[stylist] stylist Digest, Vol 72, Issue 3

[Kristen Diaz]

Thank you,  Lori, for your comments!

On 4/4/10, stylist-request at nfbnet.org <stylist-request at nfbnet.org> wrote:
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> Today's Topics:
>
>    1. Reintroducing Myself (Joe Orozco)
>    2. Re: Reintroducing Myself (Shelley J. Alongi)
>    3. Re: Interesting book: Biography of the Blind (Shelley J. Alongi)
>    4. Re: Reintroducing Myself (Robert Leslie Newman)
>    5. Re: Interesting book: Biography of the Blind
>       (Robert Leslie Newman)
>    6. Re: Happy Passover or Happy Easter (loristay)
>    7. Re: Happy Passover or Happy Easter (loristay)
>    8. Re: The Elves of the Magic Mirrors (loristay)
>
>
> ----------------------------------------------------------------------
>
> Message: 1
> Date: Sat, 3 Apr 2010 19:20:00 -0400
> From: "Joe Orozco" <jsorozco at gmail.com>
> To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: [stylist] Reintroducing Myself
> Message-ID: <AC1E364E1B354B229F77B5647AA61116 at Rufus>
> Content-Type: text/plain;	charset="us-ascii"
>
> Hello all,
>
> I left the list sometime ago and am now returning to see what's what.  In
> terms of writing, I am a development coordinator for a national consumer
> protection group and run a freelance communications business on the side.
> Though not all, much of this involves dry writing, and I'm hoping the list
> will help me find my creative juices again.  I've picked up a novel I
> started a while back and have made myself a promise to finish it this year.
> I don't know if at the end the piece will be worth publishing, but half my
> challenge is just finishing the various pieces I've started.  At any rate, I
> look forward to some good give and take and look forward to getting to know
> everyone again.
>
> Best,
>
> Joe
>
> "Hard work spotlights the character of people: some turn up their sleeves,
> some turn up their noses, and some don't turn up at all."--Sam Ewing
>
>
> __________ Information from ESET NOD32 Antivirus, version of virus signature
> database 4997 (20100403) __________
>
> The message was checked by ESET NOD32 Antivirus.
>
> http://www.eset.com
>
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 2
> Date: Sat, 3 Apr 2010 18:21:38 -0700
> From: "Shelley J. Alongi" <qobells at roadrunner.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Reintroducing Myself
> Message-ID: <00b401cad395$2cfd5c30$0200000a at DDF55J31>
> Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset="iso-8859-1";
> 	reply-type=original
>
> Joe, Welcome. Nice quote. I'm the editor of "Slate and Style" our Writers'
> Division magazine. Hope we can help you find your creative juices again.
> Shelley J. Alongi
> Home Office: (714)869-3207
> **
> NFBWD "Slate and Style" editor
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
>
> **
> "What sparked your interest in trains?"
> "The face of an engineer who knew he was going to get killed by a freight
> train."
> ---SJA for anyone who wants to know
> To read essays on my journey through the Chatsworth train accident, train
> travel, and now meeting the engineers, Metrolink 111 or other interests
> click on
> http://www.storymania.com/cgibin/sm2/smshowauthorbox.cgi?page=&author=AlongiSJ&alpha=A
>
> updated November 1, 2009
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "Joe Orozco" <jsorozco at gmail.com>
> To: <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Sent: Saturday, April 03, 2010 4:20 PM
> Subject: [stylist] Reintroducing Myself
>
>
>> Hello all,
>>
>> I left the list sometime ago and am now returning to see what's what.  In
>> terms of writing, I am a development coordinator for a national consumer
>> protection group and run a freelance communications business on the side.
>> Though not all, much of this involves dry writing, and I'm hoping the list
>> will help me find my creative juices again.  I've picked up a novel I
>> started a while back and have made myself a promise to finish it this
>> year.
>> I don't know if at the end the piece will be worth publishing, but half my
>> challenge is just finishing the various pieces I've started.  At any rate,
>>
>> I
>> look forward to some good give and take and look forward to getting to
>> know
>> everyone again.
>>
>> Best,
>>
>> Joe
>>
>> "Hard work spotlights the character of people: some turn up their sleeves,
>> some turn up their noses, and some don't turn up at all."--Sam Ewing
>>
>>
>> __________ Information from ESET NOD32 Antivirus, version of virus
>> signature
>> database 4997 (20100403) __________
>>
>> The message was checked by ESET NOD32 Antivirus.
>>
>> http://www.eset.com
>>
>>
>>
>> _______________________________________________
>> Writers Division web site:
>> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>>
>> stylist mailing list
>> stylist at nfbnet.org
>> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
>> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
>> stylist:
>> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/qobells%40roadrunner.com
>>
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 3
> Date: Sat, 3 Apr 2010 19:20:33 -0700
> From: "Shelley J. Alongi" <qobells at roadrunner.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Interesting book: Biography of the Blind
> Message-ID: <010c01cad39d$68786f90$0200000a at DDF55J31>
> Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed; charset="iso-8859-1";
> 	reply-type=original
>
> Hello Robert, I've been saving this email for a while because it is in
> regard to a book that you obviously found interesting and I wondered if you
> would write a review on it for "Slate and Style" for the summer issue to
> appear just after convention. The review could be 700 to 1000 words. I enjoy
> publishing book reviews in our magazine not necessarily or always bout
> blindness. You did find this book intersting enough to bring it to our
> attention so I wondered if you would write up a review for us. Please let me
> know what you think. If you need help completing it let me know I'll
> certainly be glad to help out.
> Shelley J. Alongi
> Home Office: (714)869-3207
> **
> NFBWD "Slate and Style" editor
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
>
> **
> "What sparked your interest in trains?"
> "The face of an engineer who knew he was going to get killed by a freight
> train."
> ---SJA for anyone who wants to know
> To read essays on my journey through the Chatsworth train accident, train
> travel, and now meeting the engineers, Metrolink 111 or other interests
> click on
> http://www.storymania.com/cgibin/sm2/smshowauthorbox.cgi?page=&author=AlongiSJ&alpha=A
>
> updated November 1, 2009
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "Robert Jaquiss" <rjaquiss at earthlink.net>
> To: "NFBnet Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Sent: Wednesday, June 03, 2009 7:40 PM
> Subject: [stylist] Interesting book: Biography of the Blind
>
>
>> Hello:
>>
>>     I recently started reading the book Biography of the Blind by James
>> Wilson. It is available from NLS in braille and in recorded form. RFB&D
>> also has it. I remember seeing it cited in Dr. Jernigan's 1973 banquet
>> speech, Is History Against Us, but only recently stumbled across it. If
>> you want to read about the lives of an assortment of blind people, give it
>>
>> a read. I think its amazing that James Wilson published it in 1821 and he
>> was totally blind. This means that he had to have people read him all his
>> references and then dictate the contents of the book. Happy reading.
>>
>> Regards,
>>
>> Robert
>> _______________________________________________
>> Writers Division web site:
>> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>>
>> stylist mailing list
>> stylist at nfbnet.org
>> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
>> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
>> stylist:
>> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/qobells%40roadrunner.com
>>
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 4
> Date: Sun, 4 Apr 2010 06:53:05 -0500
> From: "Robert Leslie Newman" <newmanrl at cox.net>
> To: "'Writer's Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Reintroducing Myself
> Message-ID: <230E7A190EB24D5F88750332C6435E27 at RobertLesliePC>
> Content-Type: text/plain;	charset="us-ascii"
>
> Joe
>
> Good for you! You are coming back to your creative side and to us! (Not
> saying that writing for employment/work is not a form of creative writing.
> Over the past month, I spent all my available creative time and juice to put
> together a script for an employment workshop that we here at the Commission
> for the blind are going to present to our consumers. This workshop will be
> entirely interactive, meaning active learning versus passive learning. In
> the past we mostly had speakers, panels and short little technology
> demonstration types of presentations. This one is the consumer being
> required to work through a series of exercises where in they have to write
> down (work literacy is pushed) and discuss their thoughts, understanding
> and preparations for how they measure up in all the basics necessary to be
> your best when you are looking for employment. I have laid out what we feel
> are the main 4 steps in the process to find a job- Are you ready to go to
> work (1. Got your blindness and your life in order),
> 2. Finding openings (knowing what are and how to use the various resources
> out here to find where jobs are), 3. making the initial contact (be it a
> phone call, a face to face, a resume an application and more), 4. Selling
> yourself (all about the interviewing process).
