hiraeth and hwyl

by AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, Ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, mahons-ondine (mahons_ondine), mahons_ondine, minnabird, sisi_rambles

Summary:

You find yourself looking at a door.

It looks like an ordinary door, but you’re somehow certain that it isn’t.

In theory, you could open the door…but something warns you off.

You might not survive, if you pass through that door. You might no longer be you.

Notes:

Notes:
Play Time: Approx. 2-3 hours
Total Audio Time: 1 hour, 34 minutes

Chapter 1: Introduction

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, Ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, mahons-ondine (mahons_ondine), minnabird, sisi_rambles

[MP3 at Archive.org]

Welcome to hiraeth and hwyl. This is an interactive audio game set in the universe of Howl's Moving Castle by Diana Wynne Jones, with crossover elements from Piranesi by Susanna Clarke and the board game Betrayal at House on the Hill.

There are two ways to experience this project:

1. You can play the complete, gamified version on Itch.io. This version has interactive puzzles, extra flavor text, an inventory of items found on your journey, really cool fonts, and other fun things that add to the experience. If you choose this option, you’ll take a self-guided tour through the castle as you collect items and cast spells.
2. You can read the scenes and listen to the podfics on AO3. This version has all of the story without the puzzle aspect. If you choose this option, you’ll be able to select chapters from the drop-down menu, or read and listen to the entire work from start to finish.

Whichever option you choose, we’re glad you’re here. Welcome to the House.

Chapter 2: 1st Floor: Entryway

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, Ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, mahons-ondine (mahons_ondine), minnabird, sisi_rambles

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You find yourself looking at a door.

It looks like an ordinary door, but you’re somehow certain that it isn’t.

Above the door is a square wooden knob. Each side of the square has a dab of paint. The colors are orange, purple, yellow, and black.

The black spot is pointed downward, toward the door. For some reason, you feel this is important.

In theory, you could open the door…but something warns you off.

You might not survive, if you pass through that door. You might no longer be you.

An elderberry bough hangs beside the door. Clusters of dark purple berries blossom into delicate white flowers near the tip, as though the broken-off branch is returning to life.

It reminds you of a magic wand from a folk tale.

You could take it with you, if you like.

A cracked, yellowed sheet of parchment is pinned to the door with bent brass tacks. Handwriting flows across it in spidery lines of black ink.

A-wassail, a-wassail throughout all the town
Our cup it is white and our ale it is brown
Our wassail is made of the good ale and cake
Some nutmeg and ginger, the best we could bake

The words echo in your mind. Something about them is familiar.

They feel powerful. Magical. Words with meaning, shaped for a purpose.

You could take that, too.

It’s only when you look closer that you see the writing across the bottom of the page, printed neatly in a different hand.

We’re here to help.

You don’t know whether you can trust that message. You don’t know whether to trust anything at all.

The floor beneath your feet looks stretched out, pulled like taffy. Or perhaps pushed aside, to make more room in front of the door—more space for doormats, and umbrella stands, and coat racks.

That’s a reassuring thought. It makes sense.

If you can’t pass through the door, then there’s really only one way to go from here.

Chapter 3: 1st Floor: Kitchen

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, Ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, mahons-ondine (mahons_ondine), minnabird, sisi_rambles

[MP3 at Archive.org]

The first thing you do when you enter the room is look up. It’s difficult not to.

Above you, bundles of flowers and herbs hang in tidy rows from low wooden ceiling beams. Their fragrance fills the cozy space, which contains a crackling hearth and a sturdy workbench. The fire seems to leap and dance in the corner of your eye when you look at it. You hurriedly turn away.

A familiar sheet of parchment rests on top of a cushion on a chair in front of the fire. The words are different, but the handwriting is familiar.

There's a master and a mistress sitting down by the fire
While we poor wassail boys stand here in the mire
Come you pretty maid with your silver headed pin
Pray open the door and let us come in

An odd contraption like a coat rack stands in one corner, with various iron weights hanging from hooks. A set of scales nearby is tilted off-balance by a sack of grain on one side against a wicker basket of speckled eggs on the other. There are four doors along the walls, each painted a different color.

A wooden triangle is affixed to the wall above the workbench, from which kitchen knives and tools hang by their handles. Below it, bowls of spices are lined up on a narrow shelf, each labeled in the same careful hand. Balsamic Time, you read, next to another bowl that reads, Balsamic-Thyme.

