose heart and so began weeks’ worth of pleading. Today Kell had agreed because, for one thing the Master of the Library was away on research for three days, so Kell was left in charge, secondly, Kell was exhausted by Mergin’s good-natured begging and lastly Mergin had pickled some fresh broad beans with the wildflower honey he’d swapped a bundle of leeks for from the beekeeper, and Kell simply couldn’t say no. And so Mergin found himself huddled in his great coat, picking his way across the wet courtyard to his rooms in West Croft, almost giddy with anticipation. He daren’t read the book in the library, lest anyone see and find the Orb before him. He was probably overly cautious but after he was searching for a hidden chest in the Vell Valley and a pesky treasure hunter beat him to it, only after overhearing Mergin’s exclamations of excitement to an innkeeper the night before, Mergin was right to be cautious.

A crack of lightning split the sky and the heavens opened. Raindrops the size of grapes pummelled the stone and Mergin ran for the nearest doorway, terrified for the book’s safety. Shaking himself off and checking that the brown paper package was blissfully unharmed, Mergin looked around and realised he was in the Observatory Tower, forbidden to those not of the Night Class of The Croft. Mergin hoped no one would mind his presence, just until the rain had passed. The cobbles were now covered with a river of water an inch thick and there was no way Mergin was going to walk all the way to the West Croft in this. As though reinforcing Mergin’s decision, a great rumble of thunder rolled through the courtyard and Mergin stepped backwards, further into the tower, away from the bouncing rain. Since he would be here for some time, Mergin got comfortable, finding a particularly worn step in the great limestone staircase that led to the top of the Observatory Tower. Settling down he wondered whether he could risk reading the book to pass the time. Looking around, he saw no one, for the Observatory Tower was usually deserted in daylight hours. There was only the huge staircase and a thick wooden door at the top. No other entrances for people to sneak up on Mergin. If anyone did open the door of the Tower, he’d have plenty of time to put the book away before he was seen reading.

And so Mergin read while the rain raged outside, feet away from him. He hardly noticed it anymore. He pored over Douglas’ words, from alchemical formulas and tables that confounded Mergin, despite his familiarity with various languages from his travels. He found star charts and ink-drawn dragons, so small they would fit in the palm of your hand. One page contained a cypher of some sort, with symbols arranged in a convoluted pattern, and on another, a huge drawing of a peace lily flower. Douglas, it seemed, had interests ranging from botany to astrology. A great flash of light jolted Mergin from the book and he noticed it was suddenly quite dark. Whether from the storm that was in full force outside or from the lateness of the hour, he couldn’t tell for he had been lost in the pages and lost track of time. Sighing and stretching, his back cracking in three places, unhappy from being sat so long on a cold limestone step, Mergin stood up to flex his muscles.

That’s when he noticed it, a small glimmer of light from the top of the Tower. He looked around, convinced it hadn’t been there earlier. Though perhaps in the sunlight, it was disguised. Now, in the gloom, it was a beacon, summoning Mergin to it. He’d been careful not to anger anyone of The Croft by trespassing, though his curiosity often tortured him, he wanted to ensure he stayed in his position until he found the Orb. Spurred on from his success gaining Douglas’ book, and feeling safe in the storm, however, Mergin climbed the stairs. As he reached the top, he realised the door was ajar, and likely had been the whole time he had been in the Tower. Highly unusual, he thought, for the Night Class were the most secretive scholars in The Croft. As he reached the top step, he whispered a prayer to any god that might listen to not get caught, and he pushed. To his relief, the door swung open easily and silently.

Mergin was lost for words as he stared, mouth agape, at the room before him. The Observatory was spectacular, with spinning golden discs mounted on the walls and a great glass sheet at the top of the tower’s spire. Candles flickered from every surface, the wax dripping in great rivulets down heavy oak tables, of which there were many. The room was laid out like a cartographer's office, only these were maps of the sky and the world beyond. Books in huge piles, some swaying, others tumbled in a heap littered the room and great spinning globes ticked as they moved with the light of the moon and sun. Mergin had to forcibly close his mouth for he looked like a drooling dog. There were treasures beyond measure here, and knowledge so ancient Mergin could only dream of understanding it all.