>
> So yeah, I'm working on a couple of books, too. Most of us are. welcome back
>
>
>
>
> Robert Leslie Newman
> President NFB Writers' division
> Writers' Division Website-
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
> Personal Website-
> http://www.thoughtprovoker.info
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
> Behalf Of Joe Orozco
> Sent: Saturday, April 03, 2010 6:20 PM
> To: stylist at nfbnet.org
> Subject: [stylist] Reintroducing Myself
>
> Hello all,
>
> I left the list sometime ago and am now returning to see what's what.  In
> terms of writing, I am a development coordinator for a national consumer
> protection group and run a freelance communications business on the side.
> Though not all, much of this involves dry writing, and I'm hoping the list
> will help me find my creative juices again.  I've picked up a novel I
> started a while back and have made myself a promise to finish it this year.
> I don't know if at the end the piece will be worth publishing, but half my
> challenge is just finishing the various pieces I've started.  At any rate, I
> look forward to some good give and take and look forward to getting to know
> everyone again.
>
> Best,
>
> Joe
>
> "Hard work spotlights the character of people: some turn up their sleeves,
> some turn up their noses, and some don't turn up at all."--Sam Ewing
>
>
> __________ Information from ESET NOD32 Antivirus, version of virus signature
> database 4997 (20100403) __________
>
> The message was checked by ESET NOD32 Antivirus.
>
> http://www.eset.com
>
>
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site:
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/newmanrl%40cox.net
>
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 5
> Date: Sun, 4 Apr 2010 06:55:21 -0500
> From: "Robert Leslie Newman" <newmanrl at cox.net>
> To: "'Writer's Division Mailing List'" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Interesting book: Biography of the Blind
> Message-ID: <3F50FA38422E478DA6A108806E97AE9B at RobertLesliePC>
> Content-Type: text/plain;	charset="us-ascii"
>
> Shelley good idea. Now I'll actually have to take the time to read it! I
> talked about it and was going to start reading it but didn't. So I'll try
> and make the time.
>
>
>
>
>
> Robert Leslie Newman
> President NFB Writers' division
> Writers' Division Website-
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
> Personal Website-
> http://www.thoughtprovoker.info
>
> -----Original Message-----
> From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
> Behalf Of Shelley J. Alongi
> Sent: Saturday, April 03, 2010 9:21 PM
> To: Writer's Division Mailing List
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Interesting book: Biography of the Blind
>
> Hello Robert, I've been saving this email for a while because it is in
> regard to a book that you obviously found interesting and I wondered if you
> would write a review on it for "Slate and Style" for the summer issue to
> appear just after convention. The review could be 700 to 1000 words. I enjoy
> publishing book reviews in our magazine not necessarily or always bout
> blindness. You did find this book intersting enough to bring it to our
> attention so I wondered if you would write up a review for us. Please let me
> know what you think. If you need help completing it let me know I'll
> certainly be glad to help out.
> Shelley J. Alongi
> Home Office: (714)869-3207
> **
> NFBWD "Slate and Style" editor
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org
>
> **
> "What sparked your interest in trains?"
> "The face of an engineer who knew he was going to get killed by a freight
> train."
> ---SJA for anyone who wants to know
> To read essays on my journey through the Chatsworth train accident, train
> travel, and now meeting the engineers, Metrolink 111 or other interests
> click on
> http://www.storymania.com/cgibin/sm2/smshowauthorbox.cgi?page=&author=Alongi
> SJ&alpha=A
>
> updated November 1, 2009
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: "Robert Jaquiss" <rjaquiss at earthlink.net>
> To: "NFBnet Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Sent: Wednesday, June 03, 2009 7:40 PM
> Subject: [stylist] Interesting book: Biography of the Blind
>
>
>> Hello:
>>
>>     I recently started reading the book Biography of the Blind by James
>> Wilson. It is available from NLS in braille and in recorded form. RFB&D
>> also has it. I remember seeing it cited in Dr. Jernigan's 1973 banquet
>> speech, Is History Against Us, but only recently stumbled across it. If
>> you want to read about the lives of an assortment of blind people, give it
>
>> a read. I think its amazing that James Wilson published it in 1821 and he
>> was totally blind. This means that he had to have people read him all his
>> references and then dictate the contents of the book. Happy reading.
>>
>> Regards,
>>
>> Robert
>> _______________________________________________
>> Writers Division web site:
>> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>>
>> stylist mailing list
>> stylist at nfbnet.org
>> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
>> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
>> stylist:
>>
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/qobells%40roadrunne
> r.com
>
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site:
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/newmanrl%40cox.net
>
>
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 6
> Date: Sun, 04 Apr 2010 09:07:39 -0400
> From: loristay <loristay at aol.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Happy Passover or Happy Easter
> Message-ID: <4C190899.A48B.4A90.B861.2E388D2A0955 at aol.com>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
>
> The same!
> Melodie (Miriam, as she likes to be called) had her baby, 8 a.m. today: ?A
> little boy.
> Thought you might like to know.
> Lori
>
> On Apr 3, 2010, at 7:40:35 AM, "cheryl echevarria"
> <cherylandmaxx at hotmail.com> wrote:
>
> From:   "cheryl echevarria" <cherylandmaxx at hotmail.com>
> Subject:    [stylist] Happy Passover or Happy Easter
> Date:   April 3, 2010 7:40:35 AM EDT
> To: nagdu <nagdu at nfbnet.org>
> >From the Echevarria Family.
>
> Cheryl, Nelson, Dina and Maxx (The Guide Dog)
>
> We wish you and happy holiday.
>
> Cheryl Echevarria?
> Independent Travel Consultant
> http://Echevarriatravel.com
> 1-866-580-5574
>
> http://blog.echevarriatravel.com
> Reservations at echevarriatravel.com
> Affiliated as an Independent Contractor with Montrose Travel CST-1018299-10
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site:
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/loristay%40aol.com
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 7
> Date: Sun, 04 Apr 2010 09:08:50 -0400
> From: loristay <loristay at aol.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] Happy Passover or Happy Easter
> Message-ID: <17943052.E13D.46A5.B012.A7A006D10FB6 at aol.com>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
>
> P.S. Melodie is my daughter--sorry to have left that out!
> Lori
>
> On Apr 4, 2010, at 9:07:39 AM, loristay <loristay at aol.com> wrote:
>
> From:   loristay <loristay at aol.com>
> Subject:    Re: [stylist] Happy Passover or Happy Easter
> Date:   April 4, 2010 9:07:39 AM EDT
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> The same!
> Melodie (Miriam, as she likes to be called) had her baby, 8 a.m. today: ?A
> little boy.
> Thought you might like to know.
> Lori
>
> On Apr 3, 2010, at 7:40:35 AM, "cheryl echevarria"
> <cherylandmaxx at hotmail.com> wrote:
>
> From: "cheryl echevarria" <cherylandmaxx at hotmail.com>
> Subject: [stylist] Happy Passover or Happy Easter
> Date: April 3, 2010 7:40:35 AM EDT
> To: nagdu <nagdu at nfbnet.org>
> >From the Echevarria Family.
>
> Cheryl, Nelson, Dina and Maxx (The Guide Dog)
>
> We wish you and happy holiday.
>
> Cheryl Echevarria?
> Independent Travel Consultant
> http://Echevarriatravel.com
> 1-866-580-5574
>
> http://blog.echevarriatravel.com
> Reservations at echevarriatravel.com
> Affiliated as an Independent Contractor with Montrose Travel CST-1018299-10
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site:
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/loristay%40aol.com
>
> _______________________________________________
> Writers Division web site:
> http://www.nfb-writers-division.org <http://www.nfb-writers-division.org/>
>
> stylist mailing list
> stylist at nfbnet.org
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/listinfo/stylist_nfbnet.org
> To unsubscribe, change your list options or get your account info for
> stylist:
> http://www.nfbnet.org/mailman/options/stylist_nfbnet.org/loristay%40aol.com
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 8
> Date: Sun, 04 Apr 2010 09:34:39 -0400
> From: loristay <loristay at aol.com>
> To: "Writer's Division Mailing List" <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Subject: Re: [stylist] The Elves of the Magic Mirrors
> Message-ID: <00E3CF49.BB20.46DB.8626.1561269A7453 at aol.com>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="windows-1250"
>
> Kristen: ?This story begins on Page 3 with the give and take between
> characters. ?Many writers make the mistake of giving a lot of background
> information up front, but if you don't know the characters (and I don't),
> slogging through this is difficult. ?Begin with the action, and insert the
> background material here and there so we understand what we are reading, but
> don't make it such a solid chunk in front.