The rich scent of cinnamon fills the air, blended with the warmth of nutmeg and ginger. You see a cake cooling on a stand which must be the source of the delicious smell, with plump currants and curls of candied orange peel visible on top.

There are cups and glasses hanging from hooks on the wall. No two are the same. One is beaten copper, another silver, another crystal. You peer closer at a bell-shaped glass, and see movement in the reflection…

 

”Thank you for the honey, Mrs. Fairfax,” says a young woman. Her hair is plaited into a long red braid down her back. “The fresh mint smells wonderful.”

“I should be thanking you, Sophie,” replies a person who must be Mrs. Fairfax. She has a round, cheerful face, with smile-lines etched into the corners of her eyes and mouth. “I’ve wanted to try this spell since Howl first mentioned it.”

She holds up a sheet of gray paper with blurred print, and Sophie gives a cry of dismay. “But that looks just like the curse! The one that fell through from Wales.”

Mrs. Fairfax waves the paper reassuringly. “Howl says all sorts of things fall through—this is only one of them. The power is in the purpose, and this is a spell for good cheer and celebration. Do you have that black tea? We’ll need to brew it up. Then measure in the honey, peach juice, and orange marmalade. Some of that mint and those lemon slices, and then the final ingredient.”

“Gin?” Sophie sounds doubtful.

Mrs. Fairfax cackles the way any witch might, and pats Sophie’s hand. “My dear, just wait until you’ve tried it.”

Chapter 4: 1st Floor: Backyard

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, Ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, mahons-ondine (mahons_ondine), minnabird, sisi_rambles

[MP3 at Archive.org]

The door opens up into an odd little garden.

It’s odd for a few reasons; the first being that it seems like it really ought to have high brick walls around the entire yard, but instead, it only has brick walls on half of it, and a low wooden fence around the other half. It’s low enough you can see into the neighbor’s yard, which has a line of washing swinging in the light breeze.

The second reason is because half of the yard is neat and prettily swept, with stepping stones and a few flowers in pots. The other half, however, is piled high with logs, iron, rusted wheels, sheets of metal, and bales and bales of wire poking sharply at the sky.

It’s a little jarring to see the butterflies happily fluttering around the flowers to the left, while enormous piles of teetering, dangerous-looking junk loom menacingly on the right.

The back step is covered by a small overhang, and continues the theme; a delicate wind chime is on a hook to the left, tinkling merrily, while the same wind whistles mournfully through the piles of metal filling the rest of the space. These things are at least protected somewhat from the rain due to the overhang. You see several wooden stakes, and a garden rake, a wicked looking metal pole, and several barrels labeled in chalk: “SALTPETER,” “SALTED PORK,” “ALE,” and “BONE MEAL.”

There’s additional writing chalked onto the barrel of bone meal, although the chalk is somewhat smudged in places.

You Are Awa...

You Ar… Th… Hou…

As you turn back to go through the door, puzzling over what that could possibly mean, you see another scrap of yellowed paper tacked to the outside of the door.

Our wassail is made of the elderberry bough
And so my good neighbors we'll drink unto thou
Besides all on earth, you have apples in store
Pray let us come in for it's cold by the door

Chapter 5: 1st Floor: Bathroom

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, Ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, minnabird, sisi_rambles

[MP3 at Archive.org]

The bathroom is a place of luxury; it nearly rivals the kitchen in size, and it’s covered in mirrors on every wall.

There’s a washbasin, a toilet, and both a shower stall and bath. The bath is a clawfoot tub with gleaming brass feet. The walls are tiled beautifully with every possible shade of green, and there’s a towel rack with three white towels hung neatly on it; one is monogrammed with an “S”, one with an “H,” and one with an “M”.

One of the taps is running, filling the bath with steaming water scented with strawberries and lilacs. The bathroom is pristine; the brass fixtures of the sink and bath gleaming, the tile sparkling, the mirrors shining.

You spot a yellowed piece of parchment floating in the sink.

It's we poor wassail boys so weary and cold
Please drop some small silver into our bowl
And if we survive for another new year
Perhaps we may call and see who does live here

The shelf above the bath has no end of jars, packets, and tubes cluttering it, and you can see some of the labels, although several are curling or warped; one bottle has “SKIN” scrawled on it, the tube next to it has “NAILS,” a glass vial is marked with “EYELASHES,” and there’s a box labeled “ANKLES”.

