Fantasy as Gift

“I am enough of an artist to draw freely upon my imagination. Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world.” ~ Albert Einstein

I love that Einstein held fantasy and imagination in such high regard. I think its marvellous that a man of science and logic appreciates the immense capacity of the imagination and the power of fantasy to transform everyday life. I especially love that he knows it is a gift, a gift he values even more than knowledge. It seems strange at first, as though Einstein, perhaps the greatest scientist the world has known, would prefer fantasy to fact, the unreal to the real.
Upon reflection it is not so surprising, however. We forget that to apply reason and logic to any situation, we first need the imagination as our testing ground – as a way of conceptualizing possible outcomes. For instance, how could we theorize that an atom exists without first imagining the possibility? For that matter, how could we theorize anything at all?
We compartmentalize everything we learn for the sake of simplicity. That is why we view the imagination as a separate and independent faculty from our ability to reason and apply knowledge, when really, they are a part of the same thought processes and not opposed to one another at all. The lion should be able to lie down with the lamb. Art is not really so far apart from Science and Math and the other disciplines. It drives them, pushes the boundaries, injects them with new expectation. Perhaps Albert Einstein said it best when he said: “Imagination is everything. It is the preview of life’s coming attractions.” The gift of imagination can allow us to envision miracles and wonders. The power then comes when we believe.

Novel Excerpt: “Dragons In the Doorway”

EXCERPT FOUR: “Dragons in the Doorway”
by: T. Wallace-Pregent

On the day Misty Wells and her brother Shasta came to Draper House, the rain pelted the earth in protest and forks of lightning spread like vines over the sky. Shasta held his little sister’s hand tightly as their father and mother drove up to the high iron gate barring the way to his great-grandmother’s dilapidated old century-home, which was really only a little less than a mansion. They had never seen their grandmother’s mother before, but knew how the rest of the family viewed her – a crazed old woman with strange ideas and odd behaviors.
“Did you know she talks to plants?” Misty had told her brother in horror after they had found out that they would have to spend their summer, their whole summer at Draper House.
“That’s nothing,” said Shasta in a strained voice. “I remember Uncle Albert saying that she had once been caught dancing under the moon at midnight in her nightgown – fancy that! And when the neighbors asked her what she had been doing, she told them that she was calling for the wind to come.”
At this point, their mother had spoken sharply to both children, telling them that their grandmother was a sweet old lady, and that they were not to speak any ill of her. All the same, Shasta had felt sure that their mother did not look very pleased having to leave them at Draper House. In fact, he had overheard her saying as much to his Aunt Martha on the phone earlier that day:
“Martha, if only there was someone other than Gran to look after the children.  You know how she is…She’s a dear old thing, but I’m afraid she’ll be filling their heads with those strange ideas of hers…”
That was the day that they had found out that Dad was taking Mom on his business trip to Hong Kong. He had promised her a vacation, but with his computer business now booming after months of stagnation, this was the best he could do. The only problem was, since this was primarily a business trip, the children would have to stay behind. Worst of all, they would have to stay with this great-grandmother they had never seen, who lived very far away from home.
That was only two weeks ago, and now they were here at Draper House, in a bone-chilling rainstorm, looking as though the world were about to end. Shasta glanced over at his sister, and saw a look of grim determination on her face. He was relieved. Being the eldest by four years, Shasta had always felt a need to protect his younger sister, who he felt was a little too sensitive and emotional about things. Shasta gave Misty’s hand an encouraging squeeze and she flashed him a grateful smile.
Their father had to jump out in the blinding rain to unfasten the gate. They could barely see his outline in the wall of water that was pouring down around him. Once safely back in the car, dripping with water, he drove the car up the narrow, twisted laneway that led to Draper House. A grim silence had fallen over all of them, and nobody felt like breaking it. They knew the moment of parting had come. Shasta felt a knot in his stomach tighten as their father opened their car door.

