by Jan Siegel
Azmordis (Az-moor-diss) The name generally used in these accounts for the Oldest Spirit. As stated in Prospero’s Children, it is probably a corruption of Asmodeus, a malignant spirit or senior demon in the hierarchy of Hell. The Spirit uses many such names, of both gods and devils (Shaitan, mentioned in the manuscript Gaynor studies, is a well-known variant of Satan, but may also refer to the same being).
Agamo (Ag-ar-moh), the toad god of the swamp, is an identity lost in obscurity.
Bethesne (Beth-ez-nee) The name sounds biblical, but the character relates more to the Greek mythos, in which Perseus consults three witches who pass a single eye from hand to hand. There may also be some connection with the Nordic Volas: Skætha (Skay-tha), the seeress who saw the future, probably derives from Skuld, who rose from the grave to foretell the battle of Ragnarok for Odin.
Bradachin (Bra-da-chin, with the “ch” pronounced as in loch) From the old Scottish Gaelic, meaning “little thief.”
Caracandal (Ca-ra-can-dal) For sources see Prospero’s Children. Other names mentioned in this book for Ragginbone include Elvincape, a reference to his customary coatlike garment with its pointed hood, and Gabbandoflo, an Italian version with the same meaning (literally, gabbano d’elfo).
Elivayzar (El-ee-vay-zar) A variant of the biblical Eleazar. Moonspittle, as explained in the text, is a mistranslation of Mondspitzl, German for Moonpoint, with the suffix “1” signifying small. This might be an ancient term for the pointed crescent of the new moon.
Infernest A courtesy title habitually given by dragon charmers to the greatest of dragons. It derives from Taebor Infernes (Tay-boor In-fur-nees), largest and most intelligent of the early dragons, the obvious origin being the Latin inferno. When Ruvindra Laiï calls the dragon “inferneling” (in-fur-nel-ing), this is clearly a diminutive of the same.
Kaliban As stated in the text, this comes from Caliburn, also known as Excalibur, King Arthur’s famous sword. Morgus’s choice of this as a name for her son could be an early manifestation of the same trend that leads rock and film stars to christen their children Moon, Heaven, and so on. Shakespeare may well have borrowed the name for use in The Tempest after hearing some legend about the monstrous son of an ancient witch.
Laiï (Ly-ee) The family name of the dragon charmers was formerly Ylai: they were an offshoot of the Atlantean House of Ghond, one of the twelve Ruling Families. Fleeing the fall of Atlantis, they spent some time in the vicinity of India and Tibet, which would account for the orientalization of their surname. Ruvindra has an Indian sound, and it was, of course, in this area that he chose to conceal the dragon’s egg.
It is worth noting that in all worlds great mountains have a special power, and many in this world are linked to their otherworldly counterparts. In the Himalayas there are secret ways leading to the dimension of myth and magic, to hidden valleys beyond reality, eternal gardens among the snows. Some say the route to Azmodel is there, a tunnel plunging down and down to the poisoned anti-Paradise of the Oldest of Evils.
Lougarry From the French loup garou (werewolf). See Prospero’s Children.
Mabb Sometimes romanticized as the Faery Queen, Mabb’s true nature is the essence of all that made goblinkind both inimical to us and a caricature of so many of our less attractive traits. She is vain, mischievous, capricious, egotistical, given to petty cruelty, incapable of profound thought. The concept of kings and queens is a mortal idea that goblins have assimilated for reasons of their own, perhaps because of their long association with Man. In general, werefolk live in an otherworld without social order, where the weak avoid the strong, and do not serve them. However, there are a few exceptions among the Old Spirits, most notably Azmordis, who has the human need to dominate, and who enlarges his own power spectrum by controlling many lesser beings.
Morgus Legend tells of Morgause or Morgawze, sister of Morgana Le Fay and half sister of Arthur, though little is known of her in comparison to her more famous siblings. Here we learn the sisters are twins, Morgus and Morgun, born of a line long celebrated for their Gifting. Mordraid is mentioned as an older son of Morgus, although stories differ as to which of them was the mother of Arthur’s incestuous child.