There’s a piece of paper tacked above the shelf, likewise warped by steam. It appears to be a contract promising not to disturb the contents of the shelf for any reason; it is signed neatly by one Sophie Hatter.

A second contract, in different handwriting, promises that the contents of the shelf will be contained to the shelf alone, signed with a messy blob that begins with an “H”.

A third contract states that the first two contracts will be held null and void in the event of earthquake, fire, or other unexpected calamity. It is signed by both parties.

As you pass by one of the mirrors, you see that the steam rising from the filling bath has revealed a message written on the glass with a finger.

You Are Cursed

You stare at the message for a while.

You are not sure you particularly care for the sentiment.

Did whomever wrote it curse you?

If so, why?

Chapter 6: 1st Floor: Broom Closet

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, Ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, mahons_ondine, minnabird, sisi_rambles

[MP3 at Archive.org]

When you first open the door, you’re a little disappointed. You were expecting something a little grander, but you suppose even the grandest of houses has to have a broom closet.

This one is quite ordinary. There are two slightly dingy cloaks hanging on hooks, a shiny metal bucket in the corner, housing a mop and broom, and a large wooden bowl with a crack running up it. There’s various containers of cleanser, a well-used scrub brush hanging up on a nail, and a fly-swatter neatly hanging next to it.

There’s a familiar bit of yellowed parchment woven in the bristles of the broom.

Fol dedol dol dedol Dol dedol dol de dol
Fol de de ro Fol de da ri - Sing too ra li o

To your surprise, the broom rocks a little of its own accord, knocking over the bucket with a loud clanging noise and a metallic flash in the dim light…

 

”See! Look here!” A young woman with a red braid has opened the broom closet, and is coughing at the dust cloud.

She reaches for a broom that’s faintly knocking against the sides of the broom closet, grabbing it by the handle.

“This is what I was talking about, Lettie. I must’ve been muttering to myself while I cleaned one too many times, saying things like ‘now let’s tackle this set of cobwebs next, shall we?’ and ‘doesn’t that look better?’ and now it won’t stop cleaning up. It nearly swept Calcifer away before I realized what it was getting up to!”

She displays the broom to a younger girl with darker hair.

“Have you tried telling it to stop?” the other girl suggests pertly. You assume she must be Lettie.

The girl with the red hair pets the broom handle a little, with a fond look. “Oh, I don’t… I don’t think I should. I woke it up, I suppose, if you want to call it that, which makes me responsible for making sure it doesn’t do anything truly wild, but it’s awake now.”

Lettie tilts her head thoughtfully. “And you just sort of did that? Simply by talking? How fascinating! I suppose that fits. Most of the spells I’ve been learning have puzzles and tricks to them that need to be sorted, but that’s because you have to really gain a sense of purpose to pull it off properly. Because magic is all about belief. After all, you’re willing something into being. At least that’s what Wizard Suliman says. And you are quite stubborn, you know.”

The girl laughs. “Says the most stubborn person I know!”

She puts down the broom, which dutifully begins sweeping up the disturbed dust from the floor of the broom closet into a neat little pile. “And besides, I don’t really think it minds doing the cleaning up. Do you, little broom?”

“Of course it would like cleaning, Sophie,” Lettie replies, with a small toss of her hair. “You like a tidy house. It stands to reason it would too.”

Chapter 7: 1st Floor: Stair Landing

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, Ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, mahons_ondine, minnabird, sisi_rambles

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You discover a rickety wooden staircase, which has been shut behind a black door as though it belongs in a closet. When you tentatively venture upward, all of the stairs creak alarmingly at different pitches and volumes. You hastily retreat to the landing.

The banister is made of smooth, knobbly wood, like the branch of a tree. The railing beneath it is a messy thicket of twigs. They’re interwoven with iron, shaped into whimsical curlicues. A single high skylight illuminates the staircase,. You can see a thin slice of bright blue sky above.

As you take a tentative step onto a crooked, groaning stair, a cloud passes across the skylight. It seems impossible for a room to plunge so suddenly into gloom and shadow, but this one does.