>
> I would also make them lovers rather than brother and sister.
> Lori
>
> On Apr 2, 2010, at 9:03:19 PM, "Kristen Diaz" <daughteroftheday at gmail.com>
> wrote:
>
> From:   "Kristen Diaz" <daughteroftheday at gmail.com>
> Subject:    [stylist] The Elves of the Magic Mirrors
> Date:   April 2, 2010 9:03:19 PM EDT
> To: stylist <stylist at nfbnet.org>
> Attachments:    1 Attachment, 93.0 KB
> Hello everyone,
>
> Below is a story I am working on and would love to hear your comments.
> I have also attached it to this email. This story is based on ( and
> written as the prequal to) the Feature Films for Families movie
> Rigoletto, an excellent film that I would highly recommend, and the
> score is stunning!
>
> Questions to consider:
> --Do you think it would improve the story for Rigoletto and Glorfindel
> to be brother and sister, as I have them now, or the prince and his
> bride-to-be, whom he has taught to sing, as the movie has them?
> --One of my biggest questions is a seeming inconsistency: the openning
> line says that Rigoletto and Glorfindel have living reflections
> because they are so alive, but throughout most of the story, the
> reflections seem to be effected by the magic in their mirrors. Would
> it be clearer to have only one source of magic, either the prince and
> princess or the mirrors? If I should pick one of those sources, which
> do you suggest?
>
> If you have comments on anything else in the story, please let me
> know. Thank you!
>
> Sincerely,
> Kristen Diaz
>
> The Elves of the Magic Mirrors
>
> Not so very long ago, in the fairy kingdom of the elves, there lived a
> prince and princess so alive that their reflections were alive too. I
> don?t mean that their reflections looked very lifelike. I mean they
> were actually alive. They thought what the prince and princess
> thought and spoke an echo of their masters? words. When the prince or
> princess was angry or sad, the reflections felt the same emotions.
> They even felt the texture beneath their fingers whenever the prince
> or princess handled something, and they watched their royal masters
> interact in the world outside their mirrors. None of the reflections
> thought or spoke on their own, but they all had unique personalities
> and individual names. Every evening, as Prince Rigoletto and Princess
> Glorfindel strode into their concert hall of magic mirrors, they would
> greet each reflection by name: ?Good evening, Sir Garindel. Good
> evening, Lady Emerel. Good evening, Giles.? And the reflections
> would all echo, ?Good evening.?
> The elf prince was called Rigoletto; his sister was called Glorfindel.
> They were twins and the best singers and musicians the elf kingdom
> had ever known. Every evening they strode into their concert hall
> just after dinner, as the blush of the setting sun fell on them from
> the west windows. Rigoletto, dressed in a black suit and white
> collared shirt that matched his dark hair and light skin sat at the
> piano bench. Glorfindel, with sunset and candle light glowing on her
> red hair and elegant white dress played a golden harp. Although they
> looked nothing like each other, they completed and complemented each
> other. Glorfindel?s laugh was like the sure small chuckle of a
> stream. Rigoletto?s was the overflowing mirth of a waterfall. When
> he walked into a room he charged the air with energy, though he spoke
> little and kept very still, but you could never quite remember when
> Glorfindel came in. Once you noticed she was there, though, you
> always wondered how you could have missed it, because her presence
> filled the room with living grace. When they sang together, the?
> prince laid a strong foundation melody. His sister softened the sharp
> corners with harmony.
> Their music was so alive and strong and beautiful that it could cure
> any disease or pain. That was why the concert hall filled with
> guests every night. The elven people carried in their sick to listen
> and be healed. Elders and warriors traveled for days to have their
> wounds and their memories soothed. And it was said that any child who
> listened to even one song from that royal pair would grow wise and
> strong beyond his years.
> But that was not the only reason. The audience wanted to see the
> magnificent concert hall. This hall was one of the glories of the elf
> king?s palace, second only to the Great Hall, where all the feasts
> took place. At the back of the concert hall, great wooden doors led
> through a corridor to the rest of the palace. Slightly to the right
> of the front, smaller wooden doors led to the prince and princess?s
> private chambers, for the concert hall was their personal domain. The
> hall itself had so many short sides that it looked nearly round. A
> dome lined with mirrors topped the hall and met the sides at a small
> wooden ledge carved with the names of legendary elf musicians. Red
> velvet carpet a quarter inch thick covered the floor, and on this
> carpet dozens of rows of carved and gilded chairs sat in half-moons
> facing a sliver of stage at the front. Rich with red velvet, gilding,
> and polished wood, the concert hall would have been a dark place if it
> weren?t for the alternating panels of window glass and mirror glass
> that ran all the way to the dome above. Each mirror reflected at
> least two windows, so that if you had seen it with the sunshine
> pouring in, you might have thought there were no walls at all. If you
> had seen it at night, with the chandelier that hung from the dome all
> ablaze and its myriad reflections twinkling in the windows and
> mirrors, you might have thought the stars had turned to gold and come
> to listen. (Indeed, I?m not quite sure they did not.)
> But the glory of the concert hall was the live reflections. When the
> prince and princess swept by, their reflections appeared. When the
> pair began to play, so did their reflections, on the dozens of pianos
> and harps reflected in the mirrors. And when they sang, an entire
> choir of living echoes joined them, each reflection ringing back the
> notes in a different tone and pitch. Together they formed the most
> unified, harmonious orchestra and choir heard anywhere but Heaven.
> And no one in the audience asked why Rigoletto and Glorfindel were the
> only elves with such reflections; no one else was like them.
> Giles was one of these reflections. His mirror arched along the
> inside of the dome that topped the concert hall. Because the mirror
> was curved, Giles was shorter and wider than the tall reflections
> along the walls below, but he didn?t mind. From that height he could
> look down through the lights of the chandelier and see the sunset turn
> the prince?s black suit and wavy hair the fiery red of his sister?s
> curls. Giles could not play the piano like most of the ground-floor
> reflections could because the real lights and reflected lights of the
> chandelier confused the picture, but he could sing. The strong notes
> of the prince?s melody and the light notes of his sister?s harmony
> bounded and skipped from living echo to living echo around the
> many-sided concert hall, but the reflections in the echoing dome had
> the best time of it. They kept singing long after the others had
> fallen silent. And from his dome mirror Giles could see the people in
> the front few rows. They always came in coughing or limping or with
> hunched shoulders, as if someone had bruised them in the heart and
> they were nursing the sore place. But when they turned around to
> leave and he could see their faces, he knew they had been made whole
> in body and soul. Then Rigoletto and Glorfindel swept off the stage
> into the crowd and, with them, out the doors. Once they had gone the
> reflections became invisible and fell asleep. (Being invisible makes
> one very tired.)
> Giles and the other reflections slept a large portion of the time, for
> Rigoletto and Glorfindel left the palace to tour the kingdom at least
> once a year. Nearly every day they received letters begging them to
> visit a particular town and heal all the sick there who could not
> journey to the palace. To visit all those towns took very long
> indeed. And sometimes the prince and princess even traveled, singing
> and healing in the world of men, for months at a time. It was during
> one of these absences that Astorel began putting on airs.
> Astorel was Prince Rigoletto?s personal valet. He blacked the
> prince?s boots and laid out the prince?s clothes and generally kept
> things clean and tidy. Now, you may be used to thinking of valets in
> our world as lower class, but the elves always took personal
> attendants for their royalty from the nobility. Astorel was young,
> handsome, and talented and could never quite shake off the feeling
> that someone should recognize his gifts instead of paying the prince
> all the attention. So he was very put out when Rigoletto told him he
> could not join him and his sister on their journey to the world of
> men. ?But why not, your glory?? Astorel cried, ?I can play almost as
> well as you?thanks to your lessons of course.?
> ?You play very well, Astorel,? Rigoletto corrected him. The prince?s
> dark eyes danced almost as if it were a joke. ?but these people need
> healing as well as music. It is long, painful work, for which you are
> not yet ready.?
> ?Can I at least watch you at it?? Astorel asked.
> ?No, on so long a journey we must travel with as few people and
> possessions as we may,? his master replied. ?Moreover, you are needed
> more here. Travelers will come to see the palace. You must keep the
> hall and chambers clean for them and the harp and piano tuned.?
