digital sketch. 2005.

Detail here.

2005 was a crazy year for me. I was taking my first digital illustration class.
Sorry for the crudeness of the effort; my ambition generally outstrips my
ability with new mediums. Mostly though, it's about the story - which follows.

= = = = =


"Dese walks o' yern always tires me out," Twombly said, slouching languidly
atop his friend's back. She turned her ears and snorted, "I don't see why -
I carry you everywhere!" Twombly patted her, and his gauntlet thudded
against her stone body.

"S'nots me feets dat's aching, pebble." He wiggled his bony little rump over
the rise of her spine and grunted, "In facts, if'n yer not minding, 'owsabout
we pause a spell. Twombly needs ter stretch a bit."

She padded off the path and settled near a drooping willow. Here in this part
of the marsh, willows were everywhere, swaying and sighing in the breeze -
almost dancing in it. She settled without warning, which toppled the little
demon from her haunches. He cursed all the way down, much to her
amusement. She sniffed at the night air. It was a windy, dark night; night
like velvet above the canopy, and with the fullest moon this year. Round and
bright, the moon lit the night as though day. She curled her toes into the
earth and raised her muzzle to howl.

"Oy, oy! Wutzall dis racket 'bout!" Twombly plugged his fingers to his ears
and grimaced, looking around, then up as he followed her gaze. He had to
sway back to see all the way up at the moon. Lota ground within herself,
stone upon stone, and she poured out a howl richly resonant and choral.
When she finished, she licked her chops and dropped into a pose like a
sphinx. She felt deliciously alive.

Twombly unpopped his ears. "Yappin' ats th'big moon like dawn's bloody
cock!" He pshawed it all away dismissively, "I oftin wonders if youn ever
once twere trewly a high Hound to this Vicar hisself as yew so claim."

He huffed and rubbed his bottom with both hands, kneading the life back
into numb flesh. The demon doubled over at the waist, and he leaned this
way and that. He hopped about on one leg and then the other. He puffed
his cheeks with exertion. Lota crossed her forelegs to watch him stretch, still
buzzing and warm inside.

She had indeed been one of the Vicar's Hounds - not his favourite, nor his
most cunning at sport - but she undeniably bore the mark, and she could
still dimly recall the press of his soft hand to her head. She also
remembered the thrilling sensation of prey cornered and wet at the end of
the chase - the rush of power, and again the tempering press of his soft
hand to her head, approving of the hunt.

Fresh winds gusted about them, and the willows rustled secrets to each other,
dancing and serpentine. She was here in this marsh, under a moon that
dazzled, with her silly little armoured protector and the mark still blazing on
her face. She was alive and far, far from the Vicar's kennel and the frenzy of
the hunt - her mind was her own.

Twombly hummed a little tune to himself and had just finished a set of
refreshing hip thrusts when his travelling companion then howled again. He
picked up his pitchfork and leaned against it, contemplating her and
scratching idly at his beak.

He had found her, inert, abandoned, toppled over among the ruins of
empire. Over the years, raiders and looters had long since plucked the
obvious choice remnants of glory; the gilded and glazed baubles. Lota
however was hardly worth a second glance, crudely hewn as she was. Finer
statuary had been carted away, but Lota had lain abandoned for ages.
Untouched and dimissed, she was simply too crude to matter. Once a
traveller had used her side as a low bench, another had skinned a rabbit
upon her flank. Another time a thief had buried a gold coin beneath her,
smugly certain of his hiding place.

In her prime, when the hunts were grand, regular festivals, she had been
adorned with flowers, painted and polished.

And then one raining, grey and formless day, Twombly staggered into the
ruins. He was ragged and torn. He was followed by the hunters of his kind.
But they were "hunters" in name only - not at all like the Vicar and his fine
men of a bygone age. These shoddy hunters had only real, fleshy dogs that
were useless in the rain; barking, clumsy, stupid tools. Weak from his
wounds, Twombly lurched over to where she lay inert and abandoned. With
his fork he pried her up and fell into the shallow space dug beneath her. And
there he bled in darkness.

And his blood that splashed her was the blood of one chased, not the blood of one captured.

It roused her after countless years, and she gnashed her teeth with the old
familiar scent in her nostrils. The Vicar's mark flared to life, a blazing sigil -
much to the surprise of all who beheld her in the mud and the rain.

She was Lota, one of the Vicar's Hounds risen, and she had the scent of prey
upon her.

She waited then for the horn to signal the chase, but it never came. There
was no horn, and there was no soft hand at her nape. There was only grey
rain and shocked pale faces, a small demon dying in the mud and the
baying din of inane dogs that mocked her station with their similarity and
inferiority. She had no guidance, and so the first true decision she ever
made was to destroy this trifling hunt, for it was blasphemous and pathetic.
The men and their dogs all fell quickly to tatters.