Novel Excerpt: “Meghan’s Dragons”

EXCERPT THREE: “Meghan’s Dragons”
by: T. Wallace-Pregent

Meghan sank down to her knees trying desperately to catch her breath. She could see the beast’s eyes glowing in the shadows, its breath the only warmth in the drafty old house. It had been there the entire time that Mam had been in the room, waiting for its chance to get her alone. All the time Mam was talking about cousin Sarah’s having twins and getting her brother Charles to chop the kindling for the fire and poor baby Bessie’s croup, it stood staring at her out of the flames of the fireplace.
“For heaven’s sake, Meghan, what’re you staring at?” Mam asked while Meghan was concentrating on keeping her breathing slow and even.
“Nothing, Mam,” said Meghan barely above a whisper. “Is Gran coming back soon?” She had learned early that it was useless to tell Mam anything about the dragons. Mam loved her to distraction, but she would think Meghan was crazy for sure. So she made sure that no one knew about her visions – except for Gran, of course. Gran was different. Like Meghan.
Now Mam was gone and the room was still and silent except for the slight hissing of dragon’s breath. Anyone else might have mistaken it for the crackling of the fire in the grate, but Meghan’s ears were very practised. She knew the signs to look for. She knew, too, that she was safe as long as she could keep her heart from racing and her breathing steady. The slightest sign of fear or weakness and the beast would pounce, ripping her mortal body to shreds.
“I know why you’re here,” she said, as calmly as she could. “I know what you want, but I don’t have it. I’m not the one you’re looking for. You can go back and tell all your friends that Meghan Ridley is not the Dragon’s Bane.” She kept her eyes low, knowing that it would like to steal her strength. The long lizard’s body slunk around her and the hissing increased.
“You are a terrible liar, Meghan Ridley…” hissed the dragon. He was a Ridge-back, not as large as some of the others but perhaps more deadly. His flint-like scales scraped her arm. Still she would not look up. He snorted.
“The time of the Scythe is nearing. You’d be wise to reconsider our offer.”
Meghan’s throat tightened at the mention of the Scythe. Would the beast leave her a cruel reminder of its importance, as the last dragon to visit her did? The burns on her arms had only just healed.
Suddenly the door burst open and a tall grey-haired lady stood in the doorway brandishing a twisted brass-handled cane. The ring on her finger flashed as deep red as the firelight. At the same time rain rattled angrily against the window pane and the lights went out. Only the fire remained casting long strange shadows about the room. Meghan breathed deeply with relief.
“Gran!” she cried, jumping up from her place on the hearth. She cast her arms gratefully around her grandmother.
“Sorry I’m late, darling.” Grandmother Lacy was a soft-spoken lady, but her eyes said more than her words. She was angry. Walking over to the fireplace she tapped the stones on the hearth with her cane, saying the words of blessing under her breath.

Novel Excerpt: “The Spindler’s Web”

T. W. Pregent’s Weblog.

EXCERPT TWO: “The Spindler’s Web”
by: T. Wallace-Pregent

He was abnormally quiet. That’s the first thing Brynne noticed about him. The Canticles were a family of six and you had to be loud to be heard. The kitchen, the heart of the Canticle household, was normally booming and bustling with noise: board games being played, dishes getting washed, homework being talked about and radio blaring. Every young voice was vying for parental attention. Parental voices were either barking out orders or running interference.
On this day, however, all six Canticles were quiet. The tall grey man may have been silent, but his black eyes were loud, staring with a gravity that was unnerving to say the least. His high cheekbones and well-chiselled features were still handsome despite his advanced age and the severity of his expression. This was a fearsome man; a man you didn’t refuse. Yet, if Brynne had looked closely enough, she may have seen something in those eyes that was not altogether foreboding. A spark of something gentler, a humor perhaps, that could not quite be called a ‘twinkle’ but was something akin to it.
Brynne did not see the gentle spark that morning in the Canticle kitchen, however. She saw the almost panicked expression of her father, the grim line of his mouth, his set jaw, and immediately she detested her estranged grandfather with all the passion a twelve-almost-thirteen-year-old girl could muster. Which was quite a lot.
The children were quickly ushered outside, a definite sign of impending doom from Brynne’s point of view. There was no point in joining her much older sister Elizabeth who was going for a walk around the neighborhood. She flatly refused to help her younger brother Caeden hunt for warty toads in the water garden. The beautiful sunny day was spoiled for Brynne and she could do nothing but sit cross-legged on the warm stone patio and listen to the snatches of adult conversation projected through the open kitchen window.
“I told you never to come here!” Her father’s voice was angry and strained. “I’ll not have you addling my children’s brains with that nonsense!”
She could not hear what her grandfather was saying, but she could hear that John Wizerly’s voice was low and even and absolute in its authority. She could hear her mother’s voice, too, and it sounded calm, but higher-pitched than usual.
“Father has a point, Arthur. Even if you don’t agree with his views, is it fair to deprive them of their grandchildren? What if he were to promise not to tell them anything? What if I offered to go with them to be sure that nothing…unusual happened?”
Just then Brynne’s tingling ears were assaulted by Caeden’s joyful shrieks as he dangled a slimy bullfrog in front of her eyes.
“Caeden Anthony! You are so dead! Just you wait…”
The next thing she knew, she was running from the fat warty creature and screaming half in fear, half in delight. It made her forget the impending doom for a while. In the next moment, though, reality hit her with the suddenness of a natural disaster. John Wizerly himself stood before her, those grim black eyes fixed on her and Caeden: insinuating wordlessly that they belonged to him. Then he turned and walked away down the cobblestone path around to the front of the house where his car was waiting.