Silently padding around the chairs carved with celestial scenes, he made his way to a huge recess in the far corner of the room. He didn’t know what drew him there, but before he knew it, his feet had taken him. He stood, gawping at the intricately painted sky, azure and sparkling on the inside of the great arched alcove. Flying horses and winged beasts danced across the stars, sparkling in golden paint. Shelves upon shelves lined the alcove, filled with brass timepieces that Mergin suspected didn’t tell the time at all but something altogether more interesting.  In the base of the alcove was a wooden box, surprisingly simple against the gilded and elaborately decorated tools of the Night Class. Every muscle in Mergin’s body screamed at him to open the box and he gave in to temptation.

He almost fell to his knees in shock. Inside the box, on a bed of thick navy velvet, was a small sphere, no more than 2 inches in diameter. It was the pale green of ice and the crisp white of snow, translucent and transparent but opaque at the same time. It was silver and glowed like the moon, whilst also looking like fresh morning dew on a leaf. It whispered, and Mergin swore he heard his name. The box had a drawer, beneath the central compartment and Mergin pulled it out to reveal small wooden tiles, each with a rune or letter burned into it. He scrambled to open the book in his jacket, finding the page with the cypher on it. Sure enough, the letters and symbols matched perfectly and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end. He took a step back, too in awe to comprehend what he had found.

“So,” said a soft voice from behind him. Mergin spun to see a small man, hooded and bent with age, standing in the doorway. Mergin froze.

“I’m surprised it took you this long,” said the old man, and he smiled.

Subscribe now

I hope you enjoyed the latest tale of Mergin’s adventures. Do you want to hear what happened next? Subscribe and comment below and let me know!

Leave a comment

Peace,

Olive xxx

Brightest Solstice Blessings to the Folk of Folly Forest!

I want to start this final post of the year by wishing you all a wonderful week ahead, whatever you may celebrate, and I hope you are all warm and cosy and ready to welcome the new year.

I used to work at Stonehenge and Solstice was always a busy and beautiful time, welcoming the shortest day of the year and the return of the sun. For now, the days will slowly lengthen and with it, may we find brightness in every aspect of our lives.

We may feel the pressures of the season, to spend, to feast, to party…. but that just isn’t for everyone, particularly this year with a tough winter upon us. Instead, relieve some pressure and remember that the origins of Christmas were pagan and all about the joy of the returning light, and saying goodbye to winter. If all you do this weekend is go for a walk and take in some fresh air, light a candle, put a sprig of holly on your table and eat a meal you particularly enjoy, then you’re doing okay by pagan standards.

I won’t bombard you with all the pagan inspiration for Christmas, from the date itself, giving gifts, decorated trees, yule logs, mistletoe and men with big white beards flying through the sky on magical animals giving presents to people who have been good (*cough* Odin *cough*) but I will say, this time of year is steeped in folklore and magic. Don’t let the commercialism erase that. Tell a story to your loved ones this weekend, sing a song together, make a toast to the sunlight returning and ever-longer days and embrace the magic of Solstice.

Thank you for your support since I started this little corner of the internet, and bring on 2023. May there be more stories, more magic and more folk frolicking in the folkloric forest.

Olive xxx

Subscribe now

I have studied witchcraft and magic for years so it’s only fair that I leave you with a very pagan verse you can sing to the tune of God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, if you want to lean fully into the solstice magic.

Gods rest ye merry pagan folk

Let nothing ye dismay

Remember that the sun returns

Upon this solstice day

The growing dark is ending now

and spring is on its way

Oh tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy

Oh tidings of comfort and joy…

Share Folk of Folly Forest

Hello folks,

Thank you to all of you who have subscribed, it means the world! And to those of you that haven’t yet, I hope I can persuade you with a bit of magic.