The prefix Mor- was a feature of naming in this family, designating someone who was exceptionally Gifted. Since the Gift rarely shows till adolescence, it is likely that the name was acquired then, and with an arrogance that seems to be a characteristic of the line, the birth name was dropped altogether. The meaning may derive from various words for “dark,” notably the Swedish mark or the Spanish morcillo. In giving Fernanda the Gift name of Morcadis, Morgus was evidently attempting to establish a kinship with her by means more subtle than mixing blood. What significance there may be in Fern’s acceptance of the name is not yet clear.
morloch (moor-loch, with the “ch” pronounced as in Scots) The story of the wizard Morloch appears in the text and there is little to add. Once again, the prefix Mor- indicates a relationship to the same family. As with certain of the Old Spirits, we see in his tale a desire to create life by magical means, the normal human methods evidently proving unsatisfactory. The morlochs, however, like the creatures made by the spirits (reputedly including mermaids, goblins, and other werefolk) are merely things of flesh and clay animated by elementáis, who already existed on a low plane in the cosmos. In theory, magical beings can have no souls—hence Kaliban’s obsession with the subject. Morgus experimented with her own body to conceive her second son; otherwise the child of an Old Spirit would be stillborn. Immortals do not need to reproduce. Whether any living creature, mortal or otherwise, has a soul is, of course, a matter for debate and currently beyond scientific proof.
Pharaïzon (Fah-ry-ee-zon) The greatest of the dragons. Dragon names are usually given by humans: this one may come from the same stem as the Egyptianpharaoh.
pugwidgie This term was originally applied to a particularly mischievous goblin, but was transposed as a common name for the morlochs, since the lesser werefolk are superstitious about using their mastername. The source is probably Puck-wight.
Senecxys (Seh-nek-siss) The mate of Pharaïzon. Origin unknown.
Sysselore (Siss-se-loor) This could be a complex play on words, from sister-in-lore (i.e., coven sister), but is more likely to be a variant of the medieval name Sisley, or a derivative of the witch’s former name Syrcé, from Seersay, meaning sibyl or pythoness. This, in its turn, is clearly related to the Greek Circe.
tannasgeal Direct from Scots Gaelic, this combines the elements tannasg, ghost, and geal, white.
Tenegrys (Teh-ne-griss) This could be a derivative of the Latin tenebra, tenebrae (pi.), shadow(s). Alternatively it might come from the Gaelic tannasg, as above, and greis, time. The name was given by Dr. Laye, but almost certainly suggested by Azmordis.
On Dragons
Very little is known about when and how dragons originated. The manuscript Gaynor discovered stated that they were made by Shaitan, one of several names for the devil and a possible identity of Azmordis, but this may have been poetic license on the part of the writer. It is true that long ago many of the Old Spirits manifested themselves as pagan gods and demons, trying thus to gain ascendancy over Man or Nature, and in the earliest days “creating” beings of their own bodies of spell and substance, often combining anatomical details from several creatures, inhabited by primitive elementáis. As mentioned above, this was how many of the werefolk came into existence. Others were self-created, crude spirits strong enough to make themselves a physical image that expressed their essence. Windhorses, which occasionally metamorphose into unicorns, are among this latter group sprites of the moving air who have acquired a suitable form in which they can appear and fade at will. Most werefolk are far from solid, their shapes flickering in and out of reality according to the eye of the observer or their own uncertain moods.
Dragons, however, seem to be both more “real” and more potent, with a power that even the Oldest cannot control. If they were made by Azmordis or one of h
is ilk, then the fire-spirits summoned to possess them must have proved impossible to manipulate, and the creation escaped the yoke of the creator. Their curious affinity with humans—with all that is most cruel and savage in our nature, yet also all that is most passionate and free is well documented. Whether we invented dragons ourselves, calling them into being to fulfill some deep and dreadful need, we can only speculate.