> ?But won?t you need me to sing and play the harp and help you relax
> before you go to sleep??
> ?My sister will do that,? came the reply. ?You can do much more good
> here than on the road with us.?
> Astorel did not reply. His master?s words always felt as if they were
> doing something to him, waking him up from a happy dream in which he
> was the hero, and he did not like it. So, he tried his luck with the
> princess: ?But you are taking your serving maid with you,? he pleaded.
> ?I?m so sorry you can?t come this time, Astorel,? she said, but Nalia
> will give all the help we need. And you are needed more here.?
> Astorel didn?t even whine like he wanted to, ?But I want to see places
> and people and new things and have them see me!? Looking into her
> eyes, he knew she knew all about what he wanted and that she had
> answered him. Her eyes were so expressive that when anyone looked
> into them, really looked, he could remember for the rest of his life
> what they had told him. After looking into her face, Astorel knew the
> interview had ended. So he got as far away from them as he could, to
> the stables to tend to the prince?s horse, and sulked.
> He sulked all the first week they were gone as he cleaned and polished
> and fed the prince?s many animals. The elf king and queen and most of
> their court moved to the summer palace in the mountains where it was
> cool. And still he cleaned and swept and dusted, muttering to himself
> all the time. Soon, as he tuned the prince?s piano and the princess?s
> golden harp in that great and lonely hall his eyes took on an
> expression that the reflections would have disliked and feared if they
> had been awake to see it. But they were asleep.
> Soon Astorel began sitting at Rigoletto?s piano bench. He ran his
> hands over the keys, some dark as his master?s eyes, some light as his
> smile. ?I can?t do it,? he thought. Then he looked out into the
> imaginary audience. He bowed and grinned and swaggered. It gave him
> courage to play. ?Serves them right for leaving me behind,? he
> thought. ?I?ll practice every night, and when they come back, I?ll
> play just as well as either of them. Then they?ll be sorry they left
> me behind.?
> But as soon as he struck the first few chords he noticed the
> difference. Alone there in that great, empty room the music sounded
> hollow and dead. Astorel realized, then, that the reflections had
> echoed not only the voices of the prince and princess but also the
> notes of their instruments. Now that Rigoletto and Glorfindel were
> gone, the reflections had disappeared as well. With his trim figure,
> fine features, black suit, and even the melody that poured from the
> piano, Astorel could have passed himself off as Rigoletto to anyone
> who had never seen the elf prince?except for this lack of reflections.
> He swung himself off the bench and stared intently into the nearest
> mirror. The piano, the golden harp, the rows of chairs, even the
> grass and blue sky out the opposite window showed perfectly clear, but
> there was not so much as a shadow to show Astorel?s presence. ?It?s
> as if I don?t even exist,? he said in bitter surprise.
> Astorel had never stopped to ask why the mirrors only showed the
> prince and princess?s reflections. No one had. That was part of the
> marvel and the magic. But now he began to imagine that it wasn?t
> quite fair. ?Hello, wake up,? he shouted at the mirror. ?Wake up!
> Can?t you hear I?m playing?? He beat on the glass with his fist then
> drew it back and put it to his mouth. He had struck the glass hard.
> Now he began shouting up at the dome, loud enough it seemed to shake
> the mirrors from their places. ?Wake up! Come out! It?s not fair.
> Come out! I command it!? When that failed, he ran to the prince?s
> chambers and returned bearing a great sword. He was strong and swung
> it with such force that on impact he thought the weapon might shiver
> to pieces. ?I don?t care if it does,? he thought. The next moment he
> had to close his eyes, and the sword dropped from his hand. There had
> been a bright light, and burning heat had shot up the sword into his
> arm. (That is what happens when one magical object meets another in
> battle.) He opened his eyes again just in time to see a very flat,
> very life-like man falling from the mirror, scattering shards of glass
> and grabbing at the piano bench to break his fall. (It did not work.
> He landed flat on the glass and the hard wood floor.)
> ?Lord Elendor!? cried Astorel, for he knew all the reflections? names.
> He had only meant to smash the mirror out of spite, but now that he
> found he had released Lord Elendor from his mirror all sorts of new
> possibilities came into his head (he was a quick thinker).
> ?I?ve seen you before. Who are you, you villain? Why have you done
> this?? demanded Lord Elendor, picking himself up and shaking off the
> last shards. At first this made Astorel afraid. He had not expected
> to find the reflections unhappy to be freed. But when Lord Elendor
> gingerly put one hand to his head and held the other ready to defend
> himself, Astorel understood. Lord Elendor was not angry at being
> freed from his mirror; he was angry at being slashed in the back of
> the head, getting cut with glass shards, and landing on the floor,
> which hurt his dignity more than it hurt anything else.
> ?Oh, I?m not a villain,?said Astorel hastily. ?I meant you no harm.
> I only wanted to free you from your prison.?
> ?Prison??
> ?Yes, your mirror. I am Prince Rigoletto?s valet, you see, and I?ve
> been thinking how unfair he?s been.?
> ?Unfair??
> ?Yes, to you. He never lets you do anything except what he wants to
> do, or say anything either. He always picks what song to play, and
> you have to sing it, like it or not. He even decides when you wake up
> and go to sleep and leaves you locked up in your mirror when you?d
> rather be out playing the piano yourself, for real.
> ?I believe you are correct,? gasped Lord Elendor, an expression
> beginning to form in his face that had never been in the prince?s.
> ?But what of this wound you have given me??
> ?Oh that, I never meant to give you that. I was just trying to smash
> the mirror. You were invisible. How could I know your head was
> there? You didn?t think freedom would come without a price, did you?
> And, anyway, I think it hurt me more than you. This sword nearly
> burnt my hand through when I cut the glass.?
> ?It is true,? murmured Lord Elendor, looking at Astorel?s extended
> hand. The hand was still red and hot as the reflection took it in his
> own and pressed it to his lips. ?My liberator, I thank you. And you
> chose to free me first? We must release the others. But why do you
> delay? Do you fear the prince??
> ?Me? No, of course not. He?s away on a journey anyway. Of course I
> don?t fear him; I hate him. And I don?t fear pain either.? With that
> Astorel fell to with the sword. Elven men and women of all shapes and
> sizes fell out of the mirrors, and Lord Elendor explained to each the
> situation. Though they were all reflections of either Prince
> Rigoletto or Princess Glorfindel, the mirrors hung at different angles
> and distances from the stage at the front of the hall, and the
> reflections were thin or wide, large or small depending on where their
> mirror stood in relation to the stage.
> All this time Giles had been dreaming. He dreamt of the places his
> master and mistress were visiting far across the ocean in the world of
> men. Suddenly, his dream turned to a living nightmare. He had always
> been waked before by the warm, strong voice of the prince saying,
> ?Good evening, Giles.? But this time he was waked by a slashing,
> burning pain in his shoulder and a momentary light that made him shut
> his eyes. He could feel he was falling and quickly opened his eyes
> again. For one moment he caught a glimpse of a wild-eyed face
> distorted with anger and the fiery gleam of a sword. The next moment
> someone had caught him and he was laid aside to nurse his wounded
> shoulder amid a general confusion of running, groaning, shouting, and
> showers of glass, all in the red glow of sunset. There was no prince,
> no princess, but the reflections were awake, and out of their mirrors!
> Flat men and women, all images of Rigoletto and Glorfindel, rushed
> about the room wearing expressions he had never seen on his lord and
> lady?s faces. Some were shouting one thing, some another.
> ?The prince is a tyrant!?
> ?No! It?s not true!?
> ?Oh, my head, my poor head!?
> ?Hurray for our liberator!?
> In a flash Giles was on his feet too, shouting with every ounce of
> lung power in him (which was considerable). ?Stop! Are you mad?
> What is he doing?? All the commotion seemed to center around a young
> man standing on the topmost rung of a ladder that reached to the dome.
> He was slashing?with the prince?s own magic sword--at the mirrors.
> At each tremendous stroke, a bright light blinded Giles?s eyes; a flat
> figure and a shower of glass fell from the wall; and roars of
> affirmation and dismay went up from the crowd of reflections below.
> Giles?s world was falling to pieces around him like the raining glass.
> Finally, the confusion died down and the young man with the sword
> stood up. Giles remembered seeing him before but his face was so
> changed that Giles couldn?t place him until he started to speak.