Subscribe now

I have spent the best part of a decade in academia, studying and researching across three different universities, starting off at Queen’s University Belfast, then heading to Cambridge University, and finally finishing up at Bristol. I have always studied archaeology, with my most recent research delving more into history and literature. Throughout my whole academic life, I have been fascinated by stories and the way they are transmitted through time. Though my focus has always primarily been on the archaeology of magical women in the early medieval period, oral history and folklore have always been at the very heart of my work.

That is why I think stories are so important! They have been a part of human history for thousands of years and they are just as important today. The art of telling stories and handing down tales from one generation to another is a gift we need to keep giving. So, in saying that, I call upon you to help write a story with me!

I will post a section of a short story below, and I would love it if you could get your thinking caps on and tell me what you think should happen next. Pop your thoughts in a comment and I’ll pick the one that resonates with me most, and then I’ll write it! Then we can do the same process again for the next section until we have a completed short story together.

For what are stories if they are not shared?

The Iron Keep (working title)

Jem stood at the castle gates, gazing up at the dark stone walls towering above him. Was he really going to do this? No one had entered the Iron Keep in centuries, for no one dared disturb the silent monks who lived inside. No one even knew if they really existed anymore. The Keep had been locked for as long as Jem had lived in the village of Garron and no one had seen a monk since his great grandfather’s time… and Jem’s great grandfather was really ancient. REALLY ancient. Jem couldn’t even begin to understand what the monks did in the Keep, let alone how they got food or water to survive. The monks were just ghost stories, designed to keep people like Jem away. Or at least that’s what he kept telling himself. He never went back on a dare, especially not one given by Larch, the biggest and richest boy in the village and the biggest cretin Jem had ever met. Jem didn’t like bullies, but he also didn’t want to let Larch win, so here he stood, looking up at the intricately forged iron gates. He could feel the eyes of the village children, boring into his back. He didn’t turn round, for he knew Larch would be there and would tell everyone he was scared. Well, he was scared, but of what he didn’t really know. The monks intrigued him, if they really did exist, and if he saw one, or even met one, then that would be some story to tell. The Keep itself was beautiful, if imposing, and Jem had always daydreamed about it, though he’d never admit it. The Keep fascinated him. It always had, drawing Jem to the boundary of the property like a siren calling to a sailor. Maybe that was what he was feeling…not fear, but exhilaration. The inevitability of sneaking into the Iron Keep finally coming true made the hair on his arms stand on end. Weirdly, it felt right to be here.

The iron bars of the gate were thick and heavy but set wide enough apart that Jem could just about squeeze through. Though once he’d got his body and shoulders through, there was a moment that he thought his head was stuck and a wave of panic rushed over him, but a bit of wiggling got him through, and he popped into the grounds of the Iron Keep.

Everything changed.

Looking back through the gates, he expected to see the dirt track and the forest he had left behind, and the peering eyes of his friends and fellow village children. Instead, he saw only sky, as though he was standing atop a mountain, gazing out at the clouds that crested a lusciously green landscape. The warm sun glowed gold, the richness of sunset suddenly upon him, though he had stepped through the gates at high noon. Turning slowly on his heel, confused and in a state of disbelief, Jem looked towards the Iron Keep.

The forgotten dark stone had been transformed. Gone were the heavy buttresses laden with vines. Gone were the tall stone arches that housed thick black glass. Instead, Jem staggered backwards at what he saw. Before him was the most glorious castle he had ever seen. Manicured gardens sprawled in front of him, interspersed with tinkling fountains carved into all sorts of beasts and birds. The closest to him was a great sea dragon, water pouring out of its vast mouth and ringing like chimes into the pool of water as it broke through the mirror-smooth surface. Jem reached out to touch it but could have sworn it blinked as he got closer.