There seem to be many kinds of dragons, with differing temperaments and anatomical features—winged or wingless, some with feathery manes, others with many variations of color, horn, and scale. Not all breathe fire. Oriental dragons are frequently beneficent, while their northern kin are associated with hoarded treasure and appear to epitomize mortal greed. It is a significant fact that in our modern, high-tech world dragons have become the ultimate symbol of freedom—freedom not only from the laws of science but also from the laws of Man, a fierce amorality that recognizes no check or hindrance. In Tenegrys we are reminded that although dragons are beautiful and awesome, beyond the reach of the everyday world they are deadly, and without the skills of a dragon charmer would kill and burn without compunction.
How the line of dragon charmers acquired their extraordinary relationship with these monsters is a tale told elsewhere.
On the Gift
At this point it may be helpful to add a word or two about the power known as the Gift. Of its origins much is said in Prospero’s Children: how it was caused by the Lodestone, a ball of matter the size of a serpent’s egg coming from, or even composed of, another universe, a whole cosmos with different rules, different science. It was kept in Atlantis and those born in its immediate vicinity were genetically altered, giving them the ability to break the physical laws of this world. The Lodestone was destroyed, as was Atlantis and almost all its people, but the mutant genes had already been passed on and they spread throughout the human race, recurring down the centuries, often ignored or unused by the possessor, but never weakening or dying out.
Various powers can be produced by the Gift. The most common is the so-called sixth sense: telepathy, precognition, telegnosis—“the ability to know that which cannot be ascertained by normal means.” Gaynor, we are told, is a “sensitive”: she can see ghosts, and is peculiarly susceptible to atmosphere, another variant of the same. Most of us have a little of this talent, and it manifests itself in symbolic dreams, in a heightened awareness of the emotions and feelings of others, in instinct and intuition. The whole of our mystic self, though not dependent on the Gift, is strengthened and empowered by it. In its most potent form, as in Fern’s case, it gives you the capacity to influence both people and objects without physical contact, to create true-seeming illusions, to change your own shape or that of others in short, to break the rules. It can be transmitted as raw energy: light, heat, force. But without discipline it becomes as wayward and perilous as weather. Only through the ancient spell patterns and the Atlantean language can it be shaped and directed, given meaning and purpose. Atlantean is an ancestor language of many European tongues, but it evolved within the Lodestone’s force field, attuned to its rhythms, and when the Stone was broken it is thought the power thus released passed into the speech to which it had given birth. Perhaps the energy it engendered was transmuted into sound and tone, a music from beyond the spheres. Whatever the truth, without Atlantean the most extreme form of the Gift, if used, will be out of control, and may be deadly both to the user and to anyone against whom they may lash out.
THE WITCH QUEEN
Read ahead for a taste of Jan Siegel’s
conclusion to the series. Ferns enemies have
found their way into modern-day London,
where she must face her greatest
challenge yet…
At Wrokeby, the house-goblin was no longer playing poltergeist. He lurked in corners and crannies, in the folds of curtains, in the spaces under shadows. The newcomer did not appear to notice him, but he sensed that sooner or later she would sweep through every nook and niche, scouring the house of unwanted inmates. He watched her when he dared, peering out of knotholes and plaster cracks. He was a strange, wizened creature, stick thin and undersized even for a goblin, with skin the color of aging newspaper and a long pointed face like a hairless rat. His name when he had last heard it was Dibbuck, though he had forgotten why. The piebald cat that prowled the corridors could either see him or scent him, and she hunted him like the rodent he resembled, but so far he had been too quick for her. He had known the terrain for centuries; the cat was an invader on unfamiliar ground. But the presence of Nehemet made him more nervous and furtive than ever. Still he crept and spied, half in fascination, half in terror, knowing in the murky recesses of his brain that the house in his care was being misused, its heritage defiled and its atmosphere contaminated for some purpose he could not guess.
