AMAYA TENSHI

Amaya's Journal

Old Misadventurers Script

7/14/2025

 
So this script is from 2017 or so, though it's been edited on and off since then. I was not being careful with the length. I would guess this was supposed to be for a 22 minute episode. What do you all think?
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Renfield Review

7/11/2025

 
Ok, I thought about it and came to the conclusion this might be a good idea. So if you are prepared for a weird deep-dive into Renfield, welcome. My tl;dr take is this: Renfield had the potential to actually be good, but needed at least one more editing pass to tighten its focus. That's a shame, because I'd love to see this Nicholas Cage Dracula again.

To start, I wish to list the things that worked really well and deserve praise.
To begin, Nicholas Cage was perfect in this film, though not for reasons that people might have expected. From the trailers, and the movie being billed ostensibly as a horror-comedy, I was expecting a glorious, scenery-devouring performance the likes of which only Nicholas Cage can deliver. I was actually pleasantly surprised to find that Cage was not only doing a real performance, but also I am willing to go on record and say this is the most book-accurate Dracula ever put to screen. Cage conveys a sense of demonic aura, as well as the sort of off-putting, alienness that book Dracula oozed in most interactions (book Dracula is an off-putting creature, not an alluring one). Moreover, I think Cage also brought a curious and I believe never before seen on-screen aspect of the book Dracula’s character to light: his childishness. Van Helsing describes the vampire count as basically a demonic deviant with the mind of a child. Book Dracula is prone to emotional outbursts, and displays a sharply honed animal cunning, but seems to possess no capacity for grandscale plotting or scheming (small, concise planning and plotting, yes), unlike later depictions on the big screen. His threat is largely due to the fact that he is a walking contagion, apex predator, and possesses supernatural powers unknown to the “modern” world, allowing him free rein to infect an entire nation undetected. The script of Renfield also seems to allude to this, however shallowly, in that this particular Dracula constantly self-indulges with little planning ahead, and lands on the idea of world-domination in the exact same way a malicious six-year-old might when he realizes he’s kind of tired of getting attacked periodically and if he ruled the world, then that would stop happening. It LITERALLY has not occurred to him until recently in the movie, and I appreciate this deviation from the cinema norm. I will say this is my favorite portrayal of the character on screen to date. Also, I think I spotted a small nod to his performance in Vampire's Kiss, but blink and you'll miss it.
Secondly, the opening in which Renfield explains his backstory in a flashback is brilliant and wonderfully done. The sequence is a delightful homage to Tod Browning’s 1930s Dracula starring Bela Lugosi, where Cage and Hoult reenact scenes from the film. Hoult also impressed me by how WELL he was able to recreate Dwight Frye’s maniacal giggling when discovered upon the Demeter, and solidly convinced me he would do brilliantly in this current role. (If you have never seen that scene, here it is: https://youtu.be/OYSSB6QBBFU?t=139).

Thirdly, Nicholas Hoult deserves praise, though I will say I have never seen one of his performances that was not spot on. I have liked him in everything I have seen him in, and he does well with what he is given in this film (the eagle-eyed reader may notice something about what I just said there). Alas, despite the opening, Hoult does not recreate Frye’s performance through the rest of the film, though the character of Renfield in this film is not WRITTEN to be that performance. Renfield here is largely a different character.
Lastly, as far as modern movies go, this is among the best, but alas, that is not really praise. Here, I will transition to the bad, and say that had this movie come out in, say, the 90s, it would have been ignored for its crushing mediocrity and overall failure to solidly nail any one of its constituent narrative pieces. I believe that current ratings reflect that this film will end up in the memory-hole bin of history, where--alas for Cage’s performance--it belongs.

On to the actual critique:
It has been a bit difficult for me to decide how to begin, as the major failings of this film are twofold and it is hard to determine which ought to spoken about first. I will say that the two main failings are, unsurprisingly: direction and the script.
I will begin by saying I actually LIKE the direction, however it is at odds I think with what the script intended. The direction of the film is as a dark horror comedy complete with ridiculous, over the top and incredibly fake-looking explosions of cg blood. [SPOILER: to give an idea, a character is actually kicked so hard in the stomach that his bones shatter and his liquefied organs come out...both ends, to put it politely. It’s that sort of film]. HOWEVER, where this direction fails is in the resolution and the conceit of the script that there is a heartfelt psychological aspect to Renfield’s inner conflict, and this does NOT work. The film makes use of bathos as a tool for humor, and in a dark comedy, that is perfectly acceptable. Bathos, as defined by the Oxford Dictionary, is “(especially in a work of literature) an effect of anticlimax created by an unintentional lapse in mood from the sublime to the trivial or ridiculous.” Use of jokes to punctuate what otherwise is a serious scene, is a form of “pulling the rug out” from under story beats. It conveys to the audience that there is nothing particularly serious going on. Again, in a comedy, this is wonderful. However, this technique does NOT play well with attempts at sincerity. There is a great analysis of The Last Jedi that explores the bathos aspect of that film in particular: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CuuDTnMPMgc.

Horror-comedy is an incredibly difficult genre to pull off (as well I know, as I did my best in my friest book, Dracula's Guest), as horror and comedy are doing literally opposite jobs. Horror requires on the building of tension, and comedy relies on the constant release of tension. This is a balancing act, and one which I do spend time thinking about, since my book series is an example of a horror-comedy itself (though the balance of these two genres changes, and I introduce drama and other elements later). To make dissonant tones work, you largely have to be very judicious not to let the two touch each other unless the jarring juxtaposition of the two actually serves to emphasize ONE of the two of them.

To return to Renfield specifically, and to bathos in particular, bathos constantly tells the audience to not take things seriously, and the more it is used, the MORE audiences will take that message away. And this ESPECIALLY does not work when most of the scenes that center around the central theme of the film—that there is a real-life, psychological relationship which Renfield must overcome, and so his [SPOILER self-affirmation at the end to free himself by use of what he has learned at therapy can ONLY work if the film does not constantly make jokes out of his therapy sessions.] To continue with the [SPOILER Dracula’s death is actually played for laughs. I repeat: the defeat of the final boss, so to speak, of the film, is played as a JOKE]. It is IMPOSSIBLE to have a heartfelt “the friends we made along the way” sort of moral meant in total sincerity when the rest of the film constantly pokes fun at virtually EVERYTHING, and ESPECIALLY at the friends you've been making along the way. I feel this resulted because the director had a desire for horror-comedy, but the script itself was less committed to that. A better example of well-defined themes and character arcs about the self, as well as a horror-comedy can be seen in Shaun of the Dead.

Which brings me to the script itself. This, by far, is the REAL problem. Overall, the story is perfectly serviceable, but there are key and critical elements that absolutely do not work, and worse, there are amateurish writing mistakes. This is all a shame, as I think with at least one more final edit, this could have actually been a REALLY fun movie, a la all the best of the action comedies of the 90s, or even a fairly well-done psychological study. However, the script lacks focus both on character and ESPECIALLY on properly building and executing a theme.

To begin: the themes. There are theoretically two, since the script lacks focus. There is a definite attempt at “self-affirmation” and “self-confidence” and “moving on” which is presented sincerely, though actually quite badly. The first major problem with this is that the movie INSISTS that Renfield and Dracula are in a “co-dependent relationship” which it repeats ad nauseum. The reason it REPEATS it, is because this is not demonstrated in the film in any tangible way. Dracula and Renfield actually have very little screen time together, which is a crying shame not just because we miss out on more of Cage as Dracula, but because there is no way to see the purported codependency. For a look at what a REAL co-dependent relationship looks like, I direct you here:  https://www.fortbehavioral.com/addiction-recovery-blog/9-warning-signs-of-a-codependent-relationship/#:~:text=Published%3A%20May%2025%2C%202021,people%20with%20substance%20use%20issues. What is immediately apparent to viewers is that Dracula does NOT need Renfield. In fact, once Dracula fails getting Renfield back after one attempt, he just goes and grabs another minion. Further undermining any understanding of this relationship is Cage’s performance. Cage brings a sense of transcendent evil, of the demonic and supernatural, and it is therefore impossible to say to what extent Renfield was seduced to serve him because of some hypnotic suggestion and what the film claims is the actual reason: he was just greedy and ambitious and Dracula was rich (I will expand on this later).
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For his part, Renfield’s express desire as stated and as demonstrated, is that he’s tired of living like this but can’t leave because he’s afraid Dracula will kill him. That is not co-dependency, that’s a hostage situation. Renfield has no deep, burning desire to be of service and to help Dracula per se, he's stuck doing it by external circumstance. There are definitely scenes where the film TRIES to show that Renfield lacks self-confidence, but this character trait only presents itself when Dracula is around, and to return to direction, there is certainly a hint that there is more to the fact that Renfield folds like a house of cards than simply lack of confidence and self-esteem (such as: Dracula has some hypnotic abilities). For the rest of Renfield’s interactions, he is quippy, kind, able to crack jokes, and is pretty open about his situation to Rebecca, none of which portrays a broken, emotionally manipulated co-dependent. The closest we ever see is what is presented in the trailer, though in the trailer, critically, he says “I need to get out of a TOXIC relationship” which is certainly where he is.

Considering that the film tries on the one hand to poke fun at people seeking support to get out of their codependent relationships and ALSO convey a sense of relief that Renfield successfully uses the sort of empty platitudes presented in his group self-therapy sessions to [SPOILER help defeat Dracula.] (This is especially egregious when the film makes a gag out of Renfield’s use of a self-help book as a Bible against Dracula in Act 2 which of course fails miserably, as one would expect it to against a demon piloting a corpse, only for self-affirmation to be his rallying cry at the end to free himself from Dracula before [SPOILER comedically bludgeoning Dracula into bits with assorted tools]).

I think this incongruity may be due in part to Cage’s performance. As written, I could see an actor portraying Dracula as a psychological manipulator and narcissist more than a transcendent evil, but at this point, it is the director’s job to figure out how to work all of that into a coherent film. Johnny Depp made Jack Sparrow into more than just a vaudeville-esque comedy-relief character, after all. Guillermo del Toro quite famously rewrites his scripts to better match his actors’ performances in order to strengthen the entire work. It falls to the creative team to decide whether they want to keep Cage’s performance as-is (which is the correct choice) and therefore rewrite the script to match, or to tell him to give a different performance which matches a different vision instead.

This brings me to another, extremely irritating flaw of the script: it LOVES its exposition, and loves to tell, not show. There is a particularly egregious example following the introduction of Rebecca Quincy, the deuteragonist of the film. She is the least-well realized character, but I will return to characterization later. After Rebecca (I refuse to call her Quincy, not simply because the film forgets her surname, but because this attempt to reference the Texan from Stoker’s novel doesn’t work because Rebecca IS NOT Quincy in any way) arrests Teddy Lobo (son of one of the local crime bosses) and rants about his getting away from justice, the police chief has a long discussion with her about her dead father, and how he was killed by the mob, and the chief will take care of her, et cetera, et cetera. The exposition is painful, and made ALL THE MORE PAINFUL because the film has the good sense to have the camera follow Rebecca out of the room and linger on the photo of her obviously dead father hanging on the wall, which would have been all anyone really needed to get an idea what her motivation was. The scene which Rebecca walks into IMMEDIATELY AFTERWWARDS is one with her sister, who is an FBI agent who more or less says “Hey, OUR DAD WAS MURDERED BY THE MOB, AND YOU AND I BOTH WANT JUSTICE.” It is like the edited Star Wars A New Hope scene in which Han Solo encounters Jabba right after shooting Greedo. This script needed an editor. 

There are more instances of “tell, don’t show” in this film, especially when it comes to explaining backstory and character motivation, the wonderful opening scene recreating Tod Browning’s film excluded. When Renfield finally explains why he came to work for Dracula, we end up with another instance of this, but more critically, the script undermines its own conceit. Renfield confesses to Rebecca that the reason he was manipulated by Dracula is because he was a young and ambitious real estate agent who made an excuse of trying to make money for his wife and daughter, but ultimately wanted it for himself. I might counter that it is not exactly outside the norm for any young, aspiring real estate agent to want to close on the deal of his entire career, and so this is not indicative of a character flaw per se. Moreover, this is meant to serve as evidence of how he and Dracula became codependent, which is baffling, because Dracula offers him no further money so far as we are shown (or know of based on outside media like the book and 1930s movie), and Renfield is perfectly content to leave Dracula and live in a quaint little apartment. He never complains about a lack of money for himself personally, outside of going "yeah, we're out of it," and never pursues money at any point in the film.

This given character flaw becomes even MORE confused when, in the group therapy session which directly leads Renfield to leave Dracula he repeats an affirmation that HE (Renfield) will grow to full power, instead of Dracula. He actually shouts this out loud more than once. If ambition was his flaw, one would expect that this affirmation would play into it, not free him from its hold over him.

This is as good a time as any to move on to characterization: another failing of this film. Besides Renfield, most characters in this film are underdeveloped, though in the case of Teddy Lobo and his mother, this is fine as they are basically one-note villains.

Dracula is difficult to read because he spends very little time on screen, and because it is unclear what the film wants us to make of him. The script more or less INSISTS that he is in a codependent relationship with Renfield. However, so far as I can tell, he is only in the most utilitarian sense: that he needs someone to help him occasionally with sunlight or getting him food if he’s too weak to get it himself. Bafflingly, the film tries to imply that Dracula might ACTUALLY have specific attachment to Renfiled in particular in the two scenes where he tries to manipulate Renfield, undercutting him and filling him with guilt, but the moment this doesn’t work, he simply leaves to get other minions. However, he DOES try to exact revenge on Renfield specifically, though whether this is because he had SOME sort of attachment to Renfield emotionally (in a human sense) or simply because he is just demonically malicious and likes causing emotional pain (and knows Renfield VERY well, making him a perfect target) is unclear. Dracula can shed human tears (instead of weeping blood, which is A decision, for sure. A bad one) if the situation calls for it, but these are clearly, utterly fake, making it difficult to decipher what he actually FEELS at any time besides unwholesome, sadistic, malice. Moreover, the shedding of human tears to manipulate Renfield implies they must have positive times together, which we are NEVER shown, and Renfield doesn't expand on. So far as we can see, there is a master and unwilling slave relationship, nothing more. If the tears work, the implication is that RENFIELD has some reason to WANT to maintain a relationship with Dracula, though again I ask "why?" Renfield goes so far to say--of the tears--that "maybe he means it this time." If, by implication, Dracula means that he really likes Renfield and cares about him, and that they are partners, this undermines Renfield's stated motives to escape, and also his stated reasons for falling to begin with, but more on this at the end.

This brings us to Renfield, who is a bit of a mess. And what a shame, as he could have been a really interesting character. His central motive remains that he wishes to get away from Dracula, but the WHY is difficult for the film to articulate, especially given the baffling “ambition and greed” as initial motives. When we first meet him, Renfield’s explanation of the situation betrays that he is simply TIRED of being a minion of Dracula's and constantly running, though he does deliver a baffling line about how Dracula’s fake tears might be sincere "this time," implying that Dracula, on occasion, is nice to him. The script, as ever, never shows a single instance of this, so it remains another “tell, don’t show” issue. Renfield’s inner conflict at the beginning is that he is tired of the job, but can’t quit because, as the film shows us, he worries Dracula will kill him. In fact, when he tries to suggest a change in plans to Dracula, his vampire master casually disembowels him in disgust (again making us question the film's attempt to imply any sort of "codependency" or "positive" aspect to this relationship). Renfield doesn’t seem to be particularly conflicted about killing people that he thinks ought to die (people he’s decided are bad people), and it is unclear if this is because he just doesn’t care about them or he’s become jaded to murder because he’s been doing it for more than a century. The fact that he’s basically a serial killer for Dracula is practically played as a joke by Rebecca later in the film (more on that in my section on fixes). 

For the self-affirmation pep-talk he delivers at the end to work narratively, it has to be that he is staying with Dracula SOLELY because of his lack of self-esteem, which he has recovered somehow (though I suppose through group therapy. Let that sink in). However, as stated above, Hoult’s performance does not precisely show a consistently broken man. Renfield has no problem approaching Rebecca on their first meeting and praising her up and down, tracking her down later to help her, getting an apartment, new wardrobe, etc. the moment he gets the slightest push to stand up for himself. He does not hesitate to join forces with Rebecca to take down Dracula and the mob, either. There is no question in his mind that he has to stop the monster who has been controlling him for the better part of a century and has theoretically manipulated him through emotional and psychological abuse or through literal powers to murder potentially hundreds or more people. He does not ruminate on any of this, the only guilt he feels is that he abandoned his wife and daughter more than a century ago. The script TELLS us one thing, but it SHOWS us something else. More on this in my “fixes.”

Rebecca is underdeveloped, but no surprise there. Unlike many modern female characters, she is a profoundly flawed character, which is partly played for laughs. The only reason I say that she is still poorly written is that the FILM does not seem to be aware that she has flaws, as her arc is basically flat, and the film does not call her out for her abrasiveness except once, in a “tell, don’t show” way when she claims she insulted her sister once at a party. She remains single-minded (monomaniac, actually) and rigidly upright, with neither trait being explored either as a foil for Renfield, or to expose her “spine” and have her overcome either of her two major shortcomings (abrasiveness or monomania with regards to the mob, which--oddly enough--is not a desire for revenge per se for the murder of her father). All that is really needed to fix Rebecca is simply to have one of her flaws be explored and either overcome in a heroic arc, or fallen to in a villainous arc to make her work.

The broken climax. This section will be the most full of SPOILERS so please skip ahead if you don’t want to know more about the ending of this movie or about Bunraku (https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1181795/), feel free to watch the trailer here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Js7-rSrHsw). The final fight between Renfield and Rebecca and Dracula and the mob was, to put it bluntly, a bit of a mess.