Shaking himself he moved towards the castle. Stained glass windows in deep jewel tones glittered in bright sandstone walls, illuminated by hundreds of candles within. Roses grew in heady blooms along trellises and Jem could smell the luxurious perfume even from where he stood. Silk banners of white and green billowed in the wind depicting a grand royal crest, gilded with Latin words Jem didn’t understand but knew to be important. He gaped at the sight before him. The layout was the same as the Iron Keep he knew so well, but this palace could not have been more different. And the sound! Silence was a thing of the past. Joyous shouts and laughter rippled on the breeze, and Jem could see dozens of people dressed in colourful clothes running and playing in the distance. He longed to join them for they seemed to be having so much fun. Instead, the harmonious chanting coming from the castle summoned him, and he moved as though someone else was controlling his feet. He drifted, pulled by the magic of the song, towards the main entrance, a grand wooden door carved with flowers and leaves of plants Jem didn’t recognise.

“WELCOME,” came a great booming voice as Jem stood at the entrance, wondering how best to knock on such a thick door.

“Hello?” asked Jem, for though the voice sounded close, he could see no one.

“Come in, we have been waiting for you….”

….

WHAT HAPPENS NEXT? YOU TELL ME!!

Leave a comment

Olive xxxx

I'm very proud to say this short story of Mergin's adventures won first prize in the Literally Shepton literary competition in the adult short story category. I got a medal and a trophy and they sit proudly on my desk. A trophy for writing? I would never have dreamed it possible. I hope you enjoy Mergin's tale. If you do, there might be more where that came from... he’s a fun character to write and I can foresee many adventures ahead.

Subscribe now

Memories of Willowcliff

“Now, let’s see then,” said Old Mergin, slipping off his worn leather boots and sliding into his soft hide moccasins. He sighed with relief. Gathering the teapot and some chipped mugs, he carried the tray to the fire. Scooping up a mug of herb tea, he dissolved into his tapestried chair, leaving Lilee to serve herself.

“Where was I?” he asked, blowing softly across his cup. Rivulets of fragrant steam wafted the scent of the sweet herbs only Mergin knew how to brew. One had only to walk into Mergin’s cosy house before you were struck with the aromas of his travels, from the sweet-scented wood burning in the broad hearth, to the heady dish filled with dried petals.

“You were telling me of Willowcliff,” said Lilee. She had heard the tale countless times before, but it was one of her favourites. She never got tired of hearing of Mergin’s adventures.

“Ah yes, well, let me think a moment, for it was long ago when I was but a young explorer.” His eyes glazed, lost in memories of his past. Lilee sat patiently, cradling a cup of hot tea in her hands. She sipped it slowly, delighting as the honeyed spices slipped down her throat, warming her from within. Mergin’s green eyes cleared, and he smiled as the memory he had been searching for appeared at the forefront of his mind.

“There is a far-off land known for its good fortune, called Willowcliff. When I arrived, many long years ago now, I was immediately struck by its beauty. The meadows were green and fresh, and the air was bright and clear and smelled of rain. All around the birds sang like silver bells, floating in clouds of pure white against an azure sky. But the trees? Ah, now, that’s what made Willowcliff special, for all the trees as far as the eye could see were golden willows. At first glance I thought they were merely kissed by autumn, the leaves changing with the seasons, but as I came upon one, I heard the leaves blowing in the breeze and do you know what they sounded like?”

“Coins,” said Lilee, smiling. She knew this tale almost as well as Mergin, though he delighted her with every new telling.

“That’s right my young chick, they sounded like golden chimes, like a thousand coins jingling in a pocket. But that wasn’t all, for crawling down the shimmering chestnut trunk of the tree was a tiny golden lizard, no bigger than my little finger. Its scales were blinding in the sunlight, as though it was forged in an unquenchable fire, or poured from molten metal. Iridescent it was, shifting from deep red to shining bronze as the sun filtered through the golden leaves of the willow. I couldn’t help but wander closer, enraptured by the tree and the tiny beast. But as I peered at it, close enough to touch it, it flicked its forked tongue and looked at me with its deep black eyes. For a moment it felt as though it truly understood me. Strange, for a lizard to have such comprehension in its eyes, and not many people would believe me if I were to tell them. It blinked, a dark green shining lid slipping over its gaze, and then it hissed. The sound made me shudder. That such a small beast could make such a ruckus, metal grating against metal, reverberating across the valley. And do you know what happened then? Every leaf on the gleaming willow turned a dull brown. Every golden leaf was gone, replaced with mottled decay. I reached up to pick one and it crumbled in my hands. I cursed myself for not plucking one sooner. But hope was not lost, for there were many more willows throughout the valley. Onwards I walked until I came to the next tree, lustrous and shining in the setting sunshine. I hurried this time, arms outstretched but before I could reach a single leaf, the sound of the lizard’s rough cry pierced the air and the willow shed its leaves like tears. Onwards again, and again, and again. Another willow, another lizard, another shrill call. No matter how fast I ran, or if I snuck up to the tree, the lizards always saw me and protected their golden leaves. Guardians of the gold, they must be. I don’t think they were lizards at all, Lilee.”  

