So what happened? I discovered, as a more cynical octogenarian, that the memory of my teens was too rosy. That first stanza remains lovely, but the rest of the poem is disjointed and vastly incomplete. After further description of the pleasure dome and river, and some nice references such as “...haunted by woman wailing for her demon lover” and “It was a miracle of rare device,/ A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!” it introduces from nowhere the vision of the damsel with the dulcimer. What has a vision of an Abyssinian girl to do with Xanadu? Then again from nowhere, “And all should cry, Beware! Beware!/ His flashing eyes, his floating hair!” Who was that? My guess is the demon lover the other woman is wailing for, who on honeydew has fed, and drunk the milk of paradise. Maybe he has left her to pursue the damsel with the dulcimer, the heel. And there the poem ends, providing no answers. It is indeed a fragment, as the author says.
So, what happened? Well, Coleridge has answer: that he was medicated with opium, slept several hours, dreamed of Xanadu, woke and hastily scribbled down the words before they could be forgotten—then was interrupted by a person from the neighboring village of Porlock, on business, who detained him for an hour. Then he returned to finish recording the marvelous vision, but it had faded and he was able to write no more. What a loss! So he published the fragment that he had, and moved on; what else could he do? Fie on that lout from Porlock!
So, why am I cynical? Because literary research has shown that there was more fiction in the explanation than in the poem itself. Porlock never happened. He devised it to explain why his effort was so fragmented. Okay, I’m a writer, not a poet, but there’s a parallel. I can appreciate what really happened: Coleridge had a marvelous notion, based on recent research he had been doing on scattered things like Kubla Khan and even the water caves of Florida, yes, where I live. He started putting it together, but the reality of his writing did not match the magnitude of his dream and he had to give it up. That happens; ask any creative writer or pothead. We blame it on the inadequacy of the language. Still, there were elements that he did not want to give up entirely, so he published what he had, with his manufactured excuse. And, I must say, even that fragment is compelling; consider the profound effect it had on me. So I don’t condemn him, but neither do I praise him unduly. He wrote some great poems; this just wasn’t one of them, unfortunately.
So we late time novelists made of it what we could, animating the Abyssinian damsel and the demon who wanted to be her lover, rescuing the one and abolishing the other in standard tale-telling style. I’m sure the lady thanks us, and the demon curses us. Her kind surely became fans, while his kind became critics. Now you know the rest of the story, to a degree.
If you enjoyed this novel and want to know more of me, you can check my website at www.HiPiers.com, where I do a monthly blog-type column and maintain an ongoing survey of electronic publishers for the benefit of aspiring writers. Writers need all the help they can get, from Coleridge’s day to ours. We never have all the fans we want, or as few critics.
This book was proofread by Scott M Ryan and Anne White, who catch the myriad errors I miss.
Also available:
The Worm Returns
by Piers Anthony and
J.R. Rain
(read on for a sample)
Chapter 1: Bad Buffalo
Bad Buffalo.
The name alone is enough to send shivers down the backs of most men.
Bad Buffalo.
His reign of terror is known throughout the West (and three states in the East).
Bad Buffalo.
He is the meanest, baddest, toughest, roughest, cruelest, smelliest and loudest outlaw the West has ever known.
And when Bad Buffalo comes to town...well, most people get going. Out of town, that is.
Well, now! Little did Bad Buffalo know that his reign of terror as the dirtiest and downright most unpleasant human being in the West (and three states to the East) was about to come to an end...
***
Bad Buffalo saw a squirrel. He grinned.
(It was an ugly grin for two reasons: one, because Bad Buffalo had horribly rotten teeth. And two, whenever Bad Buffalo grinned, well, there was bound to be trouble!)
The squirrel was pushing fat acorns from one side of the branch to the other, and depositing them into a hollow knot. The busy squirrel was preparing for the coming winter.
Bad Buffalo, riding easily upon his huge black mount, slid free his long-barreled pistol and took aim. There, propped on the squirrel’s little head was an acorn. The scene reminded Bad Buffalo of the time he’d seen an Indian lady carrying fruit on her head in a reed basket.
(Bad Buffalo had, of course, proceeded to take the basket and eat all seventeen of the apples and eleven of the peaches, all while holding the lady at gunpoint. Bad Buffalo strikes again!)
The outlaw took careful aim, sighting the squirrel along the polished pistol barrel (his guns were always polished), and slowly squeezed the trigger. He always squeezed slowly when possible. The shot rang out. The acorn blew to smithereens.
The squirrel, clearly caught by surprise, didn’t move. In fact, its little squirrel paws were still raised above its little squirrel head, now holding air, rather than an acorn. Now, it lowered its fists, and turned slowly to stare at Bad Buffalo.
Bad Buffalo had the squirrel in his sights. He cocked the hammer back, and took careful aim.