> ?I am Astorel,? the young man said. ?Yes, I realize you knew me as
> the prince?s valet, but I am done with that now.?
> ?Astorel!? Giles thought to himself. ?This confident chap, leaning on
> his master?s sword no less, is singing a very different tune than the
> peacock of a boy I remember. Come to think of it, whenever he could
> get himself on stage, to bring the prince his water goblet or turn his
> music pages, he never took notice of the hurting people, except to bow
> and swagger and grin at them. Hmm, what will he think of us? But,
> bless me, I?m getting off on my own thoughts and missing the speech!?
> ?You all know that Prince Rigoletto and Princess Glorfindel are now
> traveling in the world of men,? Astorel was saying. ?They declined to
> take me with them, though I play the harp just as well as the princess
> herself. When Prince Rigoletto was tired in the evening from a long
> day?s work I often soothed him with my playing. But they refused to
> let me go with them, though all I wanted was to help. Don?t you see
> they are jealous of us? They don?t want anyone to know what good
> musicians we are because they want all the applause and the
> invitations to sing. It?s not fair. Why should they be the only ones
> with singing reflections??
> ?Yes, it?s unjust!? cried Lord Elendor. His mirror had stood directly
> behind the prince?s bench so that Lord Elendor looked most like the
> prince in size and shape. The others were small or wide or
> disproportional, depending on whether their mirrors were far from the
> stage, up in the dome, or placed at angles to the stage. ?Astorel
> liberated me first and explained it all,? Lord Elendor continued.
> ?Why should the prince and princess lock us in mirrors while they are
> absent, so that we must always sleep and never play the songs we wish
> to play? Why should they decide which songs to sing and force us to
> sing them? Why should we always and ever do and say what Prince
> Rigoletto and Princess Glorfindel decide to do or say first?? The
> crowd began to murmur, but he continued. ?I, too, was shocked at
> first. Any word against the prince sounds like it must be untrue, but
> I ask you, was anything in our former imprisonment true? No, it was
> all a shadow of existence. This new life, this freedom, this is
> reality.?
> ?But what of our wounds?? shouted someone in the group, and Giles
> growled his agreement.
> Astorel laughed bitterly. ?Are you afraid of the price of freedom??
> he mocked. ?Look what freeing you did to me!? and he stretched out
> his hands for all to see. Giles shut his eyes. The hands were red as
> blood, and the skin was beginning to bubble. He remembered the flash
> of light each time the prince?s sword had struck a mirror, the fire of
> magic meeting magic, and shuddered.
> Astorel continued. ?You have me to thank for your freedom. If you
> want to stand against your wall and go to sleep you may. You may do
> with it what you want.? Then he turned and strode towards the
> prince?s sleeping chamber.
> Giles always remembered that night as the worst and longest of his
> life. The shapes of prince and princess milled about in the half-dark
> like living shadows against columns of moonlight, for no one had
> bothered about lighting the chandelier. Some argued in little groups
> that gathered by the windows. Some ran about introducing themselves
> to any other reflection they happened to bump into, saying, ?Hello,
> I?m Lady Arabel. Who are you? This is all so new?and exciting.
> Shall we walk about together?? or ?Lord Eledon. Yes, pleased to make
> your acquaintance. What do you think of this affair?? Some
> reflections jogged around the room or disappeared down the long
> corridor to the rest of the palace, content to enjoy exploring new
> places they had never had to use in the concert hall. (Prince
> Rigoletto was the most energetic of elves, but he did not waste it on
> needless running.) Finally, other reflections backed into chairs or
> corners and said nothing.
> Giles was one of these last ones. ?Steady, old boy,? he said to
> himself, ?best see how the song plays out before you sing it.? He
> tried to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes he saw, instead of
> blackness, a flash of light, a glowing blade, and behind it, not
> Astorel?s face but the prince?s. ?It can?t be true! It can?t be
> true!? he thought. It was the first time he had ever been cold,
> confused, or afraid, and the first time he?d ever felt pain. Giles
> had seen the signs of these sensations in the faces of the people in
> the front rows of the concert hall, but this time he understood why
> their faces looked so tight and pinched. Somewhere to his left one of
> the princess?s reflections was sobbing.
> Eventually, the columns of light that were the windows grew brighter
> and more distinct. Now Giles could see the faces of the reflections
> around him. They wore expressions he had never seen in the prince or
> princess?fear, jealousy, self-pity, blankness. ?We all need something
> to put us to rights, some music. That should do it.? He stood up and
> headed for the piano, but several others must have had the same idea,
> for before he reached it five of his fellows were crowding onto the
> bench.
> ?Off the bench, fool,? ordered Lord Elendor. ?It?s madness to think
> you can play with hands of different sizes. You are no longer in your
> mirror, man.?
> ?I would like to try anyway,? said the reflection just addressed. He
> was tall and thin, almost too tall and thin, and one side of his body
> was indeed larger than the other. His mirror must have stood in an
> angle where the perspective made everything look slanted, and now he
> was living that illusion in reality.
> ?No, I shall play,? Lord Elendor declared, elbowing him aside. ?I
> have been real the longest; I understand these real things.?
> ?But look here, we must all try it some time. It is what we were made
> for,? said a third reflection. His hands were also different sizes
> but his left hand was the larger, the opposite of the previous
> speaker. Giles guessed from these features that they were the
> reflections Aldernas and Aldernon whose mirrors had stood to either
> side of the stage.
> ?It?s the only thing we?ve done before,? corrected Aldernas, ?but I
> would like to try it on a real piano. Shall we try a duet?? They
> began to play, with Aldernas to the left and Aldernon to his right,
> but their fingers kept bumbling; they were each playing their part of
> the duet with the wrong hand for it and kept getting in each other?s
> way. The argument hadn?t attracted any attention; so many had broken
> out all night, and several more were still underway, but the heavy
> notes all tripping and falling over each other made everyone look
> round, and some people began to jeer. Aldernon suggested another
> attempt, this time switching sides, but it faired no better. Aldernon
> played by memory, while Aldernas added his own decorative notes that
> then confused his partner. The rest of the reflections did not let
> this go on for long. Within minutes several were at the bench telling
> them no one wanted to hear their music, if it could be called music,
> or that they themselves could play what everyone needed to calm down.
> And all the while Lord Elendor was thrusting himself among them
> shouting that he could do a better job and he was the reflection most
> like the prince so they should all listen to him. A similar scene was
> beginning to play out as Princess Glorfindel?s reflections grouped
> around the harp, all shouting and shoving and whining and lecturing
> and grabbing at harp strings.
>
> Giles rushed in crying, ?Come now, this won?t do. The prince wouldn?t
> have us fighting like this,? but no one seemed to listen. Soon he,
> too, was beating on backs and shoulders and bellowing, ?Stop it! Stop
> it! This won?t do! Stop it!!? Then he knocked heads with someone
> else and got a glimpse of wild eyes and a wide open mouth yelling,
> ?Stop it! This won?t do!? For a moment both reflections fell silent
> and still. They stood staring at each other, twin images of their own
> angry selves. Then they both mumbled, ?My apologies,? and trudged,
> with bowed heads, to the far corners of the concert hall. Back on the
> stage, they heard the pop of a harp string.
> Eventually, life settled down into a new rhythm. During the day the
> reflections did what they liked in the hall and the prince and
> princess?s royal suites, though Astorel kept the prince?s bed chamber
> for himself. At night Astorel or Lord Elendor gave a speech, and then
> someone would try to give a piano performance. As long as the
> pianist had not been injured too badly by Astorel?s sword and didn?t
> have one hand larger than the other, these usually came off fairly
> smoothly, though nothing like the full, vibrating choir of the old
> days and without the healing effects. You might be wondering why no
> one ventured outside or into the rest of the palace. A few of them
> did explore the long corridor behind the great wooden doors, but most
> of them never thought of leaving that wing of the palace. That was
> where they had lived all their lives. Music was the only thing they
> really loved and the only thing they really knew how to do. That was
> why it was such torture to no longer be able to make music well or to
> make it at all.
> So things continued for days and days, until Giles began to wonder if
> the happy times before the sword and the shattered glass had in any
> sense been real. They might have been a dream or a story he made up
> to comfort himself in that world of constant fights, constant aching,
> and constant thumping, plunking, screeching of the piano. But three
> things kept him sure it had all really happened. For one thing, the
> ache in his shoulder; it had to have come from something. Second,
> there were the prince and princess themselves. No reflection could
> have dreamed them up; they were too alive for that. Third, the valet
> Astorel had been acting as if Rigoletto and Glorfindel were coming
> back.
