Inside Realms: Essence of Enchantment

A collection of stories do not a novel make. Yet never claiming to be a novel, the stories in this collection do their best to allude to novels in process. Into the swirl we go as A.F. Stewart creates a mélange of characters and locales with such random precision and passion borne of peculiar winds that one is sure of having sighted a pure spirit of the fantasy realm. One to whom the fantasy language is the native tongue. How does she do it? Oh, we can guess and speculate and conjecture to exhaustion but despite our consuming solipsism, she's not telling. Well versed in a tradition of fantasy realm tale spinners that values the perfect articulation of ideas, her worlds abound with voluptuous detail such that one's senses threaten overload. But with amaranthine wizardry extraordinaire, our fantasy guide is masterful in her application. A contemporary Rembrandt, working each niche and fissure to exhaustion, not content until the absolute articulation of ideas have come to fruition.
In this anthology, Stewart delves into aspects of enchantment that extend beyond the supernatural and reside more in the elemental realms. She highlights the psychological and emotional aspects intrinsic in things typically enjoyed for those very real though often unacknowledged reasons:
The howling wind made the ice sting and it played a melody through the tree branches. It was a sounding of chimes, reminding him of the town bells he had heard long ago in Wyvin.
Yet elemental pleasures blissful or beatific, there is a necessity of spectral imperatives that must be addressed, relayed in covert cryptographic tenor:
“We gather again in reverence, the rightful keepers of the Order of the Song Mage…”
Diarmid, the first hero on the scene is a member of an honored council whose primary purpose it seems is to unravel mysteries of the Gordian knot variety having within their grasp the essential juju of Alexander the Great. This sets the stage for intrigue of mystical proportions. But of course, there is romance and the undeniable allure of the paranormal paramour:
“I spied on the girl, as ordered, and she is a prospect. She clearly nourishes magic, and she has musical talent. Her technique is quite sound, and she has a good ear. In her music there is passion for the song; I think she may have profound potential. It is possible to turn this Sauren into a Song Mage.”
Onward we go, arriving to destinations won in pyrrhic victory, engaging in a battle of wills and position to be charged with the present esoteric mission that revolves around equally obscure motives. It is no more than a few steps down the winding road, replete with the perpetual “harsh wind”, a mousy meager girl woman, a spin of the chill, and love is on the boil. Until the all too friendly imposing barkeep spouts in hero Diarmid’s general direction, “That’s Sauren. She won't give you a tumble. Best find someone else.” Maybe bare chests with a side of ripped bodice is off the menu after all. Yet in a whispering wind of angel song, the eyes of love in bloom meet in pusillanimous embrace.
Within her depths he saw an emerald fire, set alight by the soul of the music. It was the true indication that he had not been sent on a fool's errand.
So, a magically imbued love story it is then. Perhaps not entirely, but at its core, the essence of romance.
She raised her head and their eyes met. Within her depths he saw an emerald fire, set alight by the soul of the music. It was the true indication that he had not been sent on a fool's errand.
Heroine looks, offers a dismissive wave, and off into the labyrinthine recesses she flees, immediately casting hero in the role of stalker. As she disappears behind closed doors, our hero pauses, tries the door seeking entry, finds it bolted shut but fear not, hero has the magical zamfir flute harp from worlds unknown and with one sweep of digits across the zither bada bing bada boom, the door swings open, dropping away like so much outerwear. She responds in outrage, he his magical digits sashay across the strings once more, and her mouth is sealed in magically induced silence, shades of de Sade or Boxing Helena. So, how are we to respond. Fear not, this is simply the way of wandering minstrels of the spectral world. Relaxation rules as both sit down on a squeaky bed. and again in come the winter winds, the shimmering the cooing the rush of emotions as boy meets girl and gets girl swaying and swooning until:
She wrapped her essence around the whoosh of falling leaves, so gently passing on the air, and the loud melodious peeping of new frogs.
Okay, now I’m sure I have been cast as interloper in a sumptuous seduction. After a protracted dance on ethereal winds tinged in animal scents, Djarmid the wise issues his final pronouncement:
“You will learn, as every Singer does. The magic, the music takes its price.”
So, a singer then? The boy just wanted a singer. Hmm, why didn’t he just say so. Geez, with all that magical potential I should think that clarity and simplicity of communication come in tandem. Nine tales of unrequited love, nine tales of mystical unions, nine tales of things that go ooh and ahh in the night. Okay, now I’m sure. This is definitely a bare chest bodice ripping adventure in disguise.
The remaining eight tales are variations on this same theme; Hero, heroine, cryptic missions of import, doom doom doom on the rise. Oh, and characters finding their “essence” and music, crystals, whispers, cruel winds, dark menace, water water water, and esssence, every friggin’ body seeing their essence. In tale two we find Aristan, another hero on a quest with a load upon his narrow shoulders amid persistent threat of, “There he saw his own essence, and the substance of wizardry.” The looming essence. Threaded together by magic, mystery, music, and blood, a few dashes of Merlin, Morgana, King Arthur, Camelot, Halloween, Samhain, a twirling, surging vortex, the token tale of vampires, a smattering of secondary undead, culminating with a free for all melee, bloodbath, and carnage and a fairly rounded day in the maelstrom is rendered. Essentially. Though, in all fairness, author comes clean and closes out her allusions to love and splendor with a bonafide love story, wanting only for bare chests and ripped bodices. A disparate bled of magicians, minstrels, Camelot, vampires, undead incidentals, ghosts and colliding destinies for a complete round of the wheel; hush little darling don’t you cry, mommy’s gonna sing you a lullaby…
Now if you think you have gathered from my ramblings that my enjoyment of this fine collection of tales was a bit low on the enthrallment index, perhaps my contradictions have played too great a role. To my point, it is clear that there are within these tales a smattering of misapplication where the rolling boil of emotion sought was not entirely achieved. Yet at the same time, it is only because of the intense passion and skill of A.F. Stewart that these carefully constructed vignettes hit their targets despite. With all the promise evidenced within these Inside Realms, the promised novel should deliver full force. Fantasy is alive and well, and with A.F. Stewart at the helm, its future is in capable hands.

Review by C.B. Smith, author of Still Life with Psychotic Squirrel and Diary of a Teenage Faërie Princess.