Around you, the staircase seems to awaken. Tiny fairy lights wink to life in every fanciful curl of the iron railing, and more appear above your head, hanging from the ceiling like spiders on silk threads.

What you first take for a trick of the light is really handwriting, looping in the same shapes as the railing.

We know by the moon that we are not too soon
And we know by the sky that we are not too high
And we know by the star that we are not too far
And we know by the ground that we are within sound

You bend close to the railing, and see crystal beads worked into the filigree, reflecting the light to guide your steps. You think you can see…

 

”There’s simply no room,” says a young man in a flamboyant suit. He gazes up at the staircase pensively with gem-green eyes, and through a pale fall of hair, which looks as though it’s spent quite some time being coaxed into sweeping oh-so-softly across his face. “We could knock down another wall, I suppose.”

The boy at his side frowns. “Or build one. But Howl, there’s hardly any space for a bed if we divide my room.”

“That will never do. She might as well continue sleeping in a cubby hole if that’s the best we can offer. But I think we can convince the castle to make more room. What sort of bedroom would Sophie prefer, Michael? Do you think she’d like to live in a treehouse?”

“I think she’d want a normal room, with four walls, a door, and a window—and no spiders.” Michael puts his hand on the banister, which is a different shape than you remember it being, straight and notched with wear. “But I’d like a treehouse.”

“It would help if we had a tree,” Howl muses. He sets his foot on the lowest stair and leans forward in a very striking pose. He rests his hand on the banister as well, farther up than Michael’s. When he speaks again, he doesn’t seem to be addressing Michael. “You wouldn’t want to grow a convenient tree up against one of the walls, would you? Ah, but which one, that’s the question. We should make sure the window faces the flower meadow. Sophie will like that.”

“We could try growing a tree,” Michael says dubiously. He squints up at the stairs, which seem especially gloomy and treacherous at the moment. “We should hang a lamp or something here, too. Sophie isn’t used to going up and down in the dark. She might fall on the stairs.”

Howl chuckles, and runs his fingers along the banister fondly. “Oh, I think we can do much better than that.”

Chapter 8: 1st Floor: Cubby

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, Ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, minnabird, sisi_rambles

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You miss it the first time you walk past, as the overhang of the stairs keeps it hidden from view, but upon closer inspection, there is a small, comfortable nest of soft bedding under the stairs. You spy a mattress rolled up and tied with ribbon, a few down pillows stacked up against it, and a quilt folded neatly on top.

The quilt is a delight – a whorl of colors lovingly stitched together in spiraling fractals and branches with blue and silver triangles of different sizes. The quilt looks quite soft and nearly velvety to the touch.

Placed on top of the quilt is a piece of yellowed parchment.

We hope that your apple trees prosper and bear
So that we may have cider when we call next year
And where you have one barrel we hope you'll have ten
So that we may have cider when we call again

It feels quite homey, tucked up under the staircase. It’s like you’re in a cave, the press of the walls around you a comfort, and you can feel the warmth of the hearth leaching through the stone at one end of the cubby hole, ready to warm cold feet.

There’s a small shelf tucked away into the darkest corner, and you can barely see a small silver pin, a fake rose made of silk, and the stub of a candle in a small cut glass holder. The cut glass shimmers in the low light as you look closer…

 

There’s a large fluffy dog curled up in the space under the stairs, seemingly asleep. He kicks his legs a few times, fitfully, as if he’s chasing a rabbit, and then he lets out an enormous gust of wind, and transforms into a red-haired man.

The transformation doesn’t wake him entirely, though, as he tries to scratch his ear with his foot.

“Silly curse,” he mutters sleepily. “Silly me, for not being able to tell anyone about it.”

He lets out another sigh that sounds a little like a mournful whine, and nuzzles into the crook of his arm. “I miss Lettie,” he says. “Oh, bother,” he adds, as he slides back into the form of a dog, this time, a black labrador.