Before I explain why, let me talk a bit about Bunraku. In the film, an unnamed gunslinger with no gun (Josh Hartnett) comes to a town suffering under the tyranny of a vicious murderer and his gang of killers. Hartnett has come to settle some sort of personal vendetta against the top killer, played by Ron Perlman. Gackt plays a samurai who does not want to use his sword, who has come to this town to meet with his uncle and cousin, who run a Japanese restaurant. It turns out that Ron Perlman’s favorite restaurant is the one run by Gackt’s uncle, and Ron Perlman’s right hand man, a devious killer with ambitions to run the town himself, starts harassing the restaurant. This brings Gackt into conflict with the Ron Perlman’s right-hand man primarily, and Ron Perlman himself secondarily, but most obviously aligns him with Josh Hartnett’s goal of taking down the killers in the town. When they finally get to the climax, Gackt goes to kill the right hand man, who has kidnapped his cousin and intends to rape her, while Josh Hartnett goes off to kill Ron Perlman. Gackt struggles but manages to overcome the right hand man, while on the other hand Josh Hartnett is nearly killed almost immediately in his fight with his antagonist and is barely alive. What is clear from this film, where there are two protagonists, with Hartnett being the primary protagonist and Gackt the deuteragonist, is that neither ONE of them would ever have been able to take down the main villain, but together they could. Moreover, it is clear either of them could probably have taken down all the big bad’s minions, especially in one-on-one fights, of which the film provides many examples. It is only when Gackt comes to check on Hartnett that Hartnett is able to defeat the big bad. Though Gackt’s contribution to the fight is minimal, it is necessary in a story with TWO PROTAGONISTS DRAWN TOGETHER IN THIS WAY to have both contribute to the finale in a way that works on a personal and emotional level, while not undermining the main protagonist TOO much.

You may be wondering why I spent some time talking about Bunraku. Let me first explain the major plot points of Renfield:

Renfield opens with Renfield wanting to get away from Dracula, who is a bad guy. Rebecca wants to take down the mob because they murdered her father. Renfield bumps into Rebecca, and when he sees her bravely facing down Teddy Lobo (ie: part of the mob) who is going to shoot her dead, Renfield is inspired to stand up to Dracula. He helps Rebecca survive her encounter, then leaves Dracula. Dracula joins forces with the mob because he lost Renfield, and so the enemies for the two protagonists are now Dracula at the head of the mob, with Teddy Lobo as his new right hand man. This means that the deuteragonist is now completely aligned with the main protagonist in going to fight the big bad, Dracula, in order to defeat the secondary antagonist, Teddy Lobo. So far, so good.

However, Rebecca spends all of a few seconds fighting Lobo before running off to find her sister, who has been kidnapped by the mob, only to then have an extended scene with Dracula. In the meanwhile, RENFIELD has to kill Teddy Lobo, though the two have little to do with each other on any personal level. Then, Renfield goes to try to kill Dracula. It turns out Rebecca was never going to give in to him, fails to kill him, then Dracula kills or critically wounds Renfield, Rebecca revives him with Dracula’s blood, Renfield pointlessly punches Dracula until they manage to trap him, then shoot him like a fish in a barrel.

Between the two stories, it is surely clear which one is better, but now it is time to move on to my fixes.

Let’s start with the finale, and how with a few small changes, this climax could have REALLY worked.

Renfield has an established connection with Dracula, while Rebecca has an established connection with Teddy Lobo specifically and the mob generally (in the way that Josh Hartnett had a connection to Ron Perlman, while Gackt had a connection with Killer No. 2 primarily, and only Ron Perlman secondarily). Rebecca’s explicit motivation is to bring the mob to justice because they murdered her father, and earlier in the film, Teddy Lobo presented himself as the “face” of the mob to her specifically. She arrested him, and he later tracked her down to murder her and mock her father’s death. That is two confrontations, and in good storytelling, one would assume there would be a final confrontation with him, in which this back and forth, her on top, then him, would culminate in a final defeat of SOMEONE. Personal stakes are always more powerful than vague ones. Small, comprehensible stakes, and personal connection are key to powerful storytelling. That’s the reason the finale of Captain America Civil War hits harder than any superhero sky laser extravaganza. Internal conflict manifested as external conflict also hits harder than purely external conflict, hence why the finale of the Dark Knight, which has two small ferries being the manifestation of Gotham’s—and by extension ALL of humanity’s soul—on trial hits much harder than The Dark Knight Rises’ random nuke which will just wipe everyone out no matter what.

The problem with the existing finale isn’t just this surface-level mistake, of course. It also stems from the muddled characterization we’ve seen thus far. The main issue actually falls on Rebecca. As stated earlier, she is an objectively flawed character, but the film does not treat her as such, and makes no effort to giver her an arc. Had attention been paid to her, it would have been all the more obvious that in a situation where she should have some sort of denouement, a confrontation with the mob is the obvious and sole choice. If I were to suggest a rewrite, I would alter the confrontation thusly: Renfield and Rebecca arrive to fight the Dracula-mob alliance, to find that Teddy Lobo now has Renfield powers, as per the film. Teddy Lobo’s mother, the current head of the mob, is likewise still present in the building. Rather than a brief interchange between Rebecca and Teddy, this should be her main fight. Renfield can be occupied keeping all the other new Renfield-powered minions at bay in order to give Rebecca this personal payoff. A hero is only as good as the villain they defeat, and though Teddy Lobo is an emotional man-baby, even without powers he is still a physical threat to Rebecca thanks to the size and sex difference, and he did almost shoot her directly in the face to kill her earlier, as well as mocking her father’s death. Recall that her father’s murder is core to her motivations as a character, and if an arc had been planned for her, would also be where her “spine” is located. Moreover, she has more experience seeing Renfield in action, and so a better grasp of his powers than she would have of Dracula, whom she has never seen or encountered throughout the film, and a properly resourceful character could use what they have learned to turn the tables. 

An aside here about character arcs for those interested in writing: proper character arcs involve applying constant pressure to a character in order to expose their “core” (what I called the "spine" earlier) which inevitably is where the main thesis of the arc is located. The character holds some worldview or belief very dearly, but there is a flaw baked into it. When all the illusions about the worldview and its flaw are exposed by increased pressure, the character must then make a decision to reject the flaw in the worldview and overcome it (a heroic arc) or else embrace the flaw and let it subsume the worldview (a villainous arc). (For a good video on arcs: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c1crdZI5Af0&t=4s).

In the case of Rebecca, the film seems to want to have her go through an arc of not letting mourning over a dead family alienate her from her remaining, living family connections. She and her sister are MEANT to be at odds and Rebecca’s monomaniacal desire to bring the mob to justice for the death of her father is meant to be distancing her from her sister. However, the movie does not SHOW this, as she and her sister still talk, and her sister has such a good relationship that she doesn't even need to forgive Rebecca for insulting her, and is ready to leap to her aid at a moment’s notice. The failure to expose a theoretical flaw (sacrificing current family relationships in pursuing a dead one) is what her confrontation with Dracula at the end hinges on. Dracula takes Rebecca aside, having killed her sister, and offers to bring the sister back to life and help Rebecca take down the mob if she serves him.

This doesn’t work for a number of reasons: Rebecca has been shown to be superbly upright and righteous throughout the film, unwavering in her goal to bring the mob to JUSTICE, NOT to get revenge or compromise any principles at all. There has been no hint that she is willing to do something underhanded until the plot literally gives her no other ground on which to stand. Narratively, she is placed in direct opposition with every other cop in her precinct, as 100% of them are corrupt and owned by the mob and she is the ONLY ONE who can resist corruption. She is also shown to be intelligent, cunning, and devious in pretending to acquiesce to a temptation to embrace corruption, while ultimately rejecting it. So there is no reason for an audience member to believe she will take Dracula up on his offer. Think about how The Rise of Skywalker attempts to sell the audience on the idea that Rey might turn evil. This temptation falls flat because Rey has demonstrated nothing but upright mercy, goodness, etc. throughout two previous films. And though Dracula expressly stated earlier in the film that he wants to hurt Renfield for his betrayal by harming all the people he cares about, it is not clear how getting Rebecca to serve him instead of Renfield is the best way to do this, considering that Rebecca’s death would more negatively affect Renfield than her servitude to Dracula (a proposition I cannot expect anyone believed was going to happen). Dracula does not turn any of Renfield's therapy friends, for example, he simply slaughters them. 

Before I present my complete finale fix, I will address Renfield’s part in it. His fighting Teddy Lobo first, and Dracula second, is a baffling decision, as he has virtually no emotional investment in the mob boss’s son beyond the fact that they’ve seen each other a few times. Teddy Lobo serves only as a physical obstacle to him, but has nothing to do with Renfield’s arc, so a fight with him is not as satisfying as one that presents an emotional payoff. Worse, the film seems to be trying to say "hey, Renfield, how does it feel now that you've been replaced? Dracula doesn't need you" which runs counter to his stated goal of getting away from Dracula, and has nothing to do with the forced "greed and ambition" flaw the film tries to pretend is at his core. His core motivation is getting away from Dracula, and when Dracula will not let him get away cleanly, he must confront his monster, so to speak, so what is the point of having another character thumb his nose and say "Now I'M Dracula's minion. How does THAT feel, loser??"

Since Dracula previously killed the people Renfield cares about in order to hurt him, Renfield's concern for Rebecca ought to be for her physical safety, not whether she becomes another version of him. The film WANTS to present Dracula as a character who is so completely charming that he can manipulate anyone by using their flaws against them, but does not show it on screen. Moreover, Renfield’s confessed reason for falling to Dracula’s manipulation: greed and ambition, are never explored, expanded on, or even SEEN for the entirety of the film, making that assertion ring hollow. In the meta, by relying on audience knowledge of Browning’s film for the backstory, the implication for Renfield’s fall to Dracula is that he was overcome by the power of supernatural evil thanks to naivety, NOT ambition. Besides his ruthless killing, Renfield remains a mild-mannered, kind, polite, and proper person with no ambition at all except freedom, and this does not work with the film’s STATED intentions.

Fixing Renfield’s involvement at the climax relies on fixing his muddled characterization throughout the film. If the movie wants to stick to the “therapy” ending, it would need to stop undermining therapy throughout, and work to show more of Renfield’s relationship with Dracula, and more importantly, humanize Dracula to some extent so the relationship more closely resembles real human interactions. I will argue that any story that boils down to “believe in yourself, you are totally worth it” will always ring hollow, but ESPECIALLY when the film wants to be funny and not focus on the very real emotional and psychological torment of the victim in the relationship. For that ending to work, the film would have to largely be a serious psychological study, and far more grounded (Actually, Whiplash might have been a good springboard for a film that wants to be that, especially if this film wants to also have "greed and ambition" be Renfield's underlying flaws). As it is, I think the film is strongest when serving as a horror-comedy, and I will argue for a total embrace of that direction.

Because of the dark comedy aspects, I would also argue that a darker arc would be appropriate here. With a protagonist who is, for all intents and purposes, a serial killer working for one of the greatest and most famous monsters of pop culture, a darker arc would also be appropriate. In addition, the sort of bathos-filled comedic elements here are best served by an upside-down kind of story. Shrek is a perfect example of this, where it spends the entire runtime pulling the rug out from under traditional fairytales, taking virtually nothing seriously except the concept of love, but still upending the typical trope in that the princess marries an ogre rather than a prince.

For the movie Renfield, I would point to two seeds which were planted, but never grew to anything. One, the stated “ambition” that Renfield apparently had which caused him to fall to Dracula’s manipulation to begin with, and the very curious scene at therapy where the therapist tells Renfield to embrace that is HE, rather than Dracula who will “grow to full power.” (Additionally, Renfield is shown to have basically no qualms about murdering people he has deemed “bad” or who hurt people he cares about, which ought to make him somewhat morally ambiguous, and would lead to the ending I propose as a fix).

To return to fixing the final confrontation, I would argue that Rebecca confronts Teddy Lobo, and through use of her resourcefulness and cunning (as already displayed earlier in the film), is able to overcome his brashness and stupidity. She then would be confronted with a different character decision, as Teddy Lobo’s mother, who is present, would come to plead for her son, suddenly placing Rebecca in the position of mobster about to kill someone and harm a family member: ie, a reversal of what happened with her father. This would require her to evaluate a different flaw, in this case, a hunger or thirst for revenge and whether she is willing to do anything it takes to achieve it. The best choice of course is that she decides NOT to become what she hates, and instead uses this leverage to take down the mob by getting the mob boss to acquiesce to her in exchange for her son’s life. In the meanwhile, as with Bunraku, Renfield is unable to defeat Dracula single-handedly, because of course he can’t. If he could, then the audience would wonder why he was so scared of Dracula for so long. As in the film, Rebecca could then come to Renfield’s aid and I would even argue to keep the scene where she uses the information she’s been taught about Dracula’s blood in order to revive Renfield, as the scene currently exists.

At this point, the film could have relied more on the book, though its relationship with the book and the character of Dracula at large is in my section on nitpicks. In Bram Stoker’s work, Dracula preying on someone does not turn them into a vampire like him, but a weaker version. To become one like him requires the person to imbibe Dracula’s blood. I thought for sure the film was doing this, as the blood which drips onto Renfield to revive him in the climax falls directly onto and into his mouth. Given the earlier “I [Renfield] will rise to full power”, his ambiguous morality, and supposed ambition, him becoming a vampire on par with Dracula would be an obvious direction to take. In the film, as it exists, Renfield even breaks off Dracula’s fangs, and Dracula actually tells him “YOU CAN’T TAKE MY FANGS!” in an almost meta nod to this possibility. Obviously, the film instead chooses to have Renfield use self-affirmation while punching Dracula pointlessly with his own fangs, instead of taking them for himself and then supplanting Dracula.

My fix, of course, would be this second route. This would also keep Renfield and Rebecca aligned after the conclusion, as Renfield seems to have little to no qualms killing “bad people” and Rebecca still wants to take down the mob. Renfield CANNOT rejoin society, as the film points out the FBI and INTERPOL have his DNA and fingerprints and actually think he is an international serial killer who has been operating for a very long time (which he more or less is). The completed story for both characters would then be Renfield becomes the new Dracula, though one aimed more towards “good” with Rebecca becoming his Renfield. The fact that they don’t know how to kill Dracula leaves the path for a sequel, just as in the film, but gives a better springboard to launch from, as the evil people of the world would of course want to join with a returned Dracula if there’s a younger version of him going around killing them all.

Nitpicks and minor problems:

This film is very unclear to what extent ordinary people know about Dracula in the meta. The name seems to require no introduction, implying that this film exists in a universe where movies about Dracula, even books, and other media, are commonplace. This is frustrating, as the film never takes the time to establish what should and shouldn’t be known about Dracula at any given time. Though the film nods constantly to the book and the 30s film, it also gives Dracula a totally different set of weaknesses (sunlight is the ONLY weakness given him in this movie), while not providing most of his well-known powers. This means that fans of the character are left scratching their heads, wondering what, if anything, from the source material applies, while it is simultaneously unclear what characters WITHIN the narrative itself know, and it is impossible to understand anyone's relationship or understanding of Dracula with anyone else. Rebecca seems to know without explanation that Dracula eats people, but still needs to have Renfield explain the specifics of how Dracula manipulates people to her, since this is not part of the meta so far as I'm aware. The mob boss herself addresses Dracula as “prince” which is quite odd when Dracula introduces himself as “Count” elsewhere, and no one introduces him as "prince" in that scene, implying that she has some historical knowledge and has conflated Count Dracula with Vlad the Impaler, which is something I assume mostly only nerds would be able to do. All this only serves to muddy the character and world and our understanding of the relationship between Dracula and Renfield, and between Dracula and the world at large.

Dracula does kiss her hand, though, lol.

One really petty nit, but also a seriously missed opportunity. For some reason, the film spends what might be as many as thirty seconds on a SKA joke, and how lame it is as a musical genre. This joke exists in the context of one of the group therapy attendees who is in a codependent relationship explaining that her SO loves SKA. After wasting time hating on this obscure music genre, the film cuts to the SO in question, with a visual reference to SKA as well. Renfield shows up to kill him, and oddly enough, no SKA plays (that I recall) while Renfield kills the man and his friends. Considering the dark comedy aspects, I would have certainly thought the film would do at least that much, as it feels like a missed opportunity. Imagine, after all, dying while some SKA music plays loudly and diagetically in the background (it was on his playlist, which accidentally gets turned all the way up for the ensuing beat down).

The soundtrack was absolutely forgettable, but so are most soundtracks these days. However, setting the film in New Orleans afforded the chance to add character and spice the film with local music and flavor, but nothing appears on film. The best we get is the Mulates bar. No nightlife, no food, no city history, nothing. What an absolute wasted opportunity, and given that New Orleans is a vampire hub in Americana, what an even FURTHER wasted opportunity. (For more on why modern soundtracks are terrible, this may illuminate you: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7vfqkvwW2fs).

In the end, all I feel is disappointment, because the bones were there for this film to REALLY work. I'm sorry Cage and Hoult, I would have liked to see you both in these roles again
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The Fire Mage King

3/6/2024

 
Ashe was born the year the Eagle Crested King died, and the Seer of his village said the boy would become great. To his parents that much was obvious, for how else could such common folk sire so remarkable a child as he? Truth be told, his name was not Ashe, but Geinshif, but when people saw the brilliant red hair sprouting from his head like flames, Ashe, which meant fire in their language, seemed a more appropriate name.