Novel Excerpt: Under a Fairy Moon

Novel Excerpt: “Under a Fairy Moon”

by: T. Wallace-Pregent

Addyson Marten crouched stone-still in the speckled shadows, willing herself to become nothing but rock and tree and cold bare earth. Then, only when the woman had moved a little farther on and there was only a slim chance of being seen, Addy began to breathe freely again, blood moving again to warm her limbs. The woman was Mrs.Tavish, and they had recently become neighbors in the small town of Windy Falls.
Addy was in awe of Mrs. Tavish. Or rather, she was in awe of her garden, and her reputation. Mrs. Tavish had the most beautiful garden in the neighborhood – some said in the entire county. It perfumed the street with its exotic smells and its sheer number of plants rendered it a sort of urban jungle. Addy thought it looked like a fairyland with its fancy pagodas and mythical statuary.
This was why she was so puzzled: you would think that Mrs. Tavish’s garden would have been the pride of the town – even a tourist attraction. You would imagine that children would come in droves to touch its flowers; you would think that amateur gardeners from around the country would come to gaze at its lush beauty and press its owner for tips on how to manage such a paradise. In fact, just the opposite was true. Children and adults avoided the place like it was a hidden minefield ready to blow. They took great pains to cross the street rather than walk over its adjacent sidewalk – refusing even to take refuge from its shady canopy on a scorching summer day. What was it about Mrs. Tavish’s garden that people feared so much?
Addy wondered if it was perhaps Mrs. Tavish herself that so frightened the townspeople of Windy Falls. She remembered people talking about a strange old lady in Port Perry where she grew up. She had a house full of cats and grew herbs and some of the kids thought she might be a witch. Was Mrs. Tavish a witch? Certainly she was the picture of contradiction tramping ungracefully around her kingdom of azaleas and primroses in her cotton flowered dresses and black wellington boots. However, Addy didn’t think she looked so much scary as ridiculous. She didn’t think a witch would wear an over-large sun-hat trailing ribbons and lace.
“Rita said to be very careful not to upset our new neighbor,” said her Mom offhandedly to her Dad a few days after they had moved in to the new house. “She’s a bit eccentric, apparently, and there’s some scandal there, though she didn’t go into details. Something about a lost child – maybe her own. Anyway, she’s a real loner and doesn’t like people, so we’ll just have to give her some space.”
Addy had wanted to ask her more about Mrs. Tavish, but she was too comfortable in her place behind the heavy living-room drapes, feeling the cold smoothness of the tiled floor and imagining she was exploring the dark patches in the forest she saw in the painting on the mantelpiece. Her father was partly responsible for her day-dreaming. He was playing the piano softly in the background and the music was carrying her thoughts away as it always did, to uncharted lands.

Multimagusism

I have three daughters. One is a fairy princess, the second is a wizard, the third is just ten months old, so we really don’t know quite who she is yet. It always amazes me how different people can be, even if they share the same house. Or castle, as the case may be. My fairy princess enjoys her own company, quietly and efficiently ruling her share of the kingdom. She dances around the castle gardens with grace and has tea with the forest animals and the sprites. Sometimes she is so quiet in her dealings that you don’t even notice her moving gracefully in the shadows among the fairy-folk.