Chapter 9: The First Spell

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

A-wassail, a-wassail throughout all the town
Our cup it is white and our ale it is brown
Our wassail is made of the good ale and cake
Some nutmeg and ginger, the best we could bake

Fol dedol dol dedol Dol dedol dol de dol
Fol de de ro Fol de da ri - Sing too ra li o

Our wassail is made of the elderberry bough
And so my good neighbors we'll drink unto thou
Besides all on earth, you have apples in store
Pray let us come in for it's cold by the door

There's a master and a mistress sitting down by the fire
While we poor wassail boys stand here in the mire
Come you pretty maid with your silver headed pin
Pray open the door and let us come in

It's we poor wassail boys so weary and cold
Please drop some small silver into our bowl
And if we survive for another new year
Perhaps we may call and see who does live here

We know by the moon that we are not too soon
And we know by the sky that we are not too high
And we know by the star that we are not too far
And we know by the ground that we are within sound

We hope that your apple trees prosper and bear
So that we may have cider when we call next year
And where you have one barrel we hope you'll have ten
So that we may have cider when we call again

Chapter 10: 1st-2nd Floor: Chimney

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, Ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, minnabird, sisi_rambles

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You feel the spell take hold as the final ingredient is added. It’s like emerging from a fog. There are still things you don’t understand, memories you can’t quite grasp, but you’re aware of yourself now.

You’re not a person, trapped inside a house.

You are the house.

You understand the spell’s purpose now. It’s intended to scare away evil spirits, and to ensure security and prosperity in a home. Was there an evil spirit here? Is that the reason for your disorientation? Is someone in this house responsible for your being cursed?

You haven’t yet explored upstairs. You briefly consider the stairs, but dismiss them. After all, you can travel in other ways, now that you’ve remembered yourself.

The hearth still unsettles you. It feels as though someone is there, watching. You slip silently past the fire and rise through the chimney toward the second floor.

Inside the chimney, there are words chalked onto the brick. You follow them up, reading the riddle they pose.

 

Guess who it is.
Created before the Flood.
A creature strong,
without flesh, without bone,
without veins, without blood,
without head and without feet.
It will not be older, it will not be younger,
than it was in the beginning.
There will not come from his design
fear or death.
He has no wants
from creatures.
Great God! the sea whitens
when it comes from the beginning.
Great his beauties,
the one that made him.
He in the field, he in the wood,
without hand and without foot.
Without old age, without age.
Without the most jealous destiny
and he is coeval
with the five periods of the five ages.
And also is older,
though there be five hundred thousand years.
And he is as wide
as the face of the earth,
and he was not born,
and he has not been seen.
He on sea, he on land,
he sees not, he is not seen.
He is…

 

The riddle trails off, incomplete. You search for more words, at the same time you wonder whether it’s dangerous to read them. There are no more lines to be found. Perhaps the scribe ran out of bricks. Or perhaps there’s someone else trying to prevent you from discovering the answer.

Chapter 11: 2nd Floor: Hallway

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

There is a long, narrow hallway at the top of the stair.

It looks significantly longer than the length of the first floor, somehow.

There’s a cheery kind of wallpaper covering the walls of the hallway in a bright print; a pretty blue lattice interspersed with bouquets of pink roses. You notice as the hallway continues, stretching out impossibly, the lattice begins to distort. The bouquets likewise start to look twisted and weedier the further away from the stairs you get, bursting with thorns and sprigs of grass.

You imagine that, were you to touch the wallpaper in those places, you’d prick your finger.

There are several doors lining the hallway, the first few with shiny brass knobs.

You see a flicker of movement in one of the knobs…

 

A handsome young lady with dark black hair and olive skin pokes her head around the corner, and, seeing the coast is clear, lets out a sigh of relief before sneaking quietly around it.

Her steps are light and timid, and her eyes are wide as she looks around the hallway.

“I wonder if this is his room?” she mutters, reaching for a door knob. The knob turns red hot as she reaches for it, and she hisses, jerking back her hand.

“Protections against demons in place, I see?”

She looks impressed, and then laughs a little, tossing her fine head of shiny hair.

“I wonder how Calcifer feels about getting shut out of your rooms, Howl? I bet I can make quick work of this.”

“Oh, where did that dratted Miss Angorian get to?”

The voice of an old woman can be heard just around the corner, the sound of her cane tap-tapping on the stairs.

The dark-haired woman hisses again in frustration.

“Interfering old biddy. Looks like I’ll have to find another way.”