They say that names possess a magical quality, and that seemed true enough, for when Ashe was a child of ten, he dreamed the World Dragon came to visit him. In his dream, he saw the earth split wide, and he gaped at the World’s heart's blood. The Dragon spoke to him, saying, “My favorite son has been dead for ten years now. If you will accept my gift, I shall name you his successor.”

“Yes, I will accept it,” Ashe answered, almost leaping to his feet with eagerness.

“It is a great power you will wield,” the Dragon cautioned, “If you take it, you will be able to bring ruin upon yourself such as no man has ever done. Will you still accept that responsibility?”

“I will be very careful with it,” Ashe promised. “I accept your gift.”

As soon as the words passed his lips, a tiny glowing ember rose slowly out of the chasm, lighting in Ashe’s open hands. Its warmth filled the boy with a sense of power. The heat of the flame did not burn him, but took root within him, and he knew that he could now wield a great power indeed.

When he went out the next day with his father to the fields, he found that without effort, he could cause fire to spring to life in his hands. With this new talent, he impressed his father, and they cooked their meal. Drawn to the scent of meat, a pack of fierce wolves broke from the line of trees surrounding their village. The creatures fell on the farmers and the shepherds, killing men and livestock alike. When they came to Ashe and his father, Ashe scorched them with the power of his fire until every one lay dead at his feet.

His father stood amazed, unable to speak from shock. Ashe looked at the bodies of the men and sheep that lay around him, and at those of the wolves at his feet. He then looked up at his father’s face.

“I think I will go away,” he said to his father. “This is not the place for me anymore.” So saying, he took up some of the food he had cooked and left, never once looking back.


With his new power over fire, Ashe found himself never in want for food nor warmth, nor without protection from monsters and terrible beasts. He wandered the breadth of the land, in search of what would give him glory. The Dragon had granted him a great power after all, and said it would make him heir to the Eagle Crested King. He was meant for bigger things than a few wolves in a little village scraping its existence off the land.

Ashe wandered for a long time, until he came to a great cabin hidden in a ravine in a deep forest. It stood nearly twenty feet tall, and a thick plume of smoke billowed from the eaves so that the trees all stank of it. Unafraid, Ashe strode up to the vast wooden door and knocked at it as mightily as he could. The wood was heavy and thick, so that his tiny knuckles made no sound against it. He was about to try again, when the door swung open with a mighty rush of wind which nearly knocked him down. Inside the dark cabin, Ashe saw a giant, who stood so tall that his head nearly scraped the ceiling of the great house in which he lived.

“What’s this?” the giant marveled. When he spoke, Ashe could see his jagged, crooked teeth poking from behind lips and beard as black as pitch. Thick, eager fingers dark with grime clutched at the jamb as the giant knelt to get a better look at the boy. “I thought I had devoured the inhabitants of all the nearby villages. Have you come to add flavor to my pot, then, child?”

“I am Ashe. The Dragon itself has chosen me to succeed the Eagle Crested King. I am traveling in search of monsters and demons to fight.”

“Ha! Those are big boasts, small man!” the giant laughed. “Have you come to fight me, then?”

“What will you give me if I win?” Ashe demanded. “As a hero, I must have trophies from my battles.”

The giant laughed again, and his foul breath stank worse than that of the greasy smoke pouring from the open door. “What bold words you use!” the giant taunted. “So be it. I will fight with you. If you lose, I will boil the meat off your bones. If you win, I will give you my prized possession: a strong elixir I have made by distilling the livers and hearts of griffins, wolves, and other monsters. By drinking it, I have gained enormous strength and grown to my great size. If you defeat me, then you might have the strength to take it. If you don’t, then it will destroy you.”

“The Dragon would not have chosen me if I couldn’t stand up to you,” Ashe asserted boldly. "I am not afraid of you or your potion."

The giant reached out with his massive hands, catching Ashe up in them easily, but he roared with pain when he found his flesh seared by the fire that Ashe called up. He dropped the boy, who darted forward, scorching the flesh on his feet and legs. The giant bellowed so that the trees shuddered, but whenever he tried to take hold of Ashe, he found himself burnt and bleeding. Ashe took care to dart around the giant’s fists, to keep from being crushed. At last, tired of tormenting the giant, Ashe found a long shaft of wood, and took it up. He lit the end on fire, and while the giant knelt, clutching at his blistering feet, Ashe charged forward and drove the burning point through one of the monster’s eyes.

The giant howled and fell to the ground with such force that Ashe was knocked off his feet. Ashe picked himself up, and approached the giant. “I have beaten you, monster, and quite soundly. Give me your elixir.”

​“Ach! How I regret my hasty words!” the giant moaned, but he pointed to the darkness within his cabin. “You will find the cauldron within, above my hearth. Take what you can stomach.”

Ashe stepped past the fallen giant into the stinking, wooden house. Inside, the smoke billowed so thickly that Ashe could scarcely see his hands, but at last he caught sight of an evil-looking red flame, above which a black, iron cauldron was set. It was from this fire that the smoke came, and when he peered more closely, Ashe could see the carcasses of serpents and griffins and wolves which fueled the flames. Ashe climbed a nearby chair, and even standing upon the seat he could barely peek over the edge of the cauldron. Within the iron vessel stood a thick, ichorous liquid, bubbling with the heat, and from it came the stench which hung in the air.

Ashe carried a wooden bowl with him, and with it, he caught up some of the potion, and took the draught in one swallow. The wooden chair creaked beneath him, and he could feel at once the strength of many men coming into his limbs. Rejoicing at his good fortune at finding such magic, he dipped his bowl once more and drank from the cauldron a second time.

“You greedy thief!” the giant shouted from the door. “You dare to take so much?”

“I will take more before I will be satisfied,” Ashe replied, and drew up a third dose.

Outraged, the giant summoned his strength, and rose to his feet. Driven by fury, he dove inside, to knock Ashe from his perch, but the boy jumped nimbly out of reach. Instead, the giant crashed headlong into the cauldron, spilling the rest of the elixir, drowning the fire and ruining the mix.

“What have you done!” Ashe cried. “I could have had the strength of a hundred men, but now all I shall have is thirty!”

“Thirty is more than enough for the likes of you,” the giant sneered. “Miserable manner of Man that you are.” So angry was he that he reached once more for Ashe, heedless of the fire. With the new strength that he had acquired, Ashe beat back the giant’s hands, and broke the chair with one blow. Ashe took up one of the legs and stove in the giant’s head.

“That is the first of the great things that I shall do,” Ashe said to himself. “But I shall do much more than that.” He found that in taking the potion he had grown to the size and form of a man, and that his clothes did not fit him. More than that, he had taken on the weight of many men as well, as he could hear the wood beneath his feet groan as he trod upon it. On searching the giant’s cabin, he found a pile of clothes thrown in a corner from the people the giant had eaten. In the pile, Ashe found a suit of armor and a sword which please him, and he girded himself well with them.


Ashe traveled still farther. With the strength he held in each hand, he found he could tear beasts apart without need of weapons, and the fire he wielded could easily slay the rest. Within a year he was able to weave together a mantle of the skins and hides of the creatures he had slain, and became well known for it. When he had saved seven dozen villages and towns from the ravages of the evil nightmares of the world, he stumbled across a valley hidden deep within the forbidden mountains. The dell was vast and full of otherworldly light, and the scents of blooming flowers drifted on the gentlest of breezes. Standing within the center of the valley, tall and straight as though it were a single piece of worked stone, stood a white tower.

As Ashe came closer, he saw that no vines covered the stone face of the tower, and no weather had worn cracks or stains into the pale marble. It seemed to him that the tower must have been placed there, perhaps by the hand of a god, and quite recently. At the tower’s base, he found gold and silver gates swung open to him. He entered, and found the antechamber elegantly furnished and well lit. To one side stood a well-fashioned table, upon which was set a silver basin full of clear water, and a fine cloth. He washed his face and hands before making his way into the next room.

Sitting on a great white and gold throne sat a lady of immeasurable beauty. Seeing her radiance struck Ashe to the core, and for the first time in years he felt his knees go weak at the sight. Once he had caught his breath, he spotted the glittering sword which she had laid across her lap, her white hand upon its pommel.

“You have accomplished much, Ashe,” the woman said to him. “You have helped to ease the suffering of the World and of Men.”

“I have,” he agreed, and showed her the mantle as evidence. “I swore to the Dragon that I would guard this power which it gave me, and I have done so. Are you the Faery Queen who bestowed the Great Sword—the weapon of supreme authority—upon the Eagle-Crested King?”

“Do you think this is that selfsame sword?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you think you are worthy to wield it?”

“I do.”

“Do you understand what it is you mean to wield?” The woman’s hand closed more tightly about the pommel. “Bound up in this blade is the authority to speak for the Dragon; to enter into contracts with the Fae and any other creatures who live upon the Dragon’s back. With it you will be able to rule all the nations who revere the Dragon. Do you still think you are worthy of it?”

“I do.”

“And what will you if you be not worthy?” she asked. Ashe felt the blood rush to his face.

“If I be not worthy, then may I have all that I love stripped from me; may I be the most reviled of men; and may the Dragon deny me any rightful lineage. Does that satisfy you?”

“By your own words, then.”

“Will you now give that rightful weapon to me?” he demanded, and he threw the mantle to the floor in anger. The woman did not so much as glance at the cloak of furs at her feet.

“I will not stop you if you mean to take it,” she answered, and lifted her hand from the pommel. Boldly, Ashe ascended to her throne and lifted the sword from her lap. The blade was beautiful, almost more so than the woman. The metal shone like the sun, and when Ashe tested the edge against his thumb, he found it sharper than any he had ever held. He gazed at the weapon for a space, thinking he could not contain himself for the joy and pride swelling within him. He knew then that he was the true heir to the Eagle-Crested King.
At last, he realized that he could stand staring no longer, and cast about for a sheath. Finding none, he drew the sword he carried with him from its housing and threw it to one side, breaking the blade in half on the throne’s steps.

“You deserve a better cloak than this, but for now you will have to make do with plain leather,” Ashe said as he sheathed the Great Sword in the worn and paltry scabbard. His eyes rose to the woman. “What of you?” he asked. “It is said that the Faery Queen gave herself to the Eagle-Crested King.”

“It is said.”

“Will you give yourself to me?” Ashe asked, for he had a strong taste for her smooth skin and the soft curls of her dark hair. But the woman only looked into him with her dark eyes. Her face betrayed no warmth, nor coldness, nor anticipation. It was as if she were seeing him from some distant place, from a time long past. Her look angered him. “You look down on me from your high place,” he said. “Yet I am the heir to the Eagle King. If I wield his authority, are you not bound to serve me also?”

“You are the chosen heir,” she said, “and you carry the Sword.” But her eyes continued to see from a great distance. Her look struck his pride, and rage boiled within him that she should not see what even the World Dragon had known. Furious, ashamed, and brimming with base lust, he took her. Yet she never cried out, no matter how he tried to hurt her, nor was she surprised, nor frightened. He left the tower in a terrible fury, convincing himself that he would show her his worth one way or the other, and that he had taught her a lesson she would not soon forget.

The years passed, and he slew even greater monsters and demons. With the power of the Sword, he made the nations bow to him and give up their wealth, their prayers, and anything else that he desired unto him. At last, Ashe sat at the pinnacle of a great empire, and by his strength and might, Men ravaged the land, wreaking terrible vengeance for the monsters they had suffered before. Ashe cared little for the younger Races which came to him for succor. He reasoned that the Eagle-Crested King had little use for dwarves, the bird men, or even the descendants of the unicorns, so he should have no need for them either. The Sword was his strength, after all, and that was the might of the World Dragon itself.

At last, the monsters and demons had been driven to desperation, and they formed a great and terrible army such as the World had never seen, and they marched against Ashe’s empire with all their strength. He fought against them with all that he had, but though he could stand against the marauding force alone, his men could not, and they began to fall. Still, he fought against the evil creatures, putting his faith in the might of his Sword.

When half of Ashe's cities had fallen, A’Fahl, of the descendants of the unicorns, came to him.

“I knew the Eagle-King,” he said, “and fought alongside him more than once. I have come with my brothers to aid you, Heir to the Sword, in this battle.”

“What of that magic which your people wield?” Ashe demanded. “It is said your people can cure any injury or sickness.”

“My wife and my sisters will tend to the wounded, and heal the plagues which the vile demons wreak upon you,” A’Fahl assured. “We are yours to command, for we will obey the will of the Dragon as we did your forebear.”

Ashe accepted his help. Then came a force of the bird men, some mounted upon the backs of hippogriffs or the great eagles of their mountains. “We will also help you in this fight,” said their queen, “as the Eagle-King, in saving the world of Men, saved us all as well.”

And the dwarves came also, saying much the same.

So allied, Ashe and the others fell into a great and terrible battle which set fire to the land, and covered it with smoke and death. In the confusion, he became separated from his army, and stumbled to the shore of the sea which lay to the north. As he lay recovering his strength, he saw thirteen great swans descend from the clouds and alight in the waves. Then, they took to the shore and doffed cloaks of white feathers, revealing the forms of fair maidens who bathed themselves in the sea. Careful to avoid detection, Ashe stole across the shore and snatched up one of the feathery cloaks. When the maidens had finished gamboling in the sea, they rushed to their cloaks to take again the forms of swans. Twelve of the maidens found theirs, and took to the air, but the last found that hers was missing, and wept aloud.

“What is the matter?” Ashe asked her as he came from his hiding spot.

“I have lost my cloak, and therefore my wings,” the maiden sobbed, and wrung her dainty hands. Ashe held up her cloak, but snatched it away when she reached for it.

“Will you be my wife, if I give this to you?” he asked her, for her gentle face much pleased him. In faith, he had long since taken a wife, but she no longer pleased him, for she had never borne him any children, and he wished to be quit of her.

“I would,” the swan maiden said, “yet I have a sister much fairer than I, and she is in greater danger than I as well. If you were to save her, my mother, the moon, would surely grant you greater gifts.”

That answer pleased Ashe more. “Where is your sister?”

“She is held captive by a terrible Wurm which gnaws on the World Dragon’s bones,” the maiden explained. “It keeps its lair on a great island within a reef, so no ship can reach it, and its sides are so sheer than no man can scale them.”

“Those are naught to me,” he told her, “and doubtless I could reach the island if you carried me there.”

“I doubt one such as myself could lift you, sir,” said the maiden. “Though if you give me my cloak, I will try.” He consented, and took hold of one of her feet once she had changed. Yet struggle as she might, she could not lift him into the air.

“It is no use,” said the swan. “You are heavier than any man alive. If I could go to my sisters, together we might be able to lift you.”

“I will not let you fly off, never to return,” he told her, and tore her cloak from her back.

“I give my word that I shall return!” the maiden protested, weeping for the loss of her cloak once more. Ashe told her that her word was nothing to him, and demanded she leave something with him to ensure that she would return. At last, he settled on taking her hair, saying she could only have it back if she returned with her sisters. The maiden wept bitterly as he cut the white hair from her head, and flew up into the sky. Ashe waited for nearly two weeks, but at last he spotted a flock of swans coming down from the moonlit sky towards him.

“Why were you gone so long?” he demanded of the shorn maiden.

“The moon is far away,” the maiden answered, “even to fly there.” So he gave her back her hair. The swan maidens had brought with them a long, invisible thread, of the kind which held the stars in the sky, and bade him take hold of it; they would tie the rest about their feet in order to lift him. Once he had taken the thread in his hands, the swans lifted him high into the air, and soared across the raging, black sea. More than once, he feared that the swans would drop him, yet they were true to their word and bore him high aloft, far from the reaches of the serpents which ploughed the waves below. At last, a great shape rose from the deep, and he beheld a terrible spire of rock which was nothing more than knives of black stone and obsidian, atop which sat a foreboding fortress of black stone. The swans flew him to the base of the fortress and set him down.

“We will return when you have saved our sister,” they told him, and flew away before he could demand anything more than their promise. With nothing else he could do, Ashe scaled the fortress wall and dropped down within it. He found that he had fallen into a strange garden of twisted thorns and blooming flowers in blood red or black. The raging of the sea and the screaming winds could not howl over the wall, so that he was able to detect the sound of weeping through the strange, alien foliage. Ashe followed the sound until he spotted a beautiful woman with hair the color of moonlight, as fine and light as spider webs. Her skin was like the smooth face of pale pearls, her lips were the paleness of a single drop of blood in a cup of milk, and her eyes showed the color of the early morning with the sparkle of stars. Upon her head sat a silver crown set with fourteen tiny stars for jewels, and at her feet there lay a mound of pale blue diamonds and pearls.

The maiden started when she saw him, and jumped to her feet. “You shouldn’t be here!” she whispered. “If the Wurm were to find you, he’d swallow you, flesh and soul!”

“I am Ashe,” he told her, “and I have come to rescue you.”

The maiden shook her sad head. “Alas, good sir, no man could possibly slay the Wurm. He draws power from the World Dragon itself. Soon, I fear, the Dragon will wake, or else die, for the damage the Wurm has done. There is no hope for you.”

“And what will you give if I defeat this creature?” he asked.

“My love for all eternity,” said the maiden at once, “and the power of the moon, should you require it.”

“Then it is as good as done,” he said, for he was truly smitten by her beauty and grace. He embraced her and kissed her, finding that her lips tasted like the sweetest mountain spring. He would have done more, but for the roar he heard within the depths of the fortress. The maiden told him it was the sound of the Wurm going down beneath the sea to feast on the World Dragon.

“That, I will not allow,” he said, and took off after the creature. Down he went, into the earth, so that there was no light, but he could light a flame upon his hand which showed him the way. At last, after he had descended for a full day, he saw the great Wurm below him, gnawing at a white pillar of the earth.
“Stop!” he commanded. “And fight me!”