But then, there was still no horn and no soft hand of approval. She was
lost. She had to think for herself. Her second decision was to shelter the
prey from the rain.

Twombly recovered, and proved himself to be a creature of honor. She had
saved his life, and so he pledged his existance to serve as her protector.
He felt no awe at her mark. He knew nothing of her time. When he thought
he was being charming he called her "pebble", and he was vaguely
annoying.

It was his hunted blood that had roused her, and so it would be his death -
the conclusion of the hunt - that would surely return her to endless torpor.
She would never mention this to him.

* * *


"Lets us be off, den!" He said and vaulted onto her back. He hitched his
heels at her sides as if it mattered, and she turned into the wind, catching
the scent of water ahead - perhaps a lake? a river? She felt sure that towards
water lay answers, and the scent of it had pulled her in this direction for days
now. She could feel Twombly squirming on her shoulders, dancing and
humming to himself as usual. It was a jaunty tune in a language she did not
know, but his high spirits made it amusing to hear.

* * *

Up ahead, through the gloom and blown branches, she spied pinpricks of
light; a few at first, then a multitude.

"Twombly," she whispered. She paused, holding perfectly still. Immovably
still and alert. The demon had fallen asleep, but he roused and rubbed his
eyes, peering up over her head.

"Mngrk? Whussut? I muster dozed offs. Are we ders, yet?"

She didn't reply but held her pose and watched the lights sway and bob up
ahead, drawing closer. Torch light, it seemed, perhaps there was a village
nearby. Perhaps more hunters. She strained her ears; ears that could hear
the fear pounding in a sparrow's heart from a thousand paces. Nothing came
to her on the wind. She heard only Twombly's snorts and ragged breathing.
He squinted through her ears at the fires approaching.

"Ho now, Lota! Me thinks deres gon' be a treat fer us'n tonights!" He cackled
sharply, much to her surprise. He drummed his small armoured hands on
her forehead. She shook him off and looked again. The fires were closer
now, spread wide throughout the wooded marsh but as silent as ever.
Bobbing up and down as though held high.

"Ow! Whutchers do dats fer?" Twombly sat up in the mud, speckled with it
and moonlight. He hopped to his feet and raised onto his toes to see any
farther. He licked his lips.

"What do you mean? I don't know what is approaching, should we run?" She
meant this for his sake. She feared nothing herself, but she was uncertain
of her ability to protect him against an unknown threat. The demon glanced
at her then seemed to understand, his little face splitting wide with a grin. He
slapped his thigh.

"Aha! Howsbout dat! Whut? Haintcher never fore seen a swoop of fire ducks?"
He cackled and danced around in a circle, brandishing his fork. He jabbed
and twirled with it, plucking invisible targets from the air. Lota's ears flicked
with annoyance. She looked again.

Indeed, what she had previously seen as torches held high were instead,
inexplicably, a flock of ducks on fire! And eerily silent ducks, at that. They
flew slowly in broad formation; they flapped their wings in a slow rhythm that
did not match their actual speed. She ran ahead to meet them, followed by
Twombly who was already tying a small handkerchief around his neck. He
chortled with glee.

"And 'ere me finkin every sot'd knows bouts fire ducks. Even littluns knows
th'tune!" He burst into song, scuffling close to her heels:

Fire duck, fire duck, quack quack quack.
Charred cinderfeathers of soot and black.
When th'other ducks all fly down south,
Ashes, ashes goes in me mouth.

By now they had reached the first of the birds. They were ghostly and silent
as the grave. They flew overhead at a snail's pace, and there were
thousands of them, all moving in unison. Lota sat to marvel at the
procession. The fires did not illuminate around them. The birds gave no
scent.

"Are they spirits?" She asked, suspecting. Twombly couldn't exactly answer.
He had his large fork in his teeth and was busy climbing up a nearby tree to
get closer. Upon reaching a likely branch he spat out his weapon and
stepped awkwardly out along the swaying limb. He held his fork before him
for balance and gingerly made his way. He talked as he moved, looking
down with ernest concentration.

"Not 'sactly, pebble. Sees, story as twere told t'me issat once dere twas dese
two duckies - madly in love n' all dat. Newlyweds or summint likes dat,
dunno. And th'one duck be daft as rocks (no offense) while th'other got
some bit o' sense. Anyhoo soes th'one duck says to th'other, 'Oy! Let's boo
to dis migratin bollocks and stay 'ere fer th'winter - jess you'n me, cozy-like.'
And th'other more sensible duck says, 'Oh chickiechick, we'll freezes our
arsesses off, we will. But I'll stay if you stay.'"