Chapter 12: 2nd Floor: Linen Closet

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

The room you enter is dim and warm. Every wall is covered in shelves holding stack after stack of freshly-laundered linens, far too many for the size of the house you’ve seen so far. They look soft, and the clean scent that fills the room only underlines the coziness. On a shelf near the top, a cat lies curled into a ball in a nest of fabric, paws pointed contentedly towards the ceiling. This is the cat’s favorite spot, you think—you recall someone complaining about hair on the fresh sheets.

A single window lets a perfect shaft of sunlight into the room, dust motes dancing in it like stars. As you watch, the cat wakes and spills from the shelf in a streak of ginger fur. It stretches luxuriously, then trots forward to crouch in the square of sunlight.

The cat stares and stares into the spinning world of dust. It is not drowsing in the warmth of the sun. Its head jerks as if following movement. Tension spreads through its shoulders and forelegs, with all the curled intent of a predator. You spy a flash of white teeth.

Wondering what it sees, you pick your way through the room and settle beside the cat. It ignores you, ears pricked forward. All you see for a moment is dust catching the light. As you watch, the random swirling motion shifts direction, though you have felt no change in the air of the room. Dust flecks cohere. Twirl together. A long, serpentine shape forms and breaks, re-forms. A shiver skitters down your spine as another shape follows, and then another—impossible shapes.

…not seen.
He is not sincere,
he will not come when it is wished.
He on land, he on sea,
he is indispensable,
he is unconfined,
he is unequal.
He from four regions,
he will not be according to counsel.
He commences his journey
from above the stone of marble.
He is loud-voiced, he is mute.
He is uncourteous.
He is vehement, he is bold,
when he glances over the land.
He is mute, he is loud-voiced.
He is blustering.
Greatest his banner
on the face of the earth.
He is good, he is bad,
he is not bright,
he is not manifest,
for the sight does not see him.
He is bad, he is good.
He is yonder, he is here,
he will disorder.
He will not repair what he does
and be sinless.
He is wet, he is dry,
he comes frequently
from the heat of the sun and the coldness of the moon.

 

The cat’s tail thumps against the floor, and with no more warning than that, it leaps like a tongue of flame. Dust explodes around it in a riotous corona. The letters are gone.

Chapter 13: 2nd Floor: Sophie's Room

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

The smell of fresh laundry envelops you the moment you enter the room. Even from the doorway, you can see a brilliant blue sky through the window; as you look closer, intrigued, you catch sight of a vista of flowers in every color under the sun.

The person who lives here is obviously a very tidy person. The surface of the desk is clear, as are the two bedside tables, other than a lamp. A large bed dominates one side of the room, its crisp sheets made with the corners tucked in just so. But there are touches of whimsy here, as well. A string of seashells is draped over the mirror. The squashy armchair set beside the window is decorated with a pillow in a patchwork of blue and silver.

You take a moment to poke through the drawers, since nothing is out. The desk is full of neatly-sorted pigeonholes, but nothing jumps out at you. The table on one side of the bed holds a small sewing kit and a few pressed flowers. On the other side of the bed, the drawer is so full that it likely has to be forced open. A squat jar is wedged right up against the top. In the cool, oak-scented darkness, you can just read its label: Banish Age. You’re not sure you like the sound of that; it sounds like big magic.

You can almost see the woman who inhabits this room; and you’re sure it is a woman. You remember, suddenly, a conversation about a room overlooking a flower meadow.

From your new vantage point beside the bed, you can see a curious object on the windowsill beside the armchair. It’s a rectangle about as long as a book but narrower, with a thin metal stalk sticking off the top at a jaunty angle. Close up, you find a window in the front panel marked with a series of numbers, under which are a couple of ridged knobs. One of the knobs turns, and a flare of harsh noise shatters the peace of the room.

[buzz of static, followed by canned laughter, possibly some bit of obvious radio banter]

SOPHIE: We interrupt our program for the following announcement: You—us. House, are you listening? You can trust— [rising static cuts her off]

You wait, but no more sound emerges. The room is silent, and suddenly, you feel that it is not meant to be so empty. Some animating spirit has left it with the woman’s voice.

Chapter 14: 2nd Floor: Michael's Room

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You enter a small, unassuming room.

There’s a narrow bed shoved against the wall, and a few bits of rubbish scattered around on the floor. Under the bed, you spy a small box pushed into a dark corner, a desiccated apple core, and a marble rolled behind one of the bed legs.

There’s a small shelf with a stool pulled up to it that apparently is being put to use as