The Wurm ceased its feeding, turned its vast, grey, eyeless head and spat putrescent poison at him. Ashe burned the poison down to noxious smoke, and set fire to the Wurm’s tail. As it bellowed and crashed about beneath the earth, Ashe set into it with the Sword of the Dragon, piercing it until its fat, gray sides ran with black blood. At last, the daemon shuddered for pain, and died. The creatures which live below the earth came creeping out, and began to devour the Wurm’s flesh. Ashe ascended to the fortress and found the maiden.
​

“You said you would love me,” he said. “Will you be my wife?”

“The Wurm devoured my cloak long ago,” she confessed, “so I cannot fly. But even if I could, I would be your wife.”

He called for her sisters. As the other swan maidens bore the two of them aloft, the one he had saved warned him, “I said I would be your wife, and I will, but the Wurm ate my cloak, and without it, I cannot bear the light of day.”

“No?” he asked.

“If even a single ray of the sun were to strike me, I would fade like morning mist, therefore I implore you to keep me safe from the eyes of men, and to hide me during the day. Will you consent?”

He promised that he would.

“I should also tell you that when I laugh, flowers of the moon drop from my mouth, which can cure any illness, but when I weep, diamonds and pearls fall from my eyes. When I brush my hair, I can fill a room with air as fresh and cool as a night summer breeze. So you see, you will never have want of anything on my account.”

“That is good,” he said, and embraced her. Just then, the swans passed over the terrible battle which his people and his allies still fought against the army of monsters. He saw that in the face of the demons, his people were hard set, and that the majority of his allies were slain. “You said that you would give me the power of the moon,” he said to his bride, “I have need of that power now.”

She and her sisters bowed their heads, and the light of the moon shone brightly through the evil clouds with which the demons had covered the land in darkness. Where the light touched, the monsters and demons shrieked and writhed, for they could not bear the cool fire of it. With their enemies so weakened, Men and their allies slew the last of them. The swan maidens flew down to the earth and embraced their sister and wept, for they would be forever parted. When they had flown away, Ashe returned to his men with his new bride. He found the world of Men in shambles, the great cities torn to the earth, and many good men slain. Of the bird men and the dwarves, few remained, though they thanked him for the relief he had brought. A’Fahl, of the descendants of the unicorns, felt differently.

“All of my brothers are slain,” he said, weeping bitterly, “and your men savaged my wife and took her magic in your absence. You and I shall be friends nevermore, until the ending of the World.” He swore off all friendship with Men, and withdrew to his forest. Ashe cared nothing for that, for he reasoned they were never friends at the start. The swan maiden laughed until she had made enough flowers to heal what Men still lived, and cried for their loss until she had given each of them enough treasure on which to live comfortably. He went to the palace where he lived, bringing along his new bride. His previous wife had thought him dead, and hanged herself for grief at his loss. That being the case, he made arrangements to marry the swan maiden immediately.

It took nearly a decade for his kingdom to recover from the ravages of the army of monsters, but at last it began to flourish again. Ashe had long since set the Sword up above his throne in order to show off its greatness. However, his happiness was yet incomplete, as the swan maiden had not given him a child, and he began to tire of her constant hiding in the dark. Whispers that his wife was ugly, or misshapen, or even a witch began to wend their way to his ears. He tried to quell the rumors, but his efforts only served to fuel the flames of the stories, and they became worse than ever. This infuriated him more, for he knew his wife to be more beautiful than any alive.

“You must show yourself at court,” he told her one day as she brushed her hair and filled their bedchamber with fresh air. She wept aloud and pleaded with him not to will so, but he would not be swayed no matter how she filled the room with pearls and diamonds. He left her with his command and went about his own business.

When he returned that evening, the swan maiden presented him with a lock of her silver hair.

“I thought if you could present this at court, that your people might see that if even my hair is so fine and fair, they would know that I must be as well.”

Ashe agreed to the proposition, and took the lock with him the next day and showed it off to his people. At first they marveled at the silver sheen, and the way the lock caught the light and sparkled, but soon enough the rumors began again. “She must be an old woman indeed,” murmured some, “to sport such a pale color. It is no wonder the king is ashamed of her.”


Hearing these new whispers, he confronted his wife again, demanding she appear before his fellows where they could see the truth of her beauty. Again she threw herself at his feet, entreating his love for her to keep her from such a sorry fate. He refused.

“Would my lord that I send them a finger?” she asked. “I could cut one off, and then they could see the smoothness of my skin and know that I am not old.”

He consented to this plan, and the swan maiden cut free her smallest finger to present to her lord’s people. With pride, he displayed the finger at court, and at first his men marveled at the skin pale and smooth as cream, before they once more began their whispering. “It is because her face is too hideous to display that he brings but a finger,” they said.

Again Ashe confronted his wife, and again she pleaded for him to spare her. As before, he hardened his heart against her pleas.

“I am able to pluck out one of my eyes, for I am fortunate to have two, and can do well enough with one,” she said. “When they see how brightly it shines, surely even the most doubtful will be convinced.”

This plan suited Ashe ill, but she at last convinced him that it was their only recourse, and he consented. He presented the swan maiden’s silvery eye to his subjects, who marveled that he should have a fallen star in his hand. At last, they seemed convinced of his wife’s beauty, as each marveled at the luster of the eye. “It gives a light of its own, like a star,” each man said to his peers. For some time, there were no rumors and Ashe lived in peace with his wife, but at last the evil talk began again: “In all this time, he has yet shown us only pieces. If she is so beautiful, why does she not present herself? There is no way to know if all this evidence was from the same woman!”

In a fit of rage, Ashe confronted his wife once more.

“It is no good,” he told her. “They will not be convinced unless they see you with their own eyes.”

His wife filled the room with pearls and diamonds, but knew that there was nothing more to be done. As she agreed, she begged that she might at least be granted the cover of a veil to keep off the sun’s rays, and to shut the windows against its scorching light. To this, he consented, and left his wife amidst her sparkling tears.

The next day she appeared in a thick veil, as proposed, and with the shutters drawn for her safety. The court was not pleased, as only the faintest outline of her face could be seen. They demanded she remove the veil. Ashe commanded her to do likewise. Pearls and diamonds fell from beneath the fabric, into her lap.

“My lord, perhaps if I were to lift it only a hand’s breath, that might please them,” she suggested, and he agreed.

“What a lovely chin!” exclaimed some of the courtiers. Still others said, “A chin is nothing! We are not convinced!”

The swan maiden begged that she only lift the veil another hand’s breadth, and her lord husband consented.

“What a shapely mouth!” exclaimed still more. Others rejoined, “A chin and mouth only! Did our king never look to her eyes?”

Ashe commanded her once more to raise her veil, and granted a hand’s breadth when his wife asked it.

“What a slender nose!” was the exclamation now. Still, the naysayers were not convinced, though it seemed their decries were mingled with awe and curiosity.

Again she was bidden to lift the veil, and again she asked for a hand’s breadth. Her remaining eye sparkled and flashed in the darkness. The courtiers fell silent for awe. They whispered amongst themselves, “It is true, the queen is the fairest woman that ever was, or ever will be!” and they praised Ashe, their king.

Ashe breathed a sigh of relief, but his wife jumped to her feet with a scream that pierced the rafters of the hall, and vanished suddenly from before their eyes. A young lord had been so captivated by the queen’s beauty that he had risked opening one of the shutters, reasoning that he could see her better in the light. As soon as the first ray had fallen upon her forehead, the swan maiden had burned away like mist.

Ashe leaped to his feet and rushed to where his wife had stood, but found only the heavy veil with the sunlight falling across it. Suddenly he recalled the promise he had made to her, to keep her safe, and lamented his hard-heartedness with a shriek of agony. He fell, as if in a swoon, against his throne, and the golden chair started ever so slightly from its place. As he struggled to regain his feet, the Sword, which he had mounted above the throne, fell from its place and its point drove through his head, killing him.

His people wondered greatly at what they had just seen, and feared for what should become of them, and who next should take up the Sword to lead the people. As they deliberated, a woman dressed all in white ascended to the throne where Ashe lay dead. All marveled what she might be, this woman with her dark hair and darker eyes, who should approach the dead king so boldly? Even as they wondered, she took up the Sword, and held it aloft.

“The Dragon is ashamed of Men,” she said to the throng, “and of the heir to the Eagle-Crested King. Monsters and demons have been slain, and the Fae no longer ravage your number as they once did, but it seems that in their absence Men have become monsters and demons in their place.”

All the court held its breath, waiting to see what she should say, for they perceived that she must be the Faery Queen who had first bestowed the Sword on that great Eagle King.

“The World now groans under the burden which Men have placed on it,” she went on, “The Dragon will turn its favor from you, and put it elsewhere. The Sword will never again come into the hands of any man, lest he be the most worthy of it.”
​

They all lamented as she fell silent and vanished from their sight. And it was many ages before the Dragon trusted its power to Men again. But that is for some other time.  
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Brother Raven and Sister Crow

2/26/2024

 
Once, there was a queen who had no children, and for many years she longed for one. Her ladies in waiting, her maids, and the women in her kingdom all bore children until at last she could take it no longer. As she walked in her garden, bordering a vast, twisting forest, she spoke aloud, “They say that owls leave foundlings at the doors of the childless. I would not care if crows or ravens brought me a child, only that I might have one.”

So saying, she turned to go into her castle, but she heard the flapping of feathers, and when she looked, beheld two children on her path, a boy and a girl. Each of the children held in hand a black feather—the girl held a crow’s feather, and the boy a raven’s feather.

The queen took in these children, and named the girl Crow and the boy Raven, after the feathers they held. The two grew as children do, and when they were old enough, asked about their birth, for they suspected they were not the king’s blood. The queen told them how they had been delivered to her, that they were not even “Owl Children” as foundlings are usually called, but children brought by black wings indeed. That night, the brother and sister conferred with one another about this truth.

“We have no true parentage,” they decided. “No mortal blood at all. We must see what we are, for we are the first children born in this way.” Thus decided, they went out that evening under cover of night.

They traveled a path until they came to a fork. One way led to a dark and wild wood, while the other showed a bright grove.

“I shall walk the wildwood,” said Brother Raven.

“And I the gentle grove,” said Sister Crow. So they parted. They each walked a night and a day, whereupon Sister Crow came to a river of needles, and at that moment, Brother Raven came to a river of swords.

“I shall not be daunted,” they each said to themselves, and crossed the fearsome obstacle. Walking on, Brother Raven came to a sea of spears, and Sister Crow to a lake of pins.

“I shall not be turned aside here,” they each said, and so found transportation across—Sister Crow made a boat of her shawl, and Brother Raven one of his cloak. Once across, Brother Raven came to a vast swale, set within was a twisted tree. Sister Crow discovered a cay within the lake, verdant and clear, with only a sapling upon it. Sister Crow, being weary, took refuge beneath the sapling, while Brother Raven took shelter in a small cave.

After resting for a while, Brother Raven woke, and wondered where this cave might lead, so went further in. Deep in the depths, he found an egg of gold. Sister Crow, on waking, looked up into the branches of her sapling, and saw a glint. She pulled it down with a long twig, and found a shining treasure of her own—a gossamer thread.

“Now I have power such as Brother Raven does not know,” thought Sister Crow.

“With this, I am more than my sister,” Brother Raven reasoned.

With their treasures, each sibling built for themselves a home, furnished as they liked, and hid the treasures within. Brother Raven thought to call on his sister just as his sister thought to call on him. They took once more their boats and crossed the sea of lances and the lake of pins, then came once more to the road. Sister Crow passed a fine castle, and called upon the power she had acquired on her isle, and uprooted the castle, planting it on her home. On the road, Brother Raven came across a formidable tower. He called upon the power he had acquired in the cave, and so tore up the tower and removed it to his new residence. They each continued on their journey to meet each other. Brother Raven crossed a final river—that of blood—while his sister came to one of tears, and each crossed. Coming to a glen, they saw one another.

“Good brother,” said Sister Crow, “I have something to show you.”

“And I, you,” replied Brother Raven, “my dearest sister, let us see what we can do.”

Brother Raven drew forth his golden prize, and Sister Crow procured her shining filament. They came together and did encounter with all that their powers brought to bear. The noise of their battle was like that of a hurricane, and the ground shook with fury. Kingdoms rocked; eagles, lions and wolves shuddered; it was a most terrible row that shook the foundations of the World itself. For some time, they seemed evenly matched—sword to needle, lance to pin, blood to tears, and neither could best the other. Through rain and sun, day and night, they combatted one another.
​

It is said that at the end, one did finally best the other, though through force of strength or by guile, who can say? If Brother Raven bested his sister, would she not have wrapped her thread so tightly around him as to strangle the life out of him slowly thereafter? But if she bested him, would not his golden treasure have burned her away? If so, then can it be said that either of the two won at all?
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The Prince and the Selkie

11/8/2023

 
The selkie girl brought water to the castle kitchens. On her head she balanced her jug of fresh water, and behind pulled her cart of sea water filled with mussels, clams, and seaweed. The cook paid her for the water and the sea’s bounty. As usual, he made a comment about her parents.

“Shame about the fever, it was,” said the cook. The selkie girl only nodded.

She held the coins in her palm and counted them as she walked down the rocky path towards the shanty town near the docks. A voice called out to make way, and she looked up to see a retinue of men in bright clothes riding horses wearing the same colors. She darted off the road and waited with her head down for the procession to pass.

She pushed the coins down into her small purse and pulled her shawl further over her head to conceal her wary watching as the men passed by. The ones who rode in front carried bright banners that flapped in the wind like beautiful birds, while knights in armor polished like mirrors came after. In their midst was a young man all in red and gold with hair so clean and oiled it shone in the sun. His glance towards her was one of innocent curiosity, the first such she had seen from a noble. The innocent part, at least. She had been eyed hungrily by others, and retreated immediately from their sight before they acted on their interest.

Despite the young man’s kind look, the selkie girl decided to bow her head and make absolutely certain her hair was hidden. The fewer temptations they could see, the better. She kept her face to the ground until the procession was far along. She risked a look to see what they might do. To her surprise, she saw the young man also sneaking a look over his shoulder at her. She hurried down along the road, away from the castle to which the men rode.
The selkie girl stole carefully along a pathway of rocks that led out to a sharp promontory of stone overlooking the restless, gray sea. Just visible above the rugged sea grass stood a shambles of a hut, bowed and crushed beneath its layers of thatch. She let herself inside.

“Here we are,” the girl announced. She unwrapped her shawl and let it fall on a chair. Her younger brother was sitting at the window that almost faced the sea. He smiled when he saw her and fetched his crutches. The fever had taken the feeling out of his legs; he could not walk on land nor swim in the sea. The selkie girl let him struggle towards her. He did not like to be helped, no matter how it hurt her to see him hobble about. They hugged and she presented him with her pay.

“We’ll soon be able to afford a better home,” she told him. Her brother’s mouth curled up at the edges, but his dark eyes did not. “You do not wish for a warmer one? One nearer to town?”

“Ma and da are buried here,” her brother replied, “and I can see the sea from the window.”

“We’ll have a house on the docks, and I shall sell cockles and mussels from the windows. So will you, and you will have the sea at our doorstep,” she promised him, and pinched his chin. Her brother’s mouth tried to smile once more.

She went down to the sea with her seal skin. She put it on and dove for their supper, catching three eels and a large herring. With this haul and some of her earlier catch of mussels and seaweed, they ate a hearty stew.

The next morning she filled her bucket once again with the sea’s bounty, then fetched fresh water from the well on the hill, loaded her cart with the mussels and the rest, and off she went to the castle. It was a long walk, but she always made it before brunch, and the cook knew to expect her and he paid her as usual.

The day after, when the selkie girl came to the cook, she found the young man from the procession in the kitchens. Her heart screamed inside her. Had he found out about her routine? Might she have to abandon the steady money? The cook stood to one side as she remained frozen in the doorway, her jug on her head and one hand on her cart. The young man wore some sort of fur in the trim of his clothes, too fine and soft for squirrel fur. He spotted her standing there, glanced over at the cook, and approached the selkie girl.

His eyes reminded her of a frightened hare’s which could not decide whether to run or hope it remained unseen. She did not know what to do herself. It could be no coincidence that he appeared in the kitchens so soon after he spotted her.

“I have water and mussels and seaweed for soup,” she mumbled at last.

“Yes,” said the young man. He might have been her age, sixteen or seventeen. He had a very soft, uncertain voice. The cook left his pots and came over to the doorway, coins in hand.

“Here you are, much obliged,” said the cook. He tried not to look at the young man as he took her wares. To her surprise, the selkie girl saw the young nobleman take up the jug of water and carry it within. Perhaps he was not so high-ranked as she had supposed. Perhaps his beautiful clothing had been on account of some function he served which she had not heard of, and he was one of the distant barons or lowly knights come to visit. He might be gone in a few days’ time, and so long as she kept her distance he was not likely to be any real problem.

When she left, she checked to make certain she was not followed, and was pleased to see that she was not.

The young nobleman greeted her at the kitchen again the next day.

“The cook tells me you’ve delivered our soup stock for two years,” he said, as though such a statement passed as greeting. “Your well water is the sweetest, he says.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Thank you,” said the young nobleman. “It must be hard work to carry water and pull a cart besides.”

“It’s good work, and better than starving,” she answered back. At this, he nodded thoughtfully.

“You’re a selkie, are you not? You can catch fish in the sea as easily as a hawk snares a rabbit. You could go anywhere you like.”

“You think you know everything,” she muttered under her breath, then feared she might have been heard when she saw the look of hurt in his eyes. This time, the young nobleman handed her the coins, and she did her best not to let his fingers touch her. Why was he wasting his time talking to a poor fishmonger’s orphan? No good reason, she wagered.

