Tag Archives: fantasy

To Begin

To Begin

Chapter 1 of The Key To Caerwyn, To Begin

A person and his story.

The Key To Caewyn is an original work of genre-spanning fiction written by Wendy Fehr and serialized for podcast by Shifterspress .  The Key To Caerwyn is narrated by Mason Fehr with original music provided by Sarina Fehr.

The Key to Caerwyn

I am launching my latest work in podcast format with the first chapter set for release this month! I thought you might enjoy a “sneak-peek”.

Chapter One: To Begin:

Let me paint you a picture. There is a single door in the darkness and a man steps through it with something small and fragile cradled in one arm. When the door opens, there is a flood of light in the darkness—a blade, a bullet of shining brightness—but as soon as the door closes, the light is gone. You are suddenly cut off, wondering what could have shone like that, with more colours than stained glass and rainbows put together, more colours than you have ever seen on a shining screen, a few less than you have dreamt.

The man that remains is a stretched-thin black—a dusty, worn black—and in the dim light he blends into the corners of the shadows and reminds you that there is such a thing as darkness.

How do you describe him? Everything you come across in your musings—tall, perhaps, or brooding, or maybe dour, or grim—sounds suspiciously like something you’ve heard or read or dreamt before—but at one glance you can tell that he is not any of these things, and yet he is all of them. He reminds you of the smell of old leather, perhaps, or the stone of an ancient tombstone, or the feel of musty paper in a used-book store. Perhaps, you will think, he looks like your own reflection, on a night when you pass a mirror, half asleep and unawares, and nearly scream at the eyeless, masked apparition that is you.

Yes. He could be that.

He takes a long look around and blinks slowly, squinting and trying to see in this dimness you call light. The bundle in his arm shifts and squirms and tries to move, as if it is in fact capable of escape. It is not. He has made it so, though it will cost him much more than he is willing to admit. Now it is harmless, slowly growing lesser and lesser, as if it is losing the outlines that define it, or as though someone has smudged an eraser over its identity. Soon it will be no more than an idea, blending into an abstract concept—no more than a dull shadow amongst the other shadows. It quiets, and is still, and the man looks up. He tucks something into his pocket, and it disappears in a flash of silver and a fold of shade.

Then the man is gone, in a shimmer of air and a ripple of ink, and you are just remembering that the sky is overcast and it looks like it will rain, and then you recall that you have errands to run and dinner to get back to…

You will not remember me until much later, and then you will sit up in bed and think what was that? I’m certain it’s important.
But it will seem like a dream to you, and by the time you wake tomorrow morning you won’t remember me at all.