> Since the night he became ?Lord Liberator,? as he liked to be called,
> Astorel had spent his time doing all the things he had wanted to
> experience as a valet but had never gotten the chance to do.
> Unfortunately, this meant flirting with Princess Glorfindel?s
> reflections, giving harp performances for those reflections who cared
> to listen, snubbing those who did not care to listen, and bossing
> about the weak-willed of the lot. They blacked his boots for him and
> brushed his suit for him and lit the chandelier. It was clear to
> Giles that Astorel wanted to impress?not only the well-dressed images
> of his handsome master and mistress but also anyone outside the
> concert hall. Whenever Astorel saw through its windows someone
> walking in the fields outside the hall, he would lick his lips and
> straighten the velvet curtains, as if he was about the prince?s
> business, and once, when Astorel was hurrying to dinner with the few
> other servants left in the palace, Giles heard him mutter something
> about ?keeping up appearances.? In some of his regular speeches
> Astorel proclaimed eternal holiday and the triumph of free will, and
> if you had heard him you would have been sure of it too. Other
> nights, he hinted that freedom must always be guarded and kept up at a
> price. ?Look at the wounds we all carry,? he was fond of saying (and
> here he would stretch out to them his hands, on which the burn marks
> were spreading). ?These were the wounds we bore for our independence.
> Do you think it will be kept without pain and struggle?? Giles began
> to suspect that these talks were largely for Astorel to hear his own
> voice talking and see other beings listening, but Astorel really meant
> some of what he said, for he began to train a band of the most
> indignant reflections how to fight with swords. Giles had no idea
> what Astorel planned to do if the prince and princess should really
> come back. He felt sure no one could kill the prince, and, therefore,
> the princess was safe.
> Giles was, however, sure that Astorel?s band of rebels could inflict
> pain. They behaved very much as if they were part of a gang.
> Everyone inside was trying to get closer to the top man, who was, of
> course, Astorel, and then Lord Elendor. Those on the fringes wanted
> to get inside but were afraid of the mean acts they might have to do.
> Everyone outside was fair game for them to pick on. Several other
> groups had formed themselves among the reflections. Some played
> chess, others read together, others debated Astorel?s governing
> policy, but most groups sang. Giles had attached himself to one
> called the Disbelievers. They disbelieved in the tyranny of the
> prince and princess and sang the songs they could remember from those
> days of harmony and pitch. Then they had been able to sing perfectly;
> it came naturally to them as they unconsciously imitated their master
> or mistress. Now they had to try to teach each other.
> One day the Disbelievers had gathered under the dome of the concert
> hall where the echoes off of broken glass would disturb them the
> least, when a knot of armed reflections shouldered into them in the
> wide aisle.
> ?Sorry, songbirds, you?ll have to take your Christmas picnic somewhere
> else,? one of them said. ?We need this space to practice.?
> ?What do you mean ?Christmas picnic??? snapped one of the soprano
> singers. ?No one has picnics in the winter. That?s nonsense.? She
> waved her music sheet in disgust.
> ?Well, so is your singing and your ?Disbelieving.??
> ?You barbarian!? cried the soprano.
> ?Hold! Don?t you dare touch her,? cried one of the basses, for the
> swordsman had raised his sword arm.
> >From that moment on, Giles lost the details of the fight. He ran
> forward with the others. There were kicks and punches given on both
> sides, and women screamed, but the group with music sheets proved no
> match for the group with swords. Out of the corner of his eye Giles
> saw a horizontal silver line streaking towards his neck. ?What a sad
> way to go,? thought Giles, ?brawling with your brothers?and I haven?t
> even seen the prince yet. Will he ever come? What would he do if he
> came and saw us now??
> But Giles didn?t have to wait long. Before the blade had reached his
> neck, it had been stopped in mid-air by the crash of the smaller doors
> being flung wide, and the prince and princess stood in the doorway.
> At that moment several things happened all at once. The entire room
> fell silent so that everyone heard Rigoletto?s footfalls as he half
> strode, half bounded across the velvet carpet. The lead swordsman
> found his right arm in a grip so firm and energetic that he felt as
> though he were being shaken. Giles backed onto a bench, and The rest
> of the combatants scattered like cockroaches in the light. Indeed,
> everyone began to wonder whether the prince were not actually glowing.
> Next to him, all the reds and golds and browns and blacks looked a
> dingy gray, as if a bright light was washing out the colors. But then
> the reflections looked faded even compared to the grass and sky
> outside the windows. Giles?and several others too?realized with a
> shock that the reflections were not faded; no, you could see the
> outdoor landscape through them. At their feet lay little pools of
> shadow too light and shapeless for the sunny day it was turning out to
> be. They had all become less solid, less real, and no one had noticed
> until now.
> If you or I had suddenly found that we were turning into ghosts we
> might sit down and cry or demand an explanation, and many reflections
> did just that, but Giles and many others sat still as solid statues.
> They felt ashamed of appearing in this state before their prince so
> solid and alive. They wanted to run to him and dance around him
> because he was so radiant and strong, and they waited to see what
> their radiant, powerful prince would do. He released the arm of the
> swordsman, who stumbled back to his fellows, leaving Rigoletto
> standing alone in the center of the hall. He turned once around,
> surveying the jagged mirrors still hanging on the walls, the crumpled
> music sheets littering the floor, the scuffed and broken benches, the
> wounded shoulders and pinched faces of the reflections. Anger, pain,
> pity, and love chased each other across his strong face. And then he
> did the last thing they expected him to do. He sat down and began to
> weep.
> The reflections remembered Rigoletto?s compassion when he talked with
> the hurting people who came to hear his singing, but seeing their pain
> had always made him more determined to sing for them the best he
> could. This time all his energy went into sounds that no one who was
> there that day will ever forget. Giles once said it was like music in
> its own way, like hearing the ocean or a mountain break its heart.
> Long low moans; he pressed his hands to his face and rocked back and
> forth. Then bursts of lamentation that shook the chandelier and every
> being in that hall. Soft sobbing for a love now lost?but not lost
> forever. Giles thought his nerves would break with the strain if
> anything more happened, but it did. Rigoletto?s song began to swell
> again. If they hadn?t been too captivated to speak, his followers
> might have said to each other, ?It?s alright; it will all work out in
> the end.? The faces of his rebels began to look afraid. Even
> Glorfindel, who had been silently crying on a bench by the small doors
> stopped her tears. Her frown turned itself upside down and then
> flattened to a grim rod.
> Then, for a moment, Giles?s heart stopped beating. Prince Rigoletto
> rose to his feet, stretched out his hands, and cried, ?Why? Why have
> you shattered the harmony and beauty of this company? Why have you
> spurned your duty to this hall, your fellow servants, and your lord
> and lady? Why have you so disfigured my people?? Here he lowered his
> voice and strode to confront the Lord Astorel at the back of the hall.
> The valet stood hunched like a cornered animal unsure whether to
> cower or spring. ?I know why you did this,? Rigoletto said in a low,
> clear voice that everyone in the room could hear, ?Because you
> hungered for followers. Because you hungered for servants. Because
> you hungered for admirers.? And here again the prince?s tone changed
> in a direction no one expected, least of all Astorel. ?Lay down your
> hunger and pride,? he offered. ?Be satisfied with fellowship and
> song. For I will heal these people. You may join me as my helper?I
> have taught you well?or be consumed by your own hunger.?
> For one moment Astorel?s eyes went blank. There was still much of the
> boy in him, and that boy wanted very much to accept the offer, to be
> forgiven, to have again the beauty and the peace. But lately he had
> become a leader, the leader he had always wanted to be, the most
> important leader in the land as far as he was concerned, and he wasn?t
> about to back down in front of his men. He looked the prince in the
> eyes and laughed. ?I refuse your offer, tyrant.? And Giles thought
> he could see the beginning of the consuming the prince had talked
> about. Astorel?s face grew a little paler, a little harder, a little
> more haggard, almost a little more like death.
> ?Then go,? thundered the prince. ?Go with your followers, your
> servants, your admirers, but know my business with you is not yet
> ended.? And with that Rigoletto strode back the length of the hall,
> lent his sister his arm, and they retired to their rooms together.