The selkie girl debated holding off her deliveries for a day or two. What the young nobleman had said was true. She and her brother never had need of food so long as she had her seal skin to escape to the sea and catch in it. No human fisherman could swim beneath the waves and snap up fish and squid like she could.

“Aren’t you feeling well?” her brother asked when she made no preparations to leave.

“Not really,” she told him, “Don’t worry, we will have enough money soon, though.”

“That’s all right,” said her brother.

Two days later she resumed her routine, thinking that the young nobleman would have left or forgotten all about her by now, only to discover that he stood beside the cook overseeing the affairs of the kitchen. He smiled when he saw her, and it was such a genuine one that the selkie girl wondered if she was the hare who did not know whether to run.

“I’m glad to see you,” said the young nobleman. “I was worried that you were unwell.”

“I was,” she lied.

“Here,” he reached into his beautiful silk purse and held out a glass vial and a tightly wrapped packet of healing herbs for her to take. “If you like. I had the castle doctor select these especially.”

The selkie girl stared at the royal medicine and felt as though her blood drained out her feet into the mud. Why such an extravagant gift? Did he mean to make her indebted to him?

“Your parents served my family so faithfully,” the young nobleman added, and his voice sounded sad, “I apologize we did not provide this to you when it would have helped.”

The selkie girl stared into his face. He seemed in earnest.

“Keep your charity,” she hissed at him. “What do you know?”

He seemed sad. No, ashamed. It was shame she’d heard earlier, too, not sadness.

“That it is hard to make your way in the world, and that you suffered a hardship my family could have prevented, or at least tried to,” he answered. “And that it was not good of us.”

“You think you’re some sort of saint?” Her words tasted acrid as they left her mouth. “No one cares about us. Only what they can take from us.”

“Then let me be the first to give you something,” he said.

She stared at the herbs. They would fetch a pretty penny, and the vial as well. She could buy a house seven times over.

“No,” she told him, “I do honest work, and I get honest pay.”

The young nobleman seemed sad, but he nodded and put away the extravagant gift.

“Girl,” the cook hissed. He stepped out of the kitchen and took her by the arm. “Mind your tongue, don’t you know who he is?”

The selkie girl did not, but when the cook said so, she realized what the young nobleman had said, “your parents served my family.” The water and food she brought went to the castle, it always had. When her parents brought it, it was the same.

Oh gods above, she realized. Oh no. Please, don’t let it be so.

“He’s the prince, you fool,” the cook hissed. “He’s come back home after his knighting. Have you no brains at all?!”

The selkie girl dropped the jug, and it cracked open on a stone, its water spilling over the cook’s feet. She abandoned the cart and ran for her life. A poor fishmonger’s orphan had snubbed the prince’s gift! To his face, no less! She ran until the air was like fire in her lungs, all the way past the shanty town and across the rocky path to the sunken little hut.

“What is the matter?” her brother wondered when she burst through the door and collapsed on the floor, swallowing air like a dying fish.

“We must leave,” she answered in between gasps.

“L-leave? Now?” her brother stammered, confused. “But ma and da—”

“Now!” the selkie girl shouted. Her brother staggered back, he was so startled, and had to catch himself on a chair. She did not apologize. She did not have the time. The next three minutes that she allowed herself, she took only the waterproof things, the flint, the bedding and clothes. No need for food or water. There was a sea cave some distance down the promontory. Her brother should be able to make it if she helped him. It would have to do for the moment.

“What happened?” her brother asked, now that he saw how she paused not even for breath.

“Never mind. Just come on.”

She took his hand and helped him towards the door. Her brother cast his eyes on the house like a man leaving his true love’s grave, but he said nothing.

The selkie half-pushed her brother out the door, the bundles under arms, across her back. She glanced up at the castle to see whether there was a line of men on horses coming to arrest her.

The prince stood outside with the reins of his horse in his hand. The selkie girl clutched her brother tightly.

“I was worried you might think you were in trouble,” said the prince. “I wanted to let you know you aren’t. You don’t need to leave.” He studied the little hut, the promontory, and the two gravestones that stood to one side, but she could not tell what he made of it all.

When she said nothing, the prince said, “I apologize. I did not properly introduce myself. I was worried you would be too frightened to speak to me. You needn’t worry, truly. So far as I’m concerned, you gave an honest answer, and no one in my position should expect any less.”

One in your position is always given less, she thought, No one would ever dare speak plainly to the people who can take your home or your hands.

“You followed me?” was all that came out of her mouth.

“I knew where you lived already,” he answered. “Your parents bought this patch some years ago. They were freemen, not serfs; we kept record of it.”
This whole time he had known how to find her. Yet he hadn’t appeared before. What did he want? Why would he not leave her alone?

“I appreciate your kind regard,” she said. Her mouth was dry. Sensing her brother wished for an answer, she set down her bundles, and hugged him and kissed his head. “Go back inside,” she told him. Her brother looked to her, then the prince, and back to her, but he went inside all the same.

“What little good it has done you,” said the prince then, watching her brother hobble on his crutches.

“I don’t know that such a poor girl as myself deserves such kind regard,” she continued. She wanted him to leave. He didn’t belong here.

“Why not?” the prince wondered, “You like honest work, you are an honest person. Why should you not merit kindness?”

Why was he so obstinately determined to misinterpret everything she said? Why did he seem so honest?

“I will buy you another jug,” he told her. “I’m afraid I could not return your cart. I wanted to be certain to catch you before you ran off and could not carry it on or behind my horse. I’ll return it tomorrow.” He seemed uncertain what to do, but at last he nodded to her and turned to mount his horse.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” she said. He paused. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did,” the prince answered. He nodded to her again, mounted his horse, and went back up the rocky path.

“Who was that?” the selkie girl’s brother asked when she came back inside.

“It doesn’t matter,” she told him.

*****

The prince met her every day in the kitchens, though he let the cook pay her; he seemed to realize that she felt uncomfortable around him. The cook said nothing about the situation, but he cast furtive glances at the prince all the time when he thought he wouldn’t be spotted.

“Aren’t you afraid to walk all the way up here by yourself?” the prince asked one day. “You are a selkie. If someone steals your skin, you wouldn’t be able to return to the sea, and you would be bound to him unless you found it again.”

“No, I am not afraid,” she answered. She wore a seal skin tied around her waist wherever she went, it was true, but she did not wear her own. Hers was well hidden at all times where not even her brother knew to look.

The prince did not press her.

Months passed in that way. The prince did not offer her any more gifts, but he liked to talk with her. He made no overtures to her, no attempts to put his hands on her, only conversation. They talked about their island home, life down at the docks, in the kitchens; about hawks, fish, the sea, and everything at all but their own lives and their own experiences; but all the same she felt that the prince wanted to speak especially on those topics. He did not bring them up, however, and went far out of his way to dance around them in conversation. Perhaps he truly regretted what had happened to her family, but the fever was not his doing, and despite his words her family had not been servants in the strictest sense. They were freemen, as he himself had said, and only came to sell their goods. His family owed them nothing in particular beyond protection from enemies or thieves.

The prince had studied at temple while he was a squire, it seemed. That must be where he picked up his pretense to saintliness. Though she supposed if such a pretense should be worn by anyone, he was most suited to it. On occasion she saw him in the town, speaking to shopkeepers and urchins and anyone who showed the nerve to answer. The talk was that he was more gentle than expected for someone of his station, even more so than some of the local priests. She even heard that he had rescued a merchants’ son from drowning when his ship sank, and a poor orphan girl that the local boys had beaten. He was gentle, true, and handsome and decent.

It did not occur to her to wonder why he spent so much time speaking with her until one day there was a strange woman dressed in red velvet and pearls standing in the kitchens instead of the prince. The selkie girl knew this was no idle meeting, and this woman must be the prince’s mother.

“You are the selkie girl who delivers us our mollusks and seaweed stock?” demanded the regal woman.

“Yes, your Grace,” answered the selkie girl.

“I see. And you have been speaking with my son, the prince? Daily?”

The selkie girl felt weak in her knees. What a fool she had been, to allow herself to think that just because the prince forgave her for ignoring her station, that his family would do the same! What fate awaited her? The stocks? Disfigurement? Maiming? Worse?

“Do not try to deny it,” said the prince’s mother, “I only came here to remind you of where you stand. I think my son has it in his head that there is something between you.”

Between us?

“He’s at that age,” the regal woman continued. She clasped her hands very purposefully and paced just a little, standing tall and stiff as a pole. “It’s not so unexpected, except of course, for your…”

Because of my station? Or because I am a selkie? The girl wondered, but she knew it was both. Selkies were descended from fairies, and they ruled the sea. For an island kingdom, that meant a great deal.

“You understand, I take it?”

Not to expect to marry him? The selkie girl almost laughed at the idea. Your Grace, perhaps you should tell your son, not me. I already know. But she said, “Yes, your Grace.”

The regal woman flicked her fingers as a dismissal, and the selkie girl left without pay that day. She supposed it was meant as a punishment, or as a reminder that she meant less than nothing to such people. The prince’s mother had probably never once concerned herself with where her soup stock came from, not until she noticed her son missing from his breakfast every morning.

When she returned home, she found her brother sallow-looking.

“What’s the matter, don’t you feel well?” she asked him.

“A little cold,” he admitted. He had wrapped himself in a blanket, but still he looked out the window at the sea.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” said the selkie girl. She saw the hollow attempt at a smile grace her brother’s face.

The next day, he was very pale.

“You have a fever,” she observed with worry.

“It’s just a cold,” he told her.

She stayed at home and brewed him tea and soup. He was not better the day after, but much worse, his eyes dull and sunken.

In a panic, the selkie girl ran for the castle. She could never afford such herbs and medicine, but the prince had already offered her the gift once. She did honest work, but no honest work could pay for what her brother needed.
When she came to the kitchens, neither the prince nor his mother was there.

“Good gods, girl,” said the cook, “Where have you been? The other fishmongers don’t sell the sweet-tasting cockles and clams you do. They’ve missed them at their table—”

“Where is he?” the selkie girl asked, breathless from her run. The cook fiddled with his thumbs.

“He doesn’t come down here anymore,” he said.

“Please. It’s important. My brother is sick. It’s bad. Terrible bad. Please. I need his help.”

The cook knew the look in her eyes, and he bowed his head.

“I’ll tell him if I can,” said the cook. “Have no fear. He’s head over heels for you. I’m sure he’ll do all he can to help.”

The selkie girl kissed the cook’s hands and ran back home. For days she waited for him to come, but whenever she glanced through the cracks in the door, no one was there. Every day her brother was sicker. She tried the cook again.

“I haven’t been able to tell him,” the cook apologized. “They don’t want him talking to anyone down here.”

The selkie girl had feared as much. With tears in her eyes, she returned home, but she knew now it was no use.

When her brother was as feeble as a dry vine, he said to her, “Will you please take me to the sea? I would like to feel it once again.”

She carried him down the promontory to a small beach and let him down by the water. He dipped his hands in the gray waves, and this time his eyes smiled.

*****

She heard hoofbeats coming down the rocky path as she laid the last stone upon the latest grave. Slowly, she turned to see the prince had come at last. He slowed his horse, seeing the pile of stones.

“I’m sorry,” he told her.

“You’re late,” she told him.

“I only heard this morning,” he answered. “The cook has been trying to reach me. He climbed the wall to my window in desperation.”

“How did you come here at all if things were that desperate?”

“I climbed out the window myself.” The prince dismounted and regarded the grave. “I’m sorry. If I’d known, I would have—”

“It’s all right,” she told him. “It wasn’t your doing. You didn’t send him the fever.”

“But because I spoke to you too often, you couldn’t speak to me when you needed to.”

“Don’t be daft,” she told him. “You’re not all the power in the world. You’re just a man, like anyone else. You’re trapped by your station just like I am.”

The prince regarded her helplessly, and she realized why he had nodded when they first met and said that she was a selkie and could go anywhere she liked. She had thought then that she had to remain for her brother’s sake and had been angry. Now she realized the prince had actually been envious. He saw that selkies could go into the sea to escape the troubles of the land whenever they liked. She chose to stay where she was, but he did not. His station was more oppressive than hers. All this time, she had hated him for being set so high above her, but she saw now that as high as he stood, it was only so long as his foot remained chained to his perch. As he had said, she was free, and free she was. He never would be.

Your own mother didn’t care what I did. Only what you did. I didn’t matter, she didn’t even see me.

But the prince knew all that, too. He had never told her how he felt, never even hinted at it except for the time he spent, and even that had been more than he was allowed.

“I’m going away from here,” she told him, “Do you want to come with me?”

He shook his head and smiled sadly. “There is nowhere I can go with you. Nowhere they could not reach me, and if they reach me, they will punish you.”

“You’re here now.”

“They’ll see that I’m missing. They’ll search the entire island for me if they have to.”

He was only human. He could not become a seal and dive into the sea. Except…

“I have a gift for you,” the selkie girl told him. The prince looked perplexed. She went inside and fetched a skin. When she emerged, she presented the seal skin she wore and only pretended was hers.

“This was my father’s,” she told him. The prince did not understand. “Any human that puts on a selkie’s skin can become a selkie themselves. You could be free, like me.”
​

The prince stared down at the skin she held out to him, and when his eyes rose to meet hers, they smiled just like her brother had when he beheld the sea.  
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The Last Voyage of the Demeter: A Review

8/31/2023

 
 All right, so here’s my long take on The Last Voyage of the Demeter. The tl;dr is: there were definitely some good elements indicating this could have actually been a good movie, but as it is, overall it is a poorly constructed mess and rather boring.

To start, I wish to list the things that worked really well and deserve praise.

The production design and especially the practical effects were very well done. This movie had the best-looking dead animal props (that weren’t just real dead animals) that I’ve seen in a film. The burns on [spoiler: Liam Cunningham] later in the movie were also incredible. Even though I’m going to rag on it later, technically the creature design for Nosferatu (Dracula is credited as Dracula/Nosferatu, and I refuse to call the creature Dracula for reasons I’ll explain later) is pretty good. Some of the closeups of its face here and there showed some real talent in the design. Some of the locations were very pretty (perhaps TOO pretty, as there is a scene at the end set in a remarkably attractive and clean late 1890s London street). In addition, this soundtrack was pretty good as far as modern movie soundtracks go. It had a flavor, I could actually hear it, and it wasn’t background noise. Some themes were decadent and over the top, but this IS a Dracula story (supposedly) so a certain amount of on-the-nose excess works, in my opinion. You can listen here, but the main theme (the first track) gives you an idea where the soundtrack is at its strongest: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n8kTVlrXRkU&list=PLRW80bBvVD3XMKPl2NHG0EmzUF4ENQ_4m&index=1. I think having an over the top soundtrack works in a gothic horror. Certainly better than the very blah Dracula musical that Broadway produced way back. The Last Voyage of the Demeter’s soundtrack feels like it is deliberately meant to sound very “Hans Zimmer” a la the Pirates of the Caribbean franchise. Bear McCreary produced it, and given the man seems to have a career of “writing music to sound like other composers” I can’t help but wonder if that was the idea. Regardless, the soundtrack is a standout in this modern wasteland of air conditioner noise. The first twenty minutes or so of the film are actually pretty good, and I recognized a sort of homage to “Alien” in its structure (on looking up more about the film, this seems to be intentional).

On that note, the film is actually at its strongest in the beginning when it first sets everything up. We get a chance to meet the characters, though Clemens’ (Corey Hawkins) introduction is actually not great. One of the things I liked the best about the beginning (though more on this later in the review) was the main character, Clemens, and Captain Elliot engaging in the beginning of a thematic argument. I have not seen a movie try to do a thematic argument in this vein in so long it actually stood out to me. Clemens claims he is looking for a way to make sense of the world, and is presented as an aggressive materialist doctor who thinks that everything CAN be understood. Captain Elliot, the old sea captain, tells him that “not everything can be” which is a GREAT thematic argument for a DRACULA work. An additional set up for a subtheme is the friction of aggressive modernization/industrialization vs appreciation of the old ways and sadness of their passing as they get steamrollered by rampant “progress.” The characters wax poetic about the old sailing ship, Demeter, and how out of fashion she is in the wake of modern ships, and that she will likely have no place in just a short while. Clemens also tells Captain Elliot’s grandson that “progress cares not for joy,” as a beautiful little nod to this set up. For those who haven’t read Bram Stoker’s Dracula and so are not aware, the book has a theme of the modern crashing into the ancient and mysterious, the rational age of science being confronted by the supernatural and unexplainable, etc. It’s largely where its horror derives. So when I heard all this happening in the beginning of the film, I was tentatively excited, and pleasantly surprised to have my basement-level expectations shattered. In those first twenty minutes or so, my hopes raised to incredible heights; hoping against hope that perhaps the film wasn’t doing well because modern audiences aren’t used to this sort of storytelling anymore, and that there was a secret gem here. This hope was to be crushed utterly after Act Two began.

As an aside about “Alien,” that film has been described as a “haunted house in space” and is an excellent example of how to do a haunted house, since the question is always “why don’t the characters just leave the house?” When I first heard about this movie, I thought that being on a sailing ship out at sea would be a good way to address that question, but we will address why this DOESN’T actually work in the case of this film and its construction.

As far as performances, they were largely serviceable, and no one was “bad” per se (more on this later). The standouts were of course Liam Cunningham (Captain Elliot), whom the film aggressively refused to make use of, and David Dastmalchian (Wojchek) who I first noticed in the Dark Knight and have been pulling for him ever since. Dastmalchian gets a lot to do, which was nice.

Ok, on to what didn’t work.