The smaller sitting room now had black velvet curtains and no chairs, with signs and sigils painted on the bare floor where once there had been Persian rugs. A pale fire burned sometimes on a hearth long unused, but the goblin would avoid the room, fearing the cold hiss of its unseen flames and the flickering glow that probed under the door. Instead he ventured to the cellar, hiding in shadows as old as the house itself. The wine racks had been removed and shelves installed, stacked with bottles of unknown liquids and glass jars whose contents he did not want to examine too closely. One bottle stood on a table by itself, with a circle drawn around it and cabbalistic words written in red along the perimeter. It had a crystal stopper sealed in wax, as if the contents were of great value, yet it appeared empty: he could see the wall through it. But there came an evening when he saw it had clouded over, filled with what looked like mist, and in the mist was a shape that writhed against the sides, struggling to escape. He skittered out of the room, and did not return for many days.
On the upper floors he found those Fitzherberts who had stayed this side of Death, their shrunken spirits rooted in age-old patterns of behavior, clinging to passions and hatreds whose causes were long forgotten. They dwelt in the past, seeing little of the real world, animate memories endowed with just a glimmer of thought, an atom of being. Yet even they felt an unfamiliar chill spreading through every artery of the house. “What is this?” asked Sir William, in the church tower. “Who is she, to come here and disturb us—we who have been here so long? This is all that we have.”
“I do not know,” said the goblin, “but when she passes, I feel a draft blowing straight from eternity.”
The ghost faded from view, fearful or ineffectual, and the goblin skulked the passageways, alone with his dread. At last he went back to the cellar, drawn, as are all werefolk, by the imminence of strong magic, mesmerized and repelled.
She wore a green dress that appeared to have no seams, adhering to her body like a living growth, whispering when she moved. There were threads of dull red in the material like the veins in a leaf. Her shadow leaped from wall to wall as she lit the candles, and her hair lifted although the air was stifling and still. The cat followed her, its skin puckered into gooseflesh, arching its back against her legs. There was a smell in the cellar that did not belong there, a smell of roots and earth and uncurling fronds: the goblin was an indoor creature and it took him a while to identify it, although his elongated nose quivered with more-than-human sensitivity. He avoided looking at the woman directly, lest she feel his gaze. Instead he watched her sidelong, catching the flicker of white fingers as she touched flasks and pots, checking their contents, unscrewing the occasional lid, sniffing, replacing. And all the while she talked to her feline companion in a ripple of soft words. These herbs are running low … the slumbertop toadstools are too dry … these worm eggs will hatch if the air reaches them … At the end of one shelf he saw a jar he had not noticed before, containing what looked like a pair of eyeballs floating in some clear fluid. He could see the brown circle of iris and the black pupil, and broken fragments of blood vessels trailing around them. He knew they could not be alive, but they hung against the gl
ass, fixed on her, moving when she moved …
He drew back, covering his face, afraid even to brush her thought with his crooked stare. When he looked again, she was standing by a long table. It was entirely taken up by an irregular object some six feet in length, bundled in cloth. Very carefully she uncovered it, crooning as if to a child, and Dibbuck smelled the odor more strongly the smell of a hungry forest, where the trees claw at one another in their fight to reach the sun. Her back was turned toward him, screening much of the object from his view, but he could make out a few slender branches, a torn taproot, leaves that trembled at her caress. She moistened it with drops from various bottles, murmuring a singsong chant that might have been part spell, part lullaby. It had no tune, but its tunelessness invaded the goblin’s head, making him dizzy. When she had finished she covered the sapling again, taking care not to tear even the corner of a leaf.
He thought muzzily: It is evil. It should be destroyed. But his small store of courage and resource was almost exhausted.
“The workmen come tomorrow,” she told the cat. “They will repair the conservatory, making it proof against weather and watching eyes. Then my Tree may grow in safety once more.” The cat mewed, a thin, angry sound. The woman threw back her head as if harkening to some distant cry, and the candle flames streamed sideways, and a wind blew from another place, tasting of dankness and dew, and leaf shadows scurried across the floor. Then she laughed, and all was quiet.