> Only then, in the stunned silence of the hall, did Giles remember the
> princess. Everyone had been so busy watching the prince that only the
> few reflections closest to her had really paid attention to her gasp
> as she first walked through the doors. But now all the remaining
> reflections remembered it. They remembered, too, how they had seen
> her out of the corners of their eyes sink onto the nearest bench and
> cry silent diamond tears. The women reflections had cried with her as
> she touched the dying babies and bloodied bandages in the crowds of
> concert-goers. They had all seen her cry for others. Now they had
> seen her cry for them and the mistrust they had shown in her and her
> brother. When the prince had wept none of the reflections had been
> bold enough to move a finger. They had not even thought of doing
> anything but watching. Now the memory of both that royal pair, the
> deep, wrenching groans of the one, the silent sorrow in the face of
> the other, the reflections couldn?t help feeling that such beautiful
> faces should not be stained with tears, such great and giving hearts
> should never bleed for them.
> Giles knew Lord Elendor had been wrong. He had always said so, but
> now he knew it. Slowly, humbly, with tears running in his very veins,
> Giles pushed the ladder used to light the chandelier into place and
> climbed its first few rungs.
> ?What are you doing?? asked a wide-eyed reflection at its base.
> ?I?m going back,? he answered and climbed on.
> ?That?s right,? said several others. ?What have we been doing all these
> weeks??
> Soon Giles felt the shake of the ladder as another reflection began to
> climb, and below him he could see one by one leave their seats to find
> their mirrors.
> When Giles reached the ledge of the dome he let out a low whistle.
> ?You chaps had better fetch a broom,? he said, turning to the
> reflections behind him on the ladder. ?This place is pretty prickly.
> It?s going to take a deal of sweeping up before it?s fit to walk on.?
> On the ground level of the hall the reflections were having the same
> problem. Ouuuu!? yowled one younger-looking reflection after stepping
> backward into the open space where his mirror had been. He lurched
> forward, hopping on one foot, and sat down on the floor to pull a
> shard of glass out of his shoe. All over the hall Giles began to hear
> the tinkling of glass, small cries of pain, and the sucking of sore
> fingers. The mirrors were now nothing but frames of lead with jagged
> shards of glass all around the edges. If there had been no glass, the
> flat reflections would have had no trouble in standing on the leaden
> frames--one reflection whose mirror had almost no shards on the bottom
> edge proved this point?but many of them had to stand on crystal spikes
> or hold themselves in uncomfortable positions to avoid getting
> pierced. ?How ever will we play the harp like this?? moaned one of
> the princess?s reflections. ?I can hardly move my hands at all.?
> The next moment her grumbling turned to a shriek. ?Oh no, oh no!? she
> cried. ?I?m not moving! I?m not moving! The prince and princess are
> here. Why am I not moving??
> The other reflections all turned their heads as the prince walked over
> to her and laid his hand on her shoulder. ?Dear lady, you no longer
> follow us because the mirror has been shattered. Inside your mirrors
> you followed our words and deeds by nature of the magic. You could do
> no other.?
> ?And we never wanted to,? thought Giles.
> ?Now,? the prince continued, ?you must follow us by choice.? And when
> he saw the question on the lady?s lips he added, ?take heart. We will
> help you. Shall we help you now??
> Lady Emerel nodded. With that, Princess Glorfindel disappeared
> through the little doors by the stage and returned a few minutes later
> accompanied by her serving woman Nalia. Giles almost laughed to see
> the fine figure of the princess pulling behind her a cart of cleaning
> rags. ?But bless me,? he thought. ?Why won?t she give any to the
> ladies down there? She doesn?t mean to do it all herself and Nalia??
> But she did. The two real elf women righted chairs, straightened
> curtains, and wiped bits of glass off of everything. Prince Rigoletto
> swept the glass from the ledge of the dome and all the carpeted floor.
> The reflections, meanwhile, were bidden to stand in their places and
> copy, as best they could, the motions of their master and mistress.
> ?Madness,? grumbled Giles. ?Here I am a strapping young fellow, and
> the royalty have to climb ladders and break their backs with sweeping
> while I stand in a wall of glass! Do they mean to kill me?? After
> all he had seen that day Giles knew this view of things wasn?t quite
> true, but he did have one of the worst places in the hall. Along with
> hitting broken glass every time he tried to imitate one of the
> prince?s movements he had to keep his back arched and pressed against
> the sloping wall. It took him half an hour, balancing his flat self
> on the thin ledge where the walls met the dome, to simply stand fully
> within his mirror. He moved his foot slightly to get it away from a
> nasty little spur. The next moment his pain was gone and he saw the
> rungs of the ladder rushing past him. He screamed as he remembered
> the last time he had fallen and watched the wooden bench beneath him
> get closer and closer. But before he could feel its hardness the
> prince had caught him in strong arms. ?Do not be afraid, Giles,?
> Rigoletto told him. ?You will fall many times, but I will always
> catch you. And soon they will be fewer.?
> Because of catching all the falling reflections and restoring them to
> their mirrors, the sun had long set before the cleaning was done. And
> then came some relief. Rigoletto and Glorfindel sat down at their
> instruments and played.
> ?Ah,? said Giles to himself, ?now that?s music, that is. You?d hardly
> know those pieces were out of tune if you hadn?t heard them last
> night.?
> That night, and for the next few weeks, Rigoletto instructed the
> reflections to rest and watch and listen. They did not have to
> practice playing themselves?at least not yet. The next night he
> called them all close and said, ?Tonight we teach you to tune a piano
> and a harp,? and for the next hour he was saying things like, ?this
> string must sound an octave higher than Middle C,? or ?place the left
> thumb here and take the tuning fork in your right hand.?
> After two weeks Giles could imitate the motion of passing a tuning
> fork from hand to hand without having to steady himself by stepping
> out of his mirror onto the dome ledge. ?I still don?t see the point
> in all of this,? he said to no one in particular. ?I?m sure Prince
> Rigoletto could have put the mirrors to rights and us in them if he
> had the mind to.? But concentrating on the motions helped take his
> mind off the pain of the glass, and he truly did want back that old
> harmony and joy. Nearly a month later he exclaimed to his neighbor,
> ?Well bless me, I think I did that whole tune up without a fall!?
> ?You think it?s getting? easier?? puffed the reflection to his right.
> The speaker?s face was red with effort, and his eyes were moist with
> undropped tears.
> ?Well bless me, I think so,? replied Giles. ?The glass hasn?t
> bothered my shoulder much lately. It used to hurt like you wouldn?t
> believe.?
> ?Oh, yes I would,? said his neighbor, whose name was Gumble.
> ?Well, you catch my meaning.? Giles turned to look at his shoulder,
> but the quick movement was too much for him, and he tipped out
> dangerously over the red and wooden hall below him. But something
> stopped him from falling all the way. ?It held!? he cried. ?My
> shoulder held fast in the glass.?
> ?It?s true!? another reflection exclaimed, looking at her own feet.
> ?The glass must be growing together.?
> ?That must be why there are so fewer comfortable positions,? murmured
> Gumble, and hopeful endurance came into his tired eyes.
> There was much rejoicing in the hall that night and no wonder that the
> prince and princess picked that night to begin their reflections?
> training in choral parts. They had sung in parts naturally before
> because of the way the sound hit their mirrors, and they still
> remembered something of it, but now the prince and princess made sure
> they knew how and why choral music works as it does. Like their
> bodies, the reflections? knowledge and skills were marred and
> incomplete. It was hard for Giles to sing with all his lungs and
> still keep his balance, but as the weeks went by the time between his
> slips grew longer and longer, and eventually the glass began to
> support instead of to stab his other side.
> No one (except, perhaps, Rigoletto and Astorel themselves) knew where
> the valet and his gang had gone or what they did in those long weeks.
> I can, however, tell you that the palace servants still tell stories
> about that autumn. Many a maid and a stable hand were waked in the
> night by the prince?s voice only to find no one else in the room. One
> cook even reported that several women wearing royal gowns blew past
> her window on a breeze. But that was the morning after she had stayed
> up late reading a fairy tale novel, and sources warn me she might not
> have been fully awake.
> Whatever they were doing in the rest of the palace and grounds,
> Astorel?s followers came back much changed. One night a scouting
> party crept in through the crack between the heavy wooden doors to see
> what Prince Rigoletto and Princess Glorfindel were doing to their
> captives. They found all the reflections asleep, some on the wooden
> benches, those whom the glass had begun to restore in their mirrors.