Let me begin by saying that right off the bat (ha), I suspected this film would have serious directorial issues. Elsewhere, I expressed my concerns and reviewed the trailer when it first dropped, explaining what I thought the troubles would be. This film was directed by André Øvredal, whose most notable work that I can think of is: “Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark,” released in 2019. He also directed Troll Hunter, which I have not seen, but it is likely his second most well-known work. Having only seen “Scary Stories” I am going to make comparisons between the two. At the time of release, I recall “Scary Stories” being described as “horror training wheels for kids” by Chris Stuckman or one of those other well-known YouTube reviewers. I feel that is a fair assessment. I was not frightened for the entirety of the runtime except for one scene at the hospital where the survivor girl and her love interest are listening to a recording of the main antagonist being tortured by electric shock therapy while her friend is off trying not to (not) die (this is a film for kids, so no one actually dies). In the middle of the recording, the voice of the antagonist suddenly addresses the main character and her love interest in real time. That was the only legitimately creepy scene that I can recall. Now, since this was horror for kids, I wasn’t going to be too hard on it. However, when I saw the trailer for Demeter, I had a certain feeling that this director had learned the wrong lessons from Scary Stories. The trailer fully revealed the Man-Bat creature, and the indication to me was this film would try to work based on “spectacle.” Scary Stories tried working in that way, though it was more forgivable because even though the various monsters were on screen for extended periods, there were numerous different ones, and so in total none was on screen for more than perhaps a minute or two except the Jangly Man. “Familiarity breeds contempt” as the saying goes, or else “the Law of Diminishing Returns” must always be kept in mind if a specific emotion is desired. Showing the audience the creature is almost always a bad idea, for reasons I have already expanded on in my past criticisms. Getting back to this director, I feared from watching the trailer that he thought one could legitimately milk terror out of a movie monster by heaving it on screen constantly, and knew this would never work.

As it turns out, I was totally right. The Man-Bat is on screen quite a lot. To make things even MORE egregious, the Man-Bat/Nosferatu begins the film as the unimaginably pathetic love-child of Gollum and an old man with Parkinson’s, complete with wheezy,-gaspy-old-man voice. Our first view of this pathetic creature is it barely being able to crawl out of its coffin-crate and shuddering in a fetal position under a bulkhead somewhere.

Remember how I mentioned Clemens had a “meh” character introduction? Well, so-called "Dracula" looks like a shaved Crypt Keeper with uncontrollable tremors who can’t even stand up under his own power.

I want you, dear reader, to really wrap your head around the decision to make a Dracula movie where your first sight of "Dracula" is as a naked, withered Count Orlock rat-man shivering in a corner while practically hugging himself and gasping. That is your visual.

You might be thinking, as I did, that MAYBE the film would do a good job of establishing “well, this is Dracula at his WEAKEST, he’s going to get so gnarly and cool and scary as the movie continues.”

…..my sweet summer child.

He just turns into the Man-Bat. Even at the end of the film [spoilers ahead] where he is in London, he is STILL a CGI monstrosity Orlock-rat-man, but in a top hat and with a cane. I almost laughed out loud. That is an incredibly baffling decision I will have to break down.

The Man-Bat’s design is also very reminiscent of the Jangly Man from Scary Stories. Different directors have different looks they like for monsters. My boy Del Toro likes a certain aesthetic. Luc Besson likes his droopy-eared monsters. And it appears that Øvredal likes his old man-esque monsters and asymmetrical faces.

I can’t show you the image, but in the Last Voyage, Olgaren (Stefan Kapicic) smashes his head through a door, and the reveal of the damage to his face is very similar to the asymmetry of the Jangly Man in Scary Stories. One eye is white, and swollen so large it almost droops from that side of his face, for example.

This is not a criticism per se. A director having an aesthetic or even a stable of actors (he worked with both Dastmalchian and Javiar Botet (Nosferatu/Man-Bat) before on Scary Stories. It is only a problem if or when that aesthetic doesn’t jive with the current project. It’s a good part of the reason why the Spielberg-looking aliens in Indiana Jones 4 were so awful. So while it works to have "Dracula" be a tall man, and even a tall OLD man, it does NOT work to have Dracula be a withered husk of a rat-man shivering like a frightened chihuahua, ESPECIALLY if all you’re going to do to make him scarier later is give him wings and more teeth. And especially not if you’re going to have the audience spend quite a bit of time STARING DIRECTLY AT HIM.

Character introductions in movies are CRITICAL. Here is a good video on one way to do it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ldizPDmm9eI and another which shows wonderful examples: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5psXjzWUve8. This film fails to introduce its main character, Clemens, in a way that tells us much about him, and certainly fails at introducing "Dracula" for reasons already stated. Clemens is shot from behind in an attempt to create an air of mystery, which is…fine. However, it is soon revealed that he’s staring out at a street and ignoring the card game he was currently engaged with. One might take away from this that he’s a man who isn’t invested in money, and is just wasting time, or else that he’s a naive philosopher and globe trotter out for adventure with a head in the clouds. This second take is closer to what the film presents, but as with the thematic argument introduced, this character is not very well-developed. Clemens is presented as an educated man adrift in a foreign country (in this case Bulgaria, and I’ll nitpick that later), with no prospects, but who does—for reasons that are LUDICROUSLY unclear once he explains his backstory—desperately want to return to England. He somehow manages to overhear a man whispering into the ear of one of the players at the table something like nine feet behind him in a bar that the Demeter is hiring a crew, at which point he grabs his few bags and folds, then runs off to get the job. If he was looking for money for passage, his disinterest in the card game does not support that. If he was simply looking to get hired for a boat, why was he risking throwing away all his money on a card game he clearly has no interest in? What sort of person TURNS THEIR BACK on an active game, especially when, as revealed later in the movie, he is confused and hurt about his experiences with racism? One might think he’d be concerned that he’d be cheated, since he’s not only not facing the game; he’s not even holding his cards. They’re lying face down on the table some five feet behind him. Given that the film later reveals that his quest for “answers to the world” is NOT philosophical in nature, but wholly and completely material, then this man is not a whimsical dreamer lost in some imaginings, either.

This also ties into the final part of the thematic argument for Clemens at the end of the film when he reduces Nosferatu rat-bat to an “animal” because he sleeps and eats, just like all other creatures (also film, what a way to describe Dracula. Just. WOW). Clemens remain underdeveloped for the entire film, which is a shame, as he has no clear character flaws, and a very ill-defined motivation. Agency is something I’m going to talk about later, but Clemens only has a half-way agency in the film. He is rejected for the job on the Demeter, and though he earns a position by rescuing Captain Elliot’s grandson from an accident, the fact is he was doing nothing more to earn the position but sitting and waiting for an opportunity to present itself. By happy coincidence, the Captain’s grandson decided to run directly under a three-ton box and just squat down to play in the dirt and shadow of this thing, and by unhappy coincidence, this is the exact box that was doomed to fall from the rigging and crush anyone or anything underneath. So, on the one hand, good job Clemens for “petting the dog” but on the other hand, the situation is contrived simply as an excuse to let Clemens on board after being rejected (I will have more to say about Toby, the Captain’s grandson, later).

To return to flaws, Clemens has no real character flaws to speak of, as opposed to the far more well-defined Wojchek, who is loyal, stubborn, suspicious, brash, and honest. Clemens is certainly a serviceable character, but a very flat one, who has no arc at all. The changes that happen to him over the course of the film: going from wanting concrete, worldly answers to injustice in the world (also: WHAT?), to single-mindedly wanting to hunt down Dracula is not an arc that follows organically. What does wanting to kill Dracula have to do with his initial ponderings? It appears to be partly a revenge motive, but….so what? Clemens never sought revenge for the injustice he has suffered so far, so this is an orthogonal motivation, if indeed it’s even revenge. It feels rather more like “well, he’s a hero, so he’s going to hunt Dracula now.” It is a similar sort of ill-defined character as Rey from the Disney Star Wars franchise, though he is not over-powered in the way she is, and not instantly liked (or even hated) by everyone in the way that a Mary Sue would be, either. There isn’t much to praise, but there also isn’t much to criticize. He’s rather a milk-toast, undercooked “meh” of a character that isn’t a BAD character per se, just not a very interesting one. All the interesting things about him are external, rather than internal.

The worst character, however, is actually NOT Nosferatu-Man-Bat, believe it or not, though I’m getting to him. No, the absolute WORST character in the entire film par excellence is the gypsy woman, Anna (Aisling Franciosi). I say gypsy even though the film uses the word “romani” for two reasons: the first, that was not a term used in the 1890s to my knowledge, and secondly, because ask a Romanian how they feel about calling gypsies a word that sounds like they’re inherently Romanian or from Romania and see what sort of reaction you get.

Ok, Anna…...Anna, Anna, Anna….

As a nitpick, I will say that I have never seen a love interest/leading lady shot so poorly in my entire life. She’s lit worse than Halle Bailey in the Little Mermaid flop. Holy cow.

There is not a single shot of her that looks good. The most common angle Øvredal uses is to place the camera almost directly into her forehead, and then almost fish-eye lens her from there. It is a baffling decision, and not flattering to her at all.
​
Is that a nit pick? Kind of, but it was so egregious it called attention to itself. In any case, the “character,” so-called. We all knew that in 2023, only Christopher Nolan can get away with making a film with only white men in it, and that the script would have to find a way to get a woman on board. I don’t actually mind that in principle, so long as the female character is well-developed and, you know, services the script in some way. I would absolutely have done something similar if I had been handed this project.

However, there is no polite way to put this: Anna is not a character. She is almost literally an exposition-fairy-deus-ex-machina. Everything about her is contrived. The crew discover her, because as it happens, Parkinsons-Skeletor-Dracula demanded sacrifices before they loaded him up onto the Demeter, and her village gave her over to him. He had her buried in a crate full of dirt for potentially days and was feeding off her the entire time. Happily, she was not only in a crate that WASN’T under the 24-50 other three-ton crates, but was ALSO in a crate that was poorly stowed and fell and popped open on day two or three of the voyage, while she was still alive, and hadn’t turned into a vampire minion yet. WHAT A SERENDIPITOUS EVENT. Because throughout the movie it is revealed that "Dracula" can mess with people’s minds (more on that in the "Dracula" section), I had thought that this might be an intentional part of Dracula’s plan for the ship, and that she was actually being controlled and so would be able to run interference for Dracula if the crew got too close. Considering how Anna doles out information to the crew, this theory would have fit. Alas, this was not the case. Anna is discovered unconscious and dying and provides Clemens another “pet the dog” moment, while providing the first human victim of Man-Bat a chance to “kick the dog” (he wants her chucked overboard, despite the fact that she’s clearly ill and probably dying). While she is feverish and unconscious and receiving daily(?) blood transfusions from Clemens (more on that in nitpicks), Toby reveals that she “doesn’t speak much English.” I knew from the trailers that Anna knew about "Dracula," and was wondering how the film was going to prevent her from just spilling all the beans the moment she was awake.

As it turns out, like any good exposition fairy, she speaks perfect English, but only gives out information as the plot demands. Her first lines of dialogue is a minutes-long story about her village and "Dracula" and how she was given to him (though not how she ended up in the crate or anything else) which is delivered in perfect English to Clemens. At no point does Anna wonder where she is, or even SUGGEST that the crew go looking for Dracula, whom she confirms is ABSOLUTELY ON THE SHIP THIS VERY MOMENT. She mopes around and says “there’s evil on board” but the moment the camera is not on her, she goes into stasis only to pop out again ready to reveal more exposition if the scene requires it. And her exposition is WORTHLESS. In the entire minutes-long story about her village and "Dracula," she actually reveals NO useful information, has no questions, doesn’t have any explanation for why an ignorant, peasant-gypsy from Romania (NITPICK ON THAT LATER) knows PERFECT ENGLISH, nor asks why she’s on a boat, neither speculates about what to do, neither suggests ANY ACTION AT ALL.

We then don’t see her for at least a day or two of movie time, and she’s just…ready to do some action. There is a painfully hilarious scene where Toby is locked in the captain’s quarters and the nearest upper quadrant of the door is busted open. Clemens attempts to reach in with his left arm twisting backwards to unlock the latch, and to his credit, Corey Hawkins does his absolute best selling the audience on the fact that he “totally can’t reach the lock” when it is painfully obvious that he can. While he and the other men struggle to get the door open, Anna just warps into the scene with a gun and shoots the lock off. This is the first instance of her stealing agency from other characters, but it is not the ONLY one. Later, [mega spoilers] when the few remaining crew are trying to conduct a funeral for Toby, his grandfather, the captain, is unable to find the strength to say anything, so Anna steps forward and gives the most blah sermon imaginable ON HIS BEHALF. Later, in the final confrontation with Man-Bat, [spoilers] it is ANNA who manages to pin Man-Bat and save Celemens from being killed by the Bat-Crypt-Keeper, allowing them both to jump overboard. Just…wow. At the end, Anna reveals that [spoiler] she has been infected by Man-Bat all along, and everyone who is infected over the course of the film burns to death in sunlight. I suppose the blood transfusions are meant to explain why she hasn't until just after this scene, where she says that her village “chose for her to be food for [Dracula], but [she] chooses this [to burn to death on her own terms].” If she was the sort of person who was willing to “go out on her own terms,” why didn’t she try to kill "Dracula" on her own over the course of the many days/weeks over which the story goes? Why didn’t she hop overboard the moment she realized she was on a ship with "Dracula" and a crew that wasn’t going to bother trying to fight or even LOCATE the monster? Because the plot didn’t need her to. At the end, when there are LITERALLY only three crew members left alive, it finally occurs to Clemens to ask her how to kill the Man-Bat. She reveals she has no idea.

….Just….MARVELOUS scriptwriting there.

I could go on. I don’t want to bother. There’s not enough of a character there to even get annoyed at. She is literally a plot device.

Ok, now onto the "Dracula" section. I will try to be brief. Everyone is at least familiar in PASSING with Tod Browning’s 1931 Dracula starring Bela Lugosi. All anyone needs is a photo and they ought to know more or less what I’m talking about.

Cinema buffs may be aware that there were two Dracula movies made at this time. The other one was a Spanish production, which is largely praised for having better production value and/or direction. Here is a brief video on the other film: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZZDoon5n_Q4. Despite everything else about the film, I contend the real reason it was not as popular as the English one was this: its Dracula lacked the same on-screen magnetism. If you’re making a Dracula film, you had BETTER GET DRACULA RIGHT. I am not exaggerating when I say (a little resignedly) that Count Dracula is, for better or for worse, THE pop cultural icon of the last two centuries (https://universalmonsters.fandom.com/wiki/Dracula_in_popular_culture). No other fictional character comes close (Sherlock Holmes has appeared in more works, to my knowledge, but does not command the same emotional or pop-culture weight, so far as I can tell). I don’t want to get into a whole lecture about Count Dracula here, but I think it goes without saying that if you don’t have a good Dracula in your vampire work, and ESPECIALLY in your Dracula work, then nothing else about your work will...well, WORK. Or at the least, that your project has marks against it, which no creator needs. Hence, I think, the need to at least ADDRESS Dracula in virtually every vampire franchise made since the character appeared (in film, if not in writing). He is the villain to top all villains: the dark lord, the sadist, the lawful evil, the maniacal gremlin, the ravenous monster, the corrupter, the seducer, the rapist, the embodiment of all that is evil. You HAVE to get him right. To put it succinctly, this movie fails ABYSMALLY. It fails harder than any other film Dracula that I am aware of, and I include his pathetic cameo in Buffy season 5, and kid-friendly versions like the Hotel Transylvania franchise. The ABSOLUTE. BOTTOM. (I am not speaking as to whether it is good to acclimate children to this embodiment of evil as cute or sympathetic, only speaking as to a version of him as written and presented).

Holy cow. Where to begin?

I’ve talked at length about his appearance, but it is actually SO MUCH WORSE than just how he looks. Anna calls him a “demon in human skin” which is hilarious, since at no time, not even WHILE IN LONDON IN A TOP HAT does he ever look remotely human. I am not exaggerating when I say that Count Orlock, after whom this creature was clearly modeled, is better able to pass as a normal human than Man-Bat is at any point in this entire movie:

Click the link for an image from this hilarious article with a clip that I think you should take a look at if you want to get an idea about the upcoming problem with this “Dracula” https://www.ign.com/articles/last-voyage-of-the-demeter-horrific-dracula-interview.

This version of "Dracula" LOVES his lame, generic, “bad guy” lines. As you heard there, he croak-whispers “it begins...now” at the third man he is going to hunt. ….Just….what are you talking about, Count Gollum? What begins? This is the third man you’re going to kill. What is this line supposed to mean in the context of anything else? You’ve already been killing, and we haven’t reached the point in the script where you plan to kill indiscriminately and without reserve, that happens many days in the future. Who is this man to you? Why say this??? UUUUUUGHHHHH.

In the finale, when Clemens calls "Dracula" out (please, just...let my torment end) by calling him more or less a base animal, and Nosferatu is about to suck his blood, Clemens spits out “I’m not scared of you” and Man-Bat says--I am not kidding--“You will be.”