But the gunslinger, who had the instincts of a native, sensed something was off. For starters, why was the squirrel staring at him? And rather angrily, too? Why hadn’t the little bugger dashed off, as squirrels are wont to do? Bad Buffalo lowered his weapons and thought about it. In all his years of mischief, Bad Buffalo had never seen a creature act so brazenly brave.
(Speaking of years, Bad Buffalo had no idea how old he was. Once he tried to figure it out but he couldn’t get past eight, for that was the highest he could count. So, when the topic of how old Bad Buffalo was ever came up—and he answered eight—you’d be best advised not to snicker. If Bad Buffalo said he was eight, then he was eight. Hell, if Bad Buffalo said you were eight, then you were eight. You see, Bad Buffalo had never in his life lost an argument—and he let his pistols do most of the talking!)
The outlaw maneuvered his big black mustang, Horse, over to the squirrel’s tree. Bad Buffalo was an expert rider, among the many other things he was good at. He stared up at the squirrel and frowned.
“That was very rude,” said a voice.
Bad Buffalo whipped his head around to and fro. His pistol was already cocked and ready. “Who said that?” demanded Bad Buffalo.
“I did!”
Bad Buffalo jumped off Horse and crouched low to the ground, his alarm bells sounding loudly in his head now.
“I’m up here, not down there!”
Bad Buffalo swung his gun up, his movements fast, practiced. An attacker would already be dead. But he didn’t see an attacker. He only saw the same stupid squirrel standing there. His every instinct told him that he’d ridden into some sort of a trap, although he found that extremely hard to believe, considering he’d never been trapped before. Not to mention, this secret route through the Rocky Mountains was known only to him. Or so he’d thought.
“That was my favorite acorn,” said the squirrel.
Am I dreaming? thought Bad Buffalo.
“I was dreaming of that acorn until you shot it.”
Bad Buffalo’s mouth had long since fallen open. Had the squirrel just read his mind? His gun began wavering in his hands. His gun never, ever wavered. Not even once. Always, he held it with a sure grip.
“By my reckoning, you owe me one acorn. One big, fat, nutty acorn. And an apology, too!”
Bad Buffalo blinked. He tried to get his tongue working, but it faltered.
“I’m waiting,” said the squirrel, and now, it crossed its little arms over its little furry chest.
Had he taken a fall from Horse and hit his head? The last time Bad Buffalo had taken a fall from Hors
e, was never. And the last time he’d hit his head—in a shootout at Tombstone—he’d cracked a boulder in half.
“Why don’t you crack me open a big fat nut, you big fat dope?”
Bad Buffalo wasn’t used to name calling. Or having something read his mind. Bad Buffalo considered his many options—four of them included putting some hot lead into the mouthy squirrel—and finally decided against it. The outlaw had, after all, destroyed a perfectly good acorn. The squirrel had a point.
“Well, I suppose I am sorry for shooting the acorn off of your head, although it was an impressive shot.”
“Hmm...”
“Hmm what?” asked Bad Buffalo.
“That wasn’t much of an apology.”
“It was my first apology. And I don’t handle criticism very well.”
“No, I don’t suppose you do. Very well, I accept your apology. Now, you need to find me a new acorn.”
“Well, there are acorns everywhere—”
“A perfect acorn. One that was just as good or better than the one you recklessly destroyed. But good luck. It took me days to find that—”
“How about this one?” asked Bad Buffalo, holding up a particularly round and large acorn. Bad Buffalo had always been a little lucky, too.
The squirrel dashed along the narrow branch and examined the proffered acorn. The critter looked at it this way and that, and finally nodded. “I must say, that might just be the most perfect acorn I’ve ever seen.”
“So we’re even?” asked Bad Buffalo.
“Yes, I suppose we are. Just please be more careful next time.”
He nodded and said he would, and discovered, to his surprise, that he quite liked talking to the little squirrel. Still, Bad Buffalo was never one to stay in one spot for too long, and so he adjusted his hat, dusted himself off, wished the squirrel a good day, and hopped perfectly up into the saddle. Horse snorted as Bad Buffalo took the reins.
“Good day, little squirrel.”
“Wait!”
Bad Buffalo had already turned Horse in the direction he wanted to go. He looked back at the little squirrel. “Yeah?”
The squirrel leaped from the low branch to the ground. “You’re pretty good with that gun.”
“I think, maybe, I’m the best. No one else seems to shoot faster or straighter. I hope I don’t sound like I’m bragging. Momma always told me not to brag—”
It was at that moment that Bad Buffalo questioned his sanity. After all, talking to a squirrel was bad enough, but seeing it turn into a beautiful woman was quite another. A smallish woman with a full figure. Dressed only in well-placed leaves.
“We could use a man like you,” she said.
Bad Buffalo found speaking impossible.
The woman bowed. “I am Dia, a forest sprite, and we are in trouble.”
Chapter 2: Dia Sprite
Dia finished her bow, and Bad Buffalo managed to yank his eyes from her revealing décolletage. Those leaves did not cling that closely. “My name is short for Diana, meaning ‘pure goddess of the moon.’ I’m not a goddess, and the moon is far away, but I like the association.”