He leaned forward, eyes narrowed conspiratorially as he looked around his small cottage, ensuring no one would overhear. Though of course, no one but he lived there. Not anymore.

“I think they were dragons.” Lilee smiled, the light of the fire dancing in her eyes. That was always her favourite bit. She knew it wasn’t real, for of course trees with leaves of real gold, and metallic dragon tree-keepers did not exist. But when Mergin told the story, for a moment, she could pretend it was genuine, and that magic was real. It made her simple life in the village more exciting. Perhaps one day she would go on adventures like Mergin. She wouldn’t find any golden trees, but she could allow herself to dream. She settled back into her chair, content.

Mergin set down his tea and rose slowly, groaning as he did. He always made noises when he moved these days. Sometimes it was hard to imagine him running through valleys in search of treasure. But when she saw the glint in his eyes, undimmable mischief and light, she knew he would always be an explorer at heart.

She sipped at her tea, almost finished now, and moved to refill her cup when she noticed Mergin was looking at something on the mantle over the fire. Trinkets adorned the wooden plinth, some elaborate and beautiful and others simple. There was the mud painting she had done of him and Aunt Mae when she was little, though ‘painting’ was perhaps too grand a word for such a splodge of brown. Then there was a silver clock with a moon and a sun engraved on the face that moved as the day passed, chiming softly at noon. Various carved wooden boxes of herbs and spices acted as bookends for old dusty tomes, some in languages Lilee didn’t recognise. But Mergin was looking at a small porcelain pot. She had never noticed it before, too distracted by the clock to see something quite so simple. She looked now, intrigued by Mergin’s attention on it. It was cream-coloured and now she noticed that the splash of red on the side wasn’t an abstract depiction of a flower, as she had always assumed, but a small dragon. She gasped.

“Those leaves always turned brown,” he said, his voice tinged with melancholy. “I always thought I was just too slow.” Lilee looked at him, her brow furrowed. He always ended the story by whispering about dragons. He’d never continued to discuss it beyond that.

“But that was not the way the game was played.” He reached into the pot and turned to face Lilee. She gawped at him for he was now grinning at her, the light in his eyes brighter than ever. He walked over to her and gestured for her to hold out her hand. She did so, confused and excited, though she knew not why. This was still part of the story, a new part Mergin had concocted to keep the tale fun. But why were the hairs on her arms standing on end?

Something cold and small dropped into Lillee’s hand. Mergin stepped back and leaned against the mantle, smiling at her. She looked down and gasped. Breathless, she stared at her open palm. Inside was the most exquisite golden willow leaf. Every vein, every curve was perfect. Had it not been for the gleam and the weight of it, she would have been convinced it were merely a leaf. But it wasn’t. it was solid and made of the purest gold Lilee could have imagined. She looked up, eyes wide, staring at Mergin in shock. He nodded, confirming that the story Lilee had loved since she was a child was no longer a fairy story. It was real. Lilee remained frozen, staring at the leaf to check if it was really there and not a figment of her imagination.

Mergin’s joyous laughter rippled through the cottage, elated to finally be able to share his secret.

Giddiness bubbled in Lilee’s throat, and she laughed with him.

Nothing was impossible.  

**

May you find magic today

Olive xx

Share Folk of Folly Forest

Leave a comment

Subscribe now