Twombly had by now tip-toed out as far as he dared, clinging from stem to
jutting stem. The branch bucked and swayed in the breeze. The little demon
scanned the passing, flaming fowl - he seemed to be searching for
something in particular. Lota wagged and listened, enjoying the strange tale
and the sight. She also stood ready to catch her rotund companion should he
fall, which seemed increasingly likely the futher out he crept.

He continued, "So dey agrees to stays put when winter comes. Alla other
duckies hightail it south but dese two, see? And o'course it gets icy, and alls
th'food runs out - love don't heat empty bellies! Meanwhiles dere's dis
foxfeller dat shows up, and he's sniffin round hungry and such too. He sees
th'two lovebirds out trying to scrounge some green grass. He says, 'Hoo, yew
duckies! What's yewsall doin stills here? Tut tut, come to me home, and I'll
keeps yer warmern yer motherns eggy womb.' And so th'one daft duck says
to th'other, 'What a nice chap he is, innit? Let's get outta dis nasty weather,
yes?" And the other more sensible duck says, 'Oh chickiechick, he'll eats us
alive, I jess knows it. But I'll go, if you go.'"

Twombly squat low and held his balance on the shifting limb. He still scanned
the ducks intently, but Lota could not pick out what he was looking for; they
all looked the same to her. By now, the massive flock had spread throughout
the woods as far as she could see in all directions, like silent floating
lanterns.

"Does the fox kill them," she asked, wagging and enjoying the spectacle.

"Patience, pebble," the little demon replied, brandishing his pitchfork. He
pumped his legs to swing the branch in a wide arc towards an oncoming duck.
The bird made no notice of him, and Twombly leaned out like a whaler at the
starboard bow. He cast his pole-arm with a grunt. The sharp prongs sunk
into the bird, and it puffed into a cloud of ashes and embers, engulfing the
little demon. He sputtered and flailed, he gagged fitfully and tangled about
the branch to keep his balance. Lota could not help chuckling, and he
scowled, embarrassed. In a flash, he was back on his feet, pushing the
branch into another arc, and riding it near to another bird.

He continued, "So, th'foxer gennelman takes th'two to his den and shows
thems th'kitchen. 'Into here,' he says, and he opens th'oven door, 'Into
here ands yewl be toasty in no time.' And blahser, blahser, dem duckies chat
it out. A'course th'daft one wants t'go in and reckons all dere prollems twere
good as solved. Th'other tis more wary but still follers along. Next thing dey
knows, CLANK goes th'oven door and up comes the flames.'"

Twombly rode the branch in a dramatic arc, sweeping past a passing duck
and jabbing at it. It fell to ashes as well but this time he managed to dodge
the billowing soot. Immediately he was already working his legs on the
branch to swing it to the next target.

"Then they died," Lota concluded. Twombly nodded, his eyes fixed at the
end of his fork.

"Oh aye, dey perished; poor critters. But th'shame of it don't ends dere,
nawp. The foxiefox tweren't no good inna kitchen afters all, and soes he
went and ruint his supper, burning those ducks to char whiles he napped and
dreamed, drooling." The demon cackled; he struck down another duck into
ashes.

"How dreadful," exclamed Lota. "And what does any of that have to do with
these phantasms? There are so many here, more than just two - how can
they be the ghosts of those two ducks?"

On a clumsy strike, Twombly lost his balance completely, and he fell, wailing.
Lota deftly snatched him into her jaws just in time and set him down. He
dusted himself off, and gestured at the mass of birds. "Well, ifs yew look, y'll
see dat it taint a dozen different birds, but th'same bird over n'over.
Dat deres th'ghost of th'agreeable one with a bit o' sense. But you kin see
dey're alls smokes and dust; not fit t'eat. But somewheres in dis mob tis
th'restless soul of th'dippy one dat gottem inter dere troubles inna first
place. And dat one's sposda be right succurlent n'juicy under aller black
char."

"You mean you've never caught it?"

"Nawp, but I heard tell of some folkses wot have. It'll be th'one bird movin
diffrintly from th'rest. And it's said dat catchins it brings good lucks for
th'whole winter season!"

"But there are thousands here."

"Ayup, but nows dat we founders it, we gots all night t'sorts out th'meaty
one fors a snack! Dese floaty mobs kin last hours!"

* * *

In the morning, both were covered with soot from head to toe. Lota did her
chasing with her muzzle, and so she had a mouth full of bitter ashes.
Eventually Twombly did, too - having become frustrated using his fork, he
had resorted to simply hurling himself bodily at the spectres.

They never did catch the duck they were after (Twombly in particular awoke
still as hungry as ever), but they had enjoyed a night in good company and
the bright full moon.