As far as characterization goes, this “Dracula” is a total mess. On the one hand, we have to contend with the film’s botched thematic argument about crushing materialism opposed to allowing even the slightest room for the supernatural or supranatural. Anna describes Nosferatu as “evil” with enough emphasis that we are probably meant to take that as “evil” with a capital “E,” which would be fine for Dracula, except that Clemens calling him out as an animal seems to be the correct choice at the end of the film. Moreover, this “Dracula” more or less behaves like an animal. I can’t begin to fathom why the village Anna comes from was frightened of a gasping, parapalegic rat-bat-man who could only kill you if you literally walk right up to him (as seen by the first human kill in the movie, Petrovsky), when they could have presumably just ignored him or even moved, if they really felt it was necessary. But more than that, this “Dracula” seems to get a kick out of making his bloody rampages insanely obvious, and even getting spotted killing people. He makes what might generously be described as “the barest minimum attempt” to hide himself. He leaves evidence of his presence EVERYWHERE and the ONLY reason he doesn’t get found sooner is that the crew makes the baffling decision of simply NOT LOOKING FOR THE THING THAT VIOLENTLY ATE ALL THEIR ANIMALS AFTER OPENING THEIR CAGES AND RIPPING THE SHIP’S DOG IN HALF AND THEN DRAGGING THE BODY TO THE KITCHEN SO THEY COULD STUMBLE ACROSS IT, as well as “hey, did Petrovsky shave himself drunkenly last night, slit his own throat all over the deck, then fall off the side?” If any of the crew had actually really bothered to look for what must be an obvious existential threat on board sooner, they could probably have found ol’ Man-Bat’s super special locked box-coffin easily. Once Clemens decides to check the boxes….when there are three crew members left (of which he is one), he finds ol’ Man-Bat’s box (which Anna effortlessly figures out how to unlock on the first try) in what might be under ten minutes in-movie time. This is made all the worse when it becomes clear that Nosferatu here has Count Orlock’s weakness to sunlight (Dracula, remember, does NOT get killed by sunlight), so one would assume if he had two brain cells to rub together, he might want to be careful NOT to advertise his presence left and right on a small boat where there’s really a finite number of places for a seven-foot tall rat-bat-man to be hiding when he seems to be completely insensate during the day. All the crew theoretically has to do is just locate the specific box, then during the day winch it up out of the hold and then nail it shut and whoopsy-daisy it right over the side into the ocean if they’re not sure they can kill him.

This monster, bafflingly, is an exhibitionist who likes to make faces at the camera and other characters. He barely speaks, and when he does, he throws out the most cliched one-note villain lines imaginable, and often in a hoarse gollum-old-man voice. It is one of the most pathetic things I have ever witnessed. He is written like a creature monster, not like a ghost, a demon, or highly intelligent monster. He’s like the monster form of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s performances. She’s always performing “for the camera.” So is this weirdo. Honestly, if this monster wasn’t called “Dracula” and was just some...generic, low-level vampire barely capable of sentient thought, he would be fine, though the movie would still be terrible. As-is, we have to put up with a lobotomized Dracula-Orlock transporter accident who acts like a clown the entire film. I might characterize him as a “talking crocodile with a flair for showing off.” What a sad, sad characterization.

There is a sad attempt to say that he can “get into the minds” of other characters, as when he [spoiler] whispers to the Captain that if the Demeter successfully lands at England, then he can bring the captain’s grandson, Toby, back to life. As it turns out, this is a plot cul-de-sac because all it takes is Anna telling him “the devil talks to me, too, he twists everything you want. That’s what the devil does” before the captain goes “okie-dokie, right you are” and off they all go like nothing happened. If you cut that scene from the film, it would be better, because then I could try to pretend the crew acting like morons makes sense because “Dracula” was messing with their heads. Also, glad to see that Anna can also shrug off the great evil that’s been preying on her for days such that she can self-immolate randomly at the end of the film.

Ok, this is getting long. I’ll just list some other plot problems and nitpicks before calling this quits. I don’t want to talk about this garbage much more.

The plot can only happen due to rampant and inexplicable stupidity and characters acting against their own best interests and motivations. As stated earlier, about….oh, three or so days into the journey, Man-Bat carefully unlocks all the animal cages and rips them to pieces, then leaves all their mangled corpses in the hold, then grabs the ship’s dog, rips off its face and tears it in half, then carries the dog over to the kitchen to deposit there to be found. After being confronted with this carnage, the crew more or less agree that “the dog was rabid” and despite bringing up that the dog could not 1) have carefully opened the cage doors, and 2) could not have ripped itself in half and walked its corpse to a new location, they just press on and make no attempt to solve this mystery. Then, when a crewman goes missing overnight but there is a suspicious amount of BLOOD ALL OVER the deck, as well as part of the cargo hold being punched clean up and open, large enough for a large animal or a man of some sort to slip through, they just keep going “well, this sure is a mystery. Odd, odd, odd.” The reason the movie attempts (I think) to give for this disinterest in making port is because they get a bonus if they reach England early. Which is...fine, but it doesn’t explain why the crew doesn’t think to search the ship until they find the BODY of another crew member, as well as another who has been badly mauled. Moreover, let’s take this moment to return to Toby, the captain’s grandson. Like Anna, he is a plot device, meant to serve as a woobie, as well as allowing an excuse for Clemens to come on board. Captain Elliot (in one of the few of Liam Cunningham’s actual scenes) states that this will be “his last voyage. He’s going to retire to the country to take care of his grandson” almost word for word. Go ahead and laugh, I almost did. His grandson is the ONLY living member of his family left. One MIGHT assume that if that was the case, and there was an obviously dangerous...I don’t know, vicious animal? Maniacal stowaway? on board, if you were Captain Elliot, you’d make port immediately because the bonus won’t do you your grandson any good if he gets SLAUGHTERED, no matter WHAT the crew says about it. This returns us to the “haunted house” question from earlier. No matter what, this ship can’t POSSIBLY be that far from any shore. It is traveling from Bulgaria to England. It will be hugging the coast throughout the Mediterranean, and then Portugal. There might be a brief time after passing Spain when they will be somewhat more distant, but I contend there’s no real reason they CAN’T make port. This isn’t space. The distance is miles, not LIGHT YEARS. Especially when faced with some sort of creature or murderer on board who is literally cutting its way through every living thing on the ship. Considering the boat washes ashore in Whitby, when Dracula wants to be in London, but the crew is still LARGELY STILL ALIVE AND STEERING when they are less than a day away from their destination, that means they passed up numerous opportunities to make port and try to get to the bottom of what was killing them. Here is where Whitby is, for those wondering:
https://www.google.com/maps/place/Whitby,+UK/@53.9246125,-1.8290978,6z/data=!4m6!3m5!1s0x487f1779f21902d7:0xa0fd139f12932a0!8m2!3d54.486335!4d-0.613347!16zL20vMDE2bjd2?entry=ttu. As you can see, to hit Whitby, the crew must have overshot London by quite some distance. While the ship also washes up in Whitby in the book, it has been unmanned for quite some time, and probably being steered in by Dracula via the weather, so I am willing to accept a certain amount of impreciseness with its landing. Also, I believe Stoker was referencing a real shipwreck, but I would need to double-check.

Characters act counter to logic and sense throughout the film. I don’t have the energy to break it all down.

To return a bit to the thematic argument, but also to cover how “Dracula” doesn’t work in this movie, there was another very odd decision in this film. There is precisely one crucifix on board a ship full of people who at least appear to be Christian. Joseph, the Chinese Christian cook, who I assume is meant to be Orthodox (he references St Nicholas, but he could be Catholic as well) does not have a crucifix; he wears a single cross (he was also one of the more interesting characters at the beginning of the film, though he is treated VERY badly later on). There is the thematic argument about total materialism (which also fits with the philosophical mindset of the nineteenth century) opposed to the mysticism or even “superstition” of the previous centuries. As stated before, Stoker’s work directly reflects this conflict. However, any time a character holds this single crucifix in the presence of Orlock-Man-Bat, he kills them immediately. The film even has lingering shots on the crucifix dangling from fingers going limp as Man-Bat drains his victims. Later, Joseph, the most outwardly vocal Christian, is so frightened of the monster that he rambles incoherently to himself about Jonah, steals a lifeboat and rows out to sea by himself to escape, with his Bible sitting on the seat in front of him. Man-Bat kills him and sprays his blood across the Bible, then sends the bloodied lifeboat back to the Demeter (I don’t know, this monster makes no sense, and I don’t have the energy to talk about how Dracula ought not to be able to fly out over the sea to get this crew member, and why that breaks the book and also negates the need for this voyage as-is but I just...don’t have the energy. There is so much wrong with this film).

So the film makes a very clear and aggressive message that faith, and by extension, God or goodness, do not exist. This certainly fits with the materialist-oriented argument winning. But vampires are NOT frightening monsters in the material world. I cannot remember which fictional work more or less called vampires “4F rejects” because they have so many weaknesses. The fact is, they do, BUT their threat is not material, it is wholly supernatural. They are demonic, uncanny, and embodiments of evil, not just flying bat people who like to suck blood. Once you remove the supernatural element, then you’re just dealing with a particularly vulnerable human-animal with a weird diet. As far as this film, you cannot have Dracula be “the devil” while also refuting the existence of, or the power of, God. I could do a whole podcast about this ridiculous Hollywood trope (which was the cause for my hard eye-rolling when I saw that there was a sequel to “the Nun” in the trailers as well as another Exorcist movie coming out). Good vampire movies treat the vampire LIKE a demon. You could plug a number of the beats for Dracula into the Exorcist, for example. Van Helsing, the expert, is there to exorcise the demon, Dracula, who is slowly corrupting and taking over Mina. The Last Voyage of the Demeter is structured more like Jaws or Alien. It’s a creature feature, but that’s NOT what vampires are. If this "Dracula" was called a “mutant” or a “demihuman” or something, or literally replaced with an actual animal monster, like a deep-cave, man-sized vampire bat, the plot would hardly change at all. I mean, Anna would make no sense, but she already makes no sense and contributes nothing but deus-ex-machina rescues anyway, so all you’d lose is bad writing. Basically, if this so-called “Dracula” was just a large, particularly smart bat—say, as smart as a velociraptor in the Jurassic Park franchise—the only thing you’d lose would be Anna, and that’s no loss. I could go on, and I might, but not here.

Nitpicks:
Why make a reference to the captain lashing himself to the wheel a la the book, if you’re going to untie him and set him down on the deck after being killed by the Man-Bat? It would be like making a King Arthur movie where he draws the sword from the stone, then puts it back, and then forgets about it. Don’t do the reference if you’re going to undo the reference moments later. People who don’t recognize the reference don’t need it, and people who DO recognize it will be confused and annoyed.

Why have Clemens meet the crew in Bulgaria? Especially after he reveals that he went down to the Balkans because KING CAROL I OF ROMANIA TRIED TO HIRE HIM AS A PHYSICIAN. ROMANIA. (Ugh, getting to that). Considering that two other characters are from “Romania” (despite the fact that Dracula is supposed to be from Transylvania), we run into Clemens in BULGARIA. Why is he in Bulgaria floating around aimlessly hoping to hire himself onto a boat to get back to England? Why not be in Constanta? Which is. IN. ROMANIA. Why, if TWO OTHER CHARACTERS are going to be from Romania, NOT just have him be in Romania too? I know that the ship departed from Varna in the book, but since this movie doesn’t follow the book anyway, why not make your life easier with regards to characters? I mean, if you follow the captain’s log he makes no mention of a grandson or a female stowaway, so...just do what you want. Only Petrovsky is like the book (the first man to go missing in the novel, and in the movie, though in the movie he is the only Russian).

Why is this Russian vessel manned by only one Russian, and a bunch of people from all over the world? Like the Chinese Christian cook named Joseph?

Why does this movie not understand that Transylvania wasn’t part of Romania until just before the end of the first World War?

The blood transfusions thing is something I’m not quite sure what to make of. Blood transfusions certainly made an appearance in the novel, Dracula, but when Stoker included them, they were a controversial treatment. Clemens is a doctor who studied at Cambridge sometime before 1897, and has been on the road for some time. Nevertheless, he happens to have the tools he needs to perform a transfusion (several for Anna, and at least one for Toby) on hand. There is another possibility that this inclusion is a nod to Charles Drew, the black doctor who invented blood banks, and potentially even a reference to the common myth that he died because he was refused a blood transfusion himself for being black. I can’t say for certain that this was intended, but I thought it a curious possibility (here is more info if you’re interested: https://jimcrowmuseum.ferris.edu/question/2004/june.htm)

Overall, a waste of time, and a waste of a great idea for a horror film. 

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The Unicorn and the Lion

7/5/2023

 
The Unicorn and the Lion


Red sprang from his pure white flank as the unicorn fled for his life. The lion hounded him, clawing at his legs, his tail, until at last the unicorn was miles from his forest home. A clear, sparkling spring appeared before him, and with desperation, he leapt across the shining water. Foam clung to his lips, and his legs gave out as he landed on the far shore. Seeing that sight, the lion laughed.

“Very well, I am weary of chasing you. I shall take your forest kingdom in exchange for your life.”

The unicorn lay panting for breath on the stony shore, his blood staining his white body.

“Please do not take my forest. Its many creatures need me to heal the wood and their ills. It is a blessed place only so long as I remain.”

“Cross the water to reclaim it and I shall kill you,” said the lion. “I do not fear such as you.”

“What do you fear?” the unicorn wondered. The lion laughed.

“No beast is any threat to me save Man. Only Man has the strength to fight me and the boldness to wear my skin as a cloak.”

Too weary to rise, the unicorn could only watch as the lion stalked the way he had come. When the lion and his laughter had faded into the tall grass, the unicorn cast his eyes down at his own reflection in the clear water. It was a gentle face he saw reflected there. No fierceness, no courage.

Without his presence, the forest would grow old and dark and twisted. Without his presence, the sylphs, undines, gnomes, and even the salamanders would fade and disappear. The glades would not shine in gold during the day and silver at night. The rabbits’ and foxes’ fur would lose their silkiness, the birdsong would devolve into mere chirping.

The unicorn looked to the torn skin on his legs. He could not defeat the lion and regain the forest.

He fears man alone, the unicorn thought, I must discover the secret to man’s strength and his boldness. Armed with such knowledge, he might be able to chase the lion from his home and restore the forest once more. Summoning his will, the unicorn rose to his weakened feet and gazed down into the water. He knew that men desired his horn for its power, so he could not learn from them in his natural form. He plunged into the water, and a pale man with hair as white as starlight emerged after.


The countess sat upon her gilded picnic chair, sipping a sweet rosé in the clean glow of morning, as she had always done since the death of her husband. As she contemplated the lake where she had spent her younger days sailing, she saw a man gliding towards her through the trees. When he had come close, she saw that he was quite naked.

“You there!” she shouted. With an elegant flick of her wrist, she summoned her armed guard to her side. “Stranger! Have you been robbed? I’ll have no robbers on my roads! Speak, man!”

“Robbed?” the stranger wondered, “Of what?”

“Your clothes, man! Haven’t you any sense at all?”

The stranger’s dark blue eyes drank in the sight of her and her guards, before he regarded himself, as though seeing himself for the first time.

“Is it customary to have clothes?” the stranger wondered.

Ah, me, though the countess, It is a fool I have mistaken for a man of breeding. I had thought by the softness of his hair and his face that he might be genteel.
“Of course,” the countess retorted, “Cover yourself, for heaven’s sake!”

The stranger turned in a slow circle, his eyes searching the foliage all around. The sight amused her so that the countess laughed for the first time since she had been widowed. Her guards knelt beside her in consternation at the strange sound their lady made.

“Stranger, what is your name?” the countess wondered.

“My name?” the stranger asked. He ceased searching for clothing in the ferns and grass and cast his eyes instead at the treetops.

“It must be Fool, for I have never seen anyone so foolish as you. See here, you have brought a smile to my face, something I have not worn in years. As you have given me something new to wear, it is only fitting that I give you something to wear in turn.”

So saying, she unclasped the velvet cloak with golden tassels from the shoulders of her nearest guard. She waved for her guard to give it as a gift.

“Thank you,” said the stranger, and he clumsily draped the treasure across his own shoulders. “Is this the skin of a lion?”

“Fool, ask me no more questions today,” said the countess, “But be on your way.”

And so the stranger went, without so much as a bow of deference to her.


The dashing rogue rolled the blade of grass back and forth from one side of his mouth to the other. It was a beautiful day, and very warm. He had a sack of valuables over his shoulder, and others’ coins in his purse.

As he strolled down the open road, he spotted a white thing, like a cloud, upon the dust before him. As he drew nearer, the haze could no longer obscure the pale figure with shining white hair and a fine velvet cloak. The sight of the cloak drew the rogue’s eyes like a magpie to any glittering thing.

“Good day!” he called to the pale man.

“It is,” was the reply.

“Where are you travelling, friend?” wondered the rogue.

“Where?” the pale man considered his words a moment. “I wish to learn how to defeat lions.”

“Lions? There are none in these parts. They have all been chased out years ago! Nothing to learn now! Say, where are your shoes, man?”

The pale man cocked his head.

“I have never been shod,” he replied, “Nor would I want to be.”

The rogue doubted it. The pale man’s feet were lily white and soft as a maiden’s. He could not have walked on them his whole life without shoes.

He is confused, though the rogue to himself, He has suffered an illness or injury, and forgotten himself. It should be no trouble to get that cloak from him.
“Aren’t you terribly hot in that old thing?” the rogue asked, pointing at the cloak.

“It is customary to have clothing,” the pale man answered.

“Certainly it is, my good man! But in this heat, would you not rather have something cooler? Look at my shirt, do you see how thin it is? Why, it even has holes here at the elbows and in the sleeves to let in the breeze. I could not bear to let you swelter in such a thing! Here, take my shirt in exchange before you faint from the heat.”

“You are very kind,” said the pale man.

“I am no kinder than anyone would be if they saw someone in such need!” said the rogue.

“What of you, wouldn’t the heat be unbearable for you as well?” wondered the pale man.

“Oh, what a gentle soul!” the rogue said. “Listen, how noble! To concern yourself over a poor man like me! Never fear, sir, I shall bear it, for it seems to me your need is greater.”

“Noble? I?” the pale man wondered.

“Certainly, you are as noble as any man who ever was! Now, give me your cloak and I shall give you my shirt.”