> No one noticed the rebels until Lady Emerel, who had been dreaming of
> falling golden stars, began to hear strange whisperings in her ear.
> ?What are you doing here, standing around on bits of glass. Do you
> think you are learning to play the harp? No, you play nothing but the
> fool. It?s empty air you pass your hands across. Come, come away
> from this place of pain. Don?t you see? The princess and her brother
> are only killing you slowly. Come away, away with us.?
> Lady Emerel opened her eyes. ?Oh, oh!,? she shrieked. ?It?s Lord
> Astorel. Lord Astorel is here! Save m--? She broke off her scream
> in the middle of a word because suddenly she was not sure she was
> seeing Lord Astorel. The face was his, but the body was too flat.
> By that time, though, she had waked most of the room, and the
> reflections closest to the door could feel the floor shake under their
> master?s running feet. By the time the prince had flung open the
> small wooden doors, a dozen voices had all cried out, ?No, he?s here.
> Lord Astorel is here.? A score of figures whisked out of the shadows
> and into the bars of light let in by the windows. In the dark they
> seemed a score of Astorels. In the light you could hardly see them at
> all, they had become so faded. Then with a scuffling like that of
> mice they slipped out the slightly open windows and were gone.
> ?They will be back,? warned Rigoletto. ?And they will try to take you
> with them, with your leave or without it.?
> >From then on, the prince?s reflections took turns watching for rebels.
> They became harder and harder to see except for the gleam of the
> swords they brought with them in later attacks. Many reflections
> received wounds in mind and body, and many found the glass cut around
> them where it had been growing together, but no reflection was ever
> dragged from the hall. Even the reflections in the dome did not
> escape unharmed, for the ladder to the dome ledge was left standing so
> that Rigoletto could carry up any fallen reflections. But the rebels
> sustained their losses too. Giles got in many sound kicks and punches
> that sent rebel shadows hurtling through the void. ?I can see one
> good thing about them sword belts,? he remarked to Gumble after a
> particularly hard fight. ?If they weren?t wearing them, those rebels
> might be too light to fall at all!?
> But Giles was most excited when he got the chance to learn sword
> fighting. Rigoletto fought the intruders with his sword, and all his
> reflections, if not engaged with their own enemies, eagerly followed
> his every move.
> Their fighting proved invaluable one frosty winter night. All the
> reflections now slept in their mirrors. They were all nearly healed.
> The glass was nearly smooth around them, and they could sometimes feel
> again the harp strings and piano keys under their fingers. They all
> slept soundly, for they needed their rest. Tomorrow was to be Prince
> Rigoletto?s wedding day and the first night the concert hall would be
> open again to the people. They all rehearsed their parts for the
> wedding hymn in their dreams, all except the prince.
> Prince Rigoletto spent that night in a prayer vigil, kneeling at the
> front of the hall. When the great doors silently opened at the back
> of the hall and the light of the full moon glinted off the point of an
> advancing blade, the prince calmly confronted the intruder. ?I have
> been expecting you,? he said. ?Name your business, faithless one.?
> This time Astorel did not blink at his master?s words. ?I have come
> that you might never marry, that you might never beget heirs, that you
> might never rule another, and that I might take your place.? And with
> that he struck a mighty blow at the prince?s neck. But to fight the
> prince was to fight a Bengal Tiger. He leapt aside and knocked the
> sword from Astorel?s hand. Instead of grabbing it himself, Rigoletto
> sheathed his own sword. He sprang to the nearest mirror and tore at
> the glass with his bare hands.
> ?Aha,? cried Astorel. ?Are you no better than I? Are you destroying
> your own work or admitting you were wrong to lock them up??
> The prince did not answer. The figure that fell out of the glass was
> answer enough. This time he did not fall flat on the carpeted floor.
> By now Aldernon was used to falling; he simply steadied himself by
> stepping to the ground and looked to his master. ?This is no good,?
> he thought in embarrassed shock. ?The prince must have no falling
> during the wedding hymn!? But as soon as Aldernon placed his foot on
> the ground he felt a difference. It felt at home on the ground,
> strong and secure, not wobbly and thin the way his flat feet used to
> be. His arm too, when he stretched it out to catch his balance, felt
> stronger and more easy to move than ever before.
> At first Astorel thought he was seeing a second Rigoletto, but this
> elf was taller and thinner than the prince. This elf was taller than
> them both. And the prince?s eyes never bore the surprised and guilty
> expression in the eyes of this former reflection. ?The brute?s
> alive!? Astorel hissed as he ducked and snatched up his sword still
> lying on the ground.
> That was the worst moment of Astorel?s life?and the happiest of
> Aldernon?s. Before him crouched the white-faced figure of Astorel.
> To his right, the prince had already begun tearing at the next mirror.
> ?To arms! To arms, my brothers!?? called Rigoletto. His voice filled
> the hall as loud and clear as a trumpet, as though he did not feel the
> pain of broken glass with every movement of his healing hands.
> In one fluid motion Aldernon drew his sword and lunged for Astorel.
> As he fully left the mirror, silver and white flecks scattered from
> his shoulders like glory from a lion?s mane. ?purgerer!? he cried.
> ?False and faithless servant! You boasted you had made us real. This
> is what it is to be real.? The shock of impact ran down both swords.
> ?It is to know the prince for who he is, to be like him and more
> yourself than ever.? He laughed. ?You and your wraiths are mere
> fading shadows.?
> Earlier that summer Astorel might have fled or surrendered at either
> force or truth, but now it was too late. He lowered his head like a
> bull and began to slash with fury and abandon. Cataracts of glass
> sprayed the two combatants as they splashed through light and shadow,
> whirling around the hall.
> Someone knocked over the prince?s vigil candle. Soon a dozen duels
> broke out as reinforcements joined each side, the elves against the
> wraiths. And all was clamor and shade and flying glass and fire. At
> first the elves were outnumbered, but they had on their side strength,
> size, and surprise. The wraiths had not expected to find the prince?s
> purpose so different than they had dreamed. They held to their
> delusions as tightly as to their swords. The flames kindled by the
> vigil candle licked along the stage. Its red light made the solid
> elven warriors more visible and the wraiths harder to see. Several of
> Princess Glorfindel?s former reflections risked their own deaths to
> beat back the flames with the curtains, but they could do little
> without water.
> And then the singing began. It was Giles who started it. As he came
> roaring down the ladder he understood why the prince had required them
> to follow him in their mirrors instead of doing actual work. It was
> because Rigoletto did not intend for them to go back to being
> automatic moving images. Instead, he wanted living brothers who knew
> how to work and play and sing and fight rightly of their own wills.
> With this knowledge he began to sing, and all his brothers did the
> same. None of them had heard the song before, but, somehow, they all
> knew what words and notes to sing and did so in unison.
> For the wraiths, frightened as they already were and weary of their
> heavy swords, this was too much. Their strokes became blind and
> clumsy. Several turned on each other in confusion. Not one of them
> survived until morning.
> Yet dawn looked down upon an elvish joy already stained with sorrow.
> During the battle Rigoletto had drawn Astorel away from the melee and
> the two had dueled on the stage among the dancing flames. Astorel had
> been consumed but not before giving the prince a scathing wound across
> the face. The weapon had been Rigoletto?s own magic sword. It left
> on the prince the same burning mark it had made on the hands of the
> one who held it and the bodies of those he had marred. Now that the
> reflections had become real elves, they no longer bore the sword?s
> scars, but it would be a long time before Prince Rigoletto?s wound was
> healed. The bitter poison in Astorel?s soul had overflowed through
> his hands into the sword, and it was now laying siege to Rigoletto?s
> mind and heart as well as to his body.
> Weeping filled the air that day instead of wedding hymns. The elves
> mourned long and deep for their injured prince but also for the hall
> that was no more. The king?s court and servants had saved the rest of
> the palace from the fire, but a few charred beams and stained and
> trampled carpet were all that now told of the magnificent concert
> hall.
> You may have heard elsewhere the story of how Rigoletto found healing
> in the world of men. I have heard more than one version. Perhaps
> because some of the tellers confuse Rigoletto with the elves that
> followed him there. Ever since their master took the white ship
> across the worlds the elves of the magic mirrors have kept their
> master?s cause and healed the sick and cheered the downcast. At least
> that?s the story Giles told me while I was sick in bed, and afterwards
> I have never been ill and never forgotten his story.
>
> The Elves of the Magic Mirrors 10.doc (93.0 KB)
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