Now, he saw that she had luxuriant light-blue hair to her waist, with eyes to match.
Light blue?
She saw his surprise. “I’m a blueberry blonde, as befits a creature of nature,” she said defensively. “Do you have a problem with that?”
He finally found his voice. “Uh, no. It’s—it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you. I can change it if you want. I’m not a natural blonde. In fact, I’m not a natural girl, by your definition. I’m a sprite, a kind of nymph. My details are not fixed.”
“Don’t change a thing,” he said quickly. “Except maybe your size. You’re sort of small.”
“I can explain that, if you’re interested. But first I need to know if you really want to help us.”
The more he looked at her, the more he wanted to help her. So he got to the point. “What kind of trouble are you in?”
“Magic trouble.”
Dang. “I don’t do magic. It’s mostly fake.”
“I’m not fake!”
Bad Buffalo backed off, something he was not good at. “I mean what regular human folk do.”
Dia nodded. “What humans practice is mostly fake, because the magic is almost gone. That’s the problem.”
“In fact there really ain’t no such thing as magic, with us. Just clever card sharps. I’ve plugged more than one who thought to cheat me.”
“Good for you. However, what we sprites practice is real magic. But it’s running out, and I think we need a man like you to save what little is left.”
Bad Buffalo liked the look of her, but not her crazy talk. Save something that didn’t exist in the real world? So he tried to shut her up. “What’s in it for me?”
Dia eyed him speculatively. “I proffer tangible appreciation for your service on our behalf.”
He actually understood the words, but they could apply to anything from a payoff in gold coins to a sincere thank you. “What’s that in human lingo?”
“I will lend you my feminine favors.”
If that was what it might be, he definitely was interested. “What favors?”
“I will be your girlfriend.”
But for some girls, that merely meant saying hello without flinching when they passed each other in the street. “What kind of girlfriend?”
“We will make physical love.”
This was getting closer, but he wanted to be sure. “Try again, in bad-ass talk.”
She almost smiled. “My plump little ass will be yours for a poke, you horny hobo.”
Well, now. He was definitely interested. But there was always a “but.” “Where’s the but?”
“Right here,” she said, slapping her behind.
Oho! She thought he’d said “butt.” It would do. But he still needed clarification. “I mean, dolls like you don’t just give it out for free. There’s always wiggle room. What’s yours?”
“Certainly I can wiggle it,” she said, and did so most provocatively.
“You’re teasing me. What are you hiding?”
She became two sizes larger, and her leaves dropped off so that she was splendidly nude. Especially as she breathed. “Nothing.”
“There’s no catch? Come on, you want me to do something for you, you have to play straight with me. I’ve seen teases before, plenty of them. I want the straight goods, or I’m outta here.”
“You’re pretty canny.”
“I’ve been called hundreds of names, none of them good, but nobody ever called me stupid. Not for long. Out with it.”
“There is a caution,” she agreed reluctantly. “You, me, as we are now—it simply wouldn’t work.”
He sighed. He had known she wouldn’t give him anything real. Women never did, except the whorehouse hussies, and even they were reluctant unless he paid double. “I guess I know why. Women tell me I’m ugly, mean, dirty, smelly and worse. They’re right.”
“Yes, you are close to nature. I love that.”
He was caught completely off guard. “Huh?”
“I have seen human women. There’s no soil on them, and they smell like artificial roses. They are miles from nature. It’s a wonder a man can touch them without leaving smears on their polish. You are not at all like that. You are a man dipped deeply in the essence of nature. The kind of man I could love.”
Was he dreaming? “You—you like a dirty man?”
“Yes. I’m an earth creature. That’s why I’m so sad that it wouldn’t work. Not yet, anyway.”
“What wouldn’t work? You let me get hold of you, you saucy little piece, and I guarantee things will work.”
Now she sighed. “I will have to show you. Take hold of me.”
Bad Buffalo strode forward and put his arms around her evocative body. He hugged her. And his hands passed through her without resistance. “Huh?”
“You see?” she asked, her sweet lips half ov
erlapping his nose. “I lack substance. I am frustrated too. I need my full quota of magic in order to fill out completely. As it is, I must be small and solid, or large and diffuse. I might as well be vapor.”
“Vapor,” he echoed, stunned. “How come?”
“As I said, our magic has been depleted,” she said, literally in his ear. “We will soon enough fade out entirely unless the dreadful course is reversed. That’s why we need a man like you.”
His mind remained bemused. There she was, in his embrace, overlapping him, yet also untouchable. “Don’t you mean ‘dreadful curse’?”
“That too,” she agreed. “The course is a curse.”
“How can I get you your magic back?” Because now he really wanted her to be solid.
“My magic will grow back naturally, in time,” she said to his neck. “Once we solve the problem. Then I will be able to not only change my appearance—illusion is much of what I have in my depleted state, because it’s cheap magic—and size and form, and to fly, but to do real substantive magic and be generally more impressive.”