The pale man slowly, clumsily doffed the cloak.

“Odds bodkins! Well, this will not do,” said the rogue, and he reached into his sack and pulled out a pair of pantaloons. He passed them and the shirt to the pale man, then ran his hands over the fine velvet garment he had won, as smooth and soft as ermine.

“You are very generous,” said the pale man.

“Not I,” said the rogue, “No, not I. You are. Farewell, generous friend, and thank you!”

The rogue continued down the road.


The old man groaned and gazed across the river. He had crossed it hundreds of times before, but it had rained so much, and he had twisted his ankle on a slippery rock. He could not possibly ford it in his frail condition.

“It has been a long life,” he remarked to the stones and the gray clouds, “But could I not have died at my hut?”

“But you have not died.”

The old man turned, amazed at the quiet step of the fair stranger who stood beside him. It was a strange young man with hair whiter than his own, and a silky beard like a goat, but ragged clothes.

“Are you a phantasm? The ghost of some drowned spirit come to torment me?” wondered the old man. The fair youth blinked without understanding.
“I am no phantom. Why do you lie on these rocks in this weather?”

“The rain swelled the water, and lightning struck the tree which tethered the rope I use to ford this stream,” the old man answered, “I tried my luck against the water, but it proved stronger and now I cannot walk at all.”

“Why must you cross this water?”

“My hut lies across it.”

“Why cross to this side in the first place, if your home is over there?” The fair youth tilted his head/ “Were you driven from your home?”

“No. I need wood to sell, or I will have nothing to eat. Are you simple, boy?”

“Hmm,” said the fair youth. He gazed across the river. “It is not far. I can carry you across.”

“The water is stronger than it looks,” the old man retorted.

“It is only what anyone would do if they saw someone in such need,” the fair youth replied, and knelt beside the elder.

“Where do you live that you know no other kinds of people?” the old man grunted. “The world hasn’t got a thimbleful of kindness for the poorest, sorriest soul that crawls on it.”

The fair youth looked amazed.

“Is that true? I have only met kind people.”

“Then you are blessed,” said the old man.

The fair youth had nothing to say to that, but he took the old man and his bundle of wood on his back and stepped into the river. The water rushed against his legs, but he hesitated only for a moment before he strode confidently forward. When they had reached the very middle, and the water climbed to his thighs, the fair youth slipped, and he and old man went down into the water. The old man thought he would drown for certain, injured as he was, for the river became quite deep just a little downstream, but the youth had strong hands, which pulled him from the water and bore him to the far shore.

“You have done me so much kindness!” the old man marveled, “Please, come with me to my hut. You can dry yourself there, and share my supper.”

“I have not eaten well for days,” said the youth, as though disappointed.

The youth carried the old man to his hut, and they dined on a stew of mushrooms and nuts.

“What has happened to your skin?” wondered the youth when they had finished.

“What do you mean?” the old man asked.

“It is not so smooth,” the youth answered.

“Haven’t you ever seen someone my age before? You get wrinkled when you get older. Look at you! Your skin is as smooth as a child’s! Where are you from? Who are you?”

“I’ve been called Fool, but I’ve also been called Kind. I do not know which is the name I should take.”

“What name did your parents give you?”

“My parents?”

“Fool it is, then,” said the old man, “Even if you were a foundling or an orphan or raised in the forest by birds and wolves you’d know what those were. But Kind, too, for you did me a kindness without which I might have died of the cold.”

The youth regarded the old man’s twisted ankle, but said nothing.

The old man woke that night when the youth touched his ankle. For a moment, he saw a glow on the youth’s forehead, and that very moment his injury was healed.

“By the Great Mountain!” said the old man, “You are more Fool than anything! You are no human at all!”

The youth stared, as a deer frozen with surprise.

“Why have you taken human form?! You will be found out! Or worse, you will be lost!”

The unicorn in human form only stared. The old man could see it now, despite the gloom—a single ruby upon the youth’s forehead, which his thick white hair hid from sight.

“That stone,” the old man said, and pointed to it, “I’ve heard that unicorns have it in their horns.”

“We die if we lose the stone,” the unicorn explained. “It connects the horn to us.”

“Don’t explain such things to people,” the old man scolded.

“Why not?”

“Why would you tell anyone how to kill you?”

“Many things can kill me,” said the unicorn. “I have taken human form because I wish to learn how to do battle with a lion.”

“No. You mustn’t,” the old man told him. “Lions are your natural enemy. The only way to change that would unmake you.”

“But lions fear man?” the unicorn said.

“All animals who know Man fear Man. You should, too.”

“I wish to learn how to make a lion fear me as well.”

“It is impossible for your kind. Please, leave your foolish mission. You will be poorer for it.”

“To be honest,” said the unicorn, “I do not see why animals fear Man. They have only been kind to me.”

“Kind? Bah,” said the old man. “How?”

“A woman gave me the name Fool and clothes,” said the unicorn, “Because I made her wear a smile.”

“She laughed at you as one would a jester, and gave you payment for the entertainment.”

“Then a man on the road traded me better clothes for the cloak, taking that burden on himself.”

“How’s that? You’re wearing rags. What did you trade for them?”

“A cloak that was as soft as down, in a beautiful color.”

“You were robbed, then! You traded a fortune for rags!”

“But it was a kindness, for the cloak was too warm, and these clothes suit me much better.”

“Oh, you understand nothing, you fool,” said the old man, “Go back to where you belong, forget battling lions and anything you know of Man.”

“Why would you tell me to?”

“As a kindness.”

“Hmm.”


The next morning, the unicorn in human form had not left.

“Nor will I until I learn how to battle a lion,” he said when the old man prodded him.

“You will not learn that secret from me, but I worry if I let you out into the world on your own, some misfortune will befall you. Stay here with me a while, I will house and feed you.”

“Man is very kind,” said the unicorn to himself. “Yet I do not understand why that should frighten lions.”

He stayed with the old man, who taught him to fetch fallen wood to sell for cloth or tallow or anything else they needed. They foraged together for mushrooms and nuts to eat, and wild herbs to season their stews. All the time, the old man told the unicorn to return, but the unicorn knew he could not until he had learned the secret to his enemy’s weakness. The unicorn crossed the river each day to gather wood and food, so the old man kept the house.

One day, the unicorn returned to find the old man lying on his face near the line where they hung their laundry. When the unicorn went to see what was the matter, the old man was dead.

The unicorn considered this fact. Humans grew old and died, then, as did all the animals in the forest. He did not know what old age was, though he supposed he must have lived for a long time. He did not age like the animals did. In that sense he had more in common with the sylphs, undines, gnomes, and salamanders which dwelt in his forest.

He regretted that the old man had died, but even a unicorn cannot raise the dead, so he left the old man so that crows and vultures could eat. He could see no reason why such a sad turn of events should not serve the happiness of others if it could.


The unicorn followed the road once more. He missed his forest, but what could he do until he learned how to recover it? So he pressed on.

The road climbed a hill, passing a tree that sat at the top. As the unicorn reached the top, he saw a maiden sitting beneath the tree, spreading out eggs in her apron. When he spotted her nut brown hair, rosy cheeks dotted with freckles, and the roundness of her chin, he felt a most peculiar feeling. In that moment, he remembered that maidens were a danger to his species. Many of his kind had been lured to their doom by the allure of maidens' innocence, so he had heard, though he was not certain how.

He stood there, frozen with uncertainty and fear, until the maiden noticed him. She glanced at him, and as she turned her head, he saw that the other side of her face, which had been hidden from his eyes, was melted and red and hideous to behold. The maiden wrapped a scarf around her head and face, gathered her eggs, and darted down to a meadow that lay below the hill. The unicorn watched her until she vanished from his sight. Once she had gone, he supposed he should be pleased that she ran from him, because he did not know what she might do to him if he drew near.

The road took him to a place the likes of which he had never seen before. There were huts just like the old man’s, but larger, and there were so many of them that there was no room for trees or bushes, only the many roads that went between the huts. The humans stared at him as he went, and he wondered why.

At last, he reached an open space where the humans had great stores of food: apples, lettuce, eggs, bread. They asked each other to take the food. As the unicorn looked over the wealth before him, he noticed a child with a twisted leg and his eyes covered by a cloth holding out an empty bowl to no one as he sat on the ground.

“What are you doing?” the unicorn asked him.

“Please, good man, can you spare a coin, or some food?” the child wondered.

The unicorn looked to the apples and bread. He thought it strange that if the child needed food or money that no one would give him any, but perhaps they had not noticed the boy in all the commotion. The unicorn fetched a loaf of bread to give to the boy.

“Hey! You going to pay for that?”

The unicorn was hazily familiar with the concept of paying for things. He had traded his cloak for clothing, and the old man traded his wood for supplies from travelers. He considered what he had to give.

“Here, I have a shirt that is very cool in the heat,” said the unicorn.

“You pay for it or else,” said the man who stood by all the bread. The unicorn took off his shirt and held it out. The man by the bread threw the shirt in the unicorn’s face and tore the bread from his hand. Before the unicorn could think, something struck him in the head. He reeled with surprise, but the shirt still obscured his vision, and another blow knocked him down. Suddenly the blows came rapidly, and the unicorn, bewildered, could only huddle on the ground.

“Heaven’s sake, it was just a loaf of bread! Here, a ha’penny. And I’ll take that, then, thank you.”

The blows stopped coming, and the unicorn untangled the shirt. The maiden whose disfigured face he had spotted earlier stood over him. She held out a small coin, which the man with the bread accepted, then he tossed the bread to her. The maiden caught the loaf, slipped it into her basket, and knelt beside the unicorn.

“You’re a strange-looking stranger. Down on your luck, eh? Here.” She offered him the loaf of bread. Confused, the unicorn accepted it, then delivered it to the boy. When he turned to leave, he spotted the maiden watching him.

“Hang on a tic, you stole it to give to Little Bart?” the maiden wondered. “Haven’t you got any sense at all?”

The unicorn did not want to answer her. Yet, she had been kind to him.

“Can’t you talk?” the maiden asked.

“I can.’”

“Well, in that case, you’re welcome. But don’t go doing anything that foolish again. I only happened to sell all my eggs and have some money on me. Besides, you won’t find anyone else so willing to help you.”

This had been the unicorn’s first experience with violence from a human. Yet the girl was still kind to him.

“Why did he attack me?” the unicorn asked.

“Because you stole his bread, of course,” said the maiden. “Haven’t you got any sense?”

The unicorn supposed he must have missed something in learning of trade.

“Look, you seem a bit lost. If you haven’t got any money, you could help me around the house in exchange for a meal or two,” said the maiden.

The unicorn agreed. The maiden lived at the edge of a wood. Her hut was larger than the old man’s, and she kept geese, ducks and chickens. She explained that she grew roots and herbs, flowers, and foraged for special plants from the wood to trade with the others.

“Why do you live so far from them?” the unicorn wondered.

“This,” she touched her melted cheek.

“Why should that keep you so far from them?”

“My father was a wealthy man, but an evil drunk. He put my face in the fire. The others hate me for it.”

“I don’t understand, why should they hate you for such a thing?”

“He was a wealthy man, an important man. What loving father would do such a thing to his darling daughter? They had to decide if their beloved friend was a devil, or if his child was. Their friend paid their tabs at the pub, so it was easier to think the child was the devil. So I am.”

The unicorn wondered at such thinking. He had seen that men could sometimes be cruel, but he did not understand why. The unicorn helped her to flock her ducks and geese to and from the pond her father had dug in the nearby meadow. The water was green and brown, and the dragonflies danced on the surface. He helped her to sell her eggs and herbs in the village, and discovered that some of the men and boys harassed her. The unicorn was helpless in the face of their cruel words, but after some time he noticed they spoke less and less often to the maiden.

“It’s on account of you escorting me,” she explained. “You look hale enough to be trouble for them, perhaps.”

“Hmm.”

When he had lived with her for some time, the unicorn asked her about lions.

“No lions here. But you want to know how we drove them out? It was by being better at what they do than they are.”

“What’s that?”

“Hunting them more than they could hunt us.”

This answer troubled the unicorn. He was no hunter, and he doubted he could be.

“Is there no other way?”

“I don’t know. Maybe if lions know to fear us they would run away at just the sight of us, but you can’t count on that. Sometimes only violence stops violence.”

“Why do you say so?”

“My father. He only stopped when my mother dashed his brains out with a brick.”

The unicorn was silent.


He and the maiden lived alongside the ducks and geese and chickens, living so harmoniously he almost forgot his forest. As they came home one day, a boy threw a rotten apple at the maiden. It did her no harm, yet it made her sad. While she slept, he healed her face. It seemed the mark that the others despised, and what else could he do when she had been so kind to him?

She screamed the next morning when she beheld her face in her wash basin.

“What cruel trick is this?!” she demanded, tears in her eyes.

“I thought it might please you,” the unicorn told her, confused.

“You did this?” the maiden demanded. “How? Who are you?”

With no other explanation he could give, he showed her his ruby, and the maiden covered her mouth.

“Oh, you fool,” she said. “You poor, beautiful fool.”

“I’m sorry. I thought it would help you.”

The maiden wiped away her tears, but she smiled at him. Her eyes sparkled like clear water and he felt that same strange feeling that had warned him away from her at the first. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. He wanted to sleep in her arms, and so he did.

The unicorn continued to dwell with her, though he did not ask any further about lions, and thought less and less of his forest. She covered her face with her shawl when she went into town so that the others might not see that she had been healed.

The leaves were red when a stiff gust of wind caught her shawl and tore it free. In that moment, the young woman’s face was revealed to the men and boys who had harassed her, and they stared, amazed.

Though she covered herself, the unicorn thought that they must have seen.

“I hope not,” said the young woman. “I pray not.”

That night, the men and boys kicked down the door and stormed inside.

“What have you done, witch?” they demanded. “What magic have you woven?”

“It is a miracle,” she answered. “Nothing more. The sun smiled on my suffering and burned away the wound.”

They did not believe her, and when one struck her and threw her against the hearth, the unicorn pushed the man. They scuffled, the man struck the unicorn more than once in the face before the unicorn threw him against the bricks. The men and boys were surprised to see him, but no less surprised when the man who lay on the bricks did not rise. Blood pooled beneath his head, and they ran into the night in a fright.

The unicorn knelt by the man on the floor, but nothing would make him rise again.

“They’ll come again,” said the young woman while the unicorn shook the fallen man helplessly. “We have to go, or they’ll have the whole village after us. Come!”

She dragged him to the chicken coop.

“He is dead,” said the unicorn.

“I know.”

The unicorn followed her like a man in a dream, and saw her open the coop. She reached inside, drew out a clucking chicken and cooed to it. Then she snapped its neck.

“We can’t take them all. We can sell their meat and feathers in the next village and with any luck that’ll take us out of the county,” the young woman explained, and held out the chicken for the unicorn to take. He stared. He had seen the young woman speak so sweetly to the chicken before, seen her care for the chicks, make certain that they were warm and clean. The ducks and geese also. When he did not take the chicken, the young woman dropped its corpse to the ground and took another. She snapped its neck also. He watched her kill them one by one and he realized it was the answer he had looked for from the beginning. The young woman had told him so before. The reason lions feared men was the same reason he feared lions. They were hunters, predators. The best. So supreme were they that no beast was safe. Man could be kind, but they could be cruel. Not the cruelty of the predator, but more so. They could ignore the suffering of others, like the boy Little Bart, or the young woman when her father burned her.

Knowing now that there was nothing he wished to take from this lesson to defeat the lion, the unicorn fled. He felt cold in his heart and his bones, and went to the duck pond. In the dark of night, the water was black, but he plunged all the same to regain his shape and flee. But when he emerged, he found he had not returned to his natural form. Horrified, he tried again, but remained terrifyingly human. He stared at his reflection in the murky water, and saw his ruby was gone. But when had he lost it? In the scuffle with the men and the boys, or perhaps while making love to the young woman, had it fallen off and disappeared beneath the floorboards? In desperation, he searched the house, but found no trace of it at all.

“We have to go,” the young woman said to him when she found him collapsed on the wooden floor, his fingers bloodied from searching, his knees deep red from the blood of the fallen man. “We have lost our home here, we can’t ever go back.”

“No,” he agreed. “We cannot. Neither of us.”


It was years later, the lion patrolled the edge of the forest he had stolen. He roared his victory, warning the foolhardy that might come against him of his might, and feeling confident of his position. The wood did not sparkle in the morning like it once had, and though the animals were duller, they were warier, too. A little extra challenge in the hunting to make up for their meat growing tougher, he supposed. In the pale light of morning, the lion spotted a lone man approaching, armed with a bow and spears. The lion trembled at the sight of the weapons, but the man was pale and had white hair. He might be an old man. Old men did not have the courage of young men, so the lion bounded out into the meadow to tear the hunter’s throat out. As he drew closer, the hunter drew back his bow and shot an arrow as true as truth. It pierced the lion’s throat, and he fell to the ground. His blood spilled on the earth and he lay dying as the hunter came closer.

“You were right to fear Man,” said the hunter. “And I was a fool for trying to aspire to the same.”

The hunter took the lion’s skin and wore it as he left the forest behind him.


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    Author

    Amaya grew up on mythology: Greek, Egyptian, Norse, and of course fairytales from Europe and Japan. She has spent years amassing a nifty little collection of fairytales and legends from as many different cultures around the world as she could find: China, Vietnam, India, Africa, and more. With interest in subjects like history, theology, folklore, philosophy, and humanity itself, she earned two BAs which have been entirely useless since graduating college. When not reading hard to find history books or trying to decipher a rare tome in yet another language she doesn’t speak, she writes, spends time training her two cats to do tricks, and taking them for walks. She also designs illustrations for an indie comic book.

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