My little wizlet is quite different. She is all light and no shadows. She is a small explosion of sound and sights. She whirls and whizzes around the castle, a small explosion of energy. Sometimes, when she is not casting spells about her, the river of energy reverts inward. Quiet but alert, she reflects this about her like the quiet pulse of sunshine.

Under Duress

Writing is sometimes like going to the dentist. It has to be done, it will make you feel better, but its process is painful. Today writing is made particularly painful for me by the fact that I have a wicked witch planning to poison me and two dwarves ready to axe down my front door. You see, the criminal element in Magusville has discovered that I am writing this little blog and intend to do something about it. As a wizard of the the Wizerly clan I have been sworn to secrecy about our secret wizard society (though, luckily, I have never had to take the Severe Oath – a curse that would cause me death or worse for divulging clan secrets.) I am one of a number of many wizard radicals who would befriend mankind, protect them not only from evil wizards but also from themselves. However, it would seem that the ruling Superior Magus does not, unfortunately, share our views. Excuse me, I think I hear- yes, it seems that my life will be spared for one more day. The ogre next door just helped himself to a little free lunch. I really must invite him over to tea – its wonderful having an ogre for a neighbor…well, thank the Great One that he’s on Our side, anyway.

Have yourselves a magical day, friends.

The Colour of Magic

Blue sky, blue sky, what secrets do you hold? Watching fools and sages from lofty heights untold!
– from “Wizardry Throughout the Ages”

Here in Magusville we have always been Green. That’s right, Green with a capital “G.” We wizards view ourselves as protectors of the earth, trying to undo some of the environmental damage done by some thoughtless human beings. Of course, having magic as an unlimited supply of clean natural energy certainly helps a lot. Is your garden overrun with weeds? Is your home teeming with vermin, or stuffed full of unwanted junk? Just call an earth wizard, she’ll have you tidied up in no time. Certainly, it may cost you a few drops of bat’s blood, five fingernail clippings and your firstborn child, but a wizard will get the job done right.

We also know when to leave well enough alone. We don’t mess with our enchanted forests, for example. Who knows what damage the venerable old trees would do to us if we dared to harm them? We’d have trees protesting in the streets, their roots pulling up the roads and blocking the thoroughfare. Sure, we have spellbooks that use paper, but that’s by a tree’s choice. Becoming a book is an honour reserved for the very oldest, most gnarled trees in the forest. Trees that have a story to tell. Old greybeards with tendrils of ancient moss that have more magic in one of their roots than in all the famous wizards throughout history. We love and revere our trees. We wouldn’t last long if we didn’t.

Intimations of Royalty

Today it is my great privilege to have breakfast with a fairy princess. It is not as daunting as you might think. Yes, she is startlingly beautiful, with manners and graces that only her race can achieve, but a more natural unaffected creature you could never hope to meet. She’s only three and happens to be my daughter, but that’s just some happy coincidence. She smiled at me over her bowl of granola cereal, her large eyes dancing to their depths and I am humbled and awed that such a magical creature has deigned to make my acquaintance and even enjoys my company. Where did she learn to move like that? Something about the precise movement of her hands, the graceful tilt of her head, the impromptu dance as she sits perched straight-backed in her chair reminds me that I am in the presence of royalty. I watch her reach out and touch a branch of a tree that had been a chair only moments before. She glides away into her enchanted forest-kingdom to fulfill some secret agenda, and I sigh gratefully, taking another contemplative sip of my tea. I have been given a gift.

Welcome to Magusville!

Welcome to Magusville, city-under-the-mountain and jewel of Wizardom. My own journey through Magusville has been at once perilous and fascinating. I have wrestled with witches, explored enchanted castles and argued with testy dragon-familiars. I have even seen the Kuldron mountains riding dragon-back! I hope your journey is equally frightening and amazing.

If you get a chance, visit the tea-room for a cup of fairy-tea or strong wizard’s brew. Its better than any coffee I’ve tasted (and believe me, with all my travels I am becoming something of a connoisseur!) Also, if magic books tantalize you, don’t forget to stop by the Wizerly Book Shoppe in our neighboring small-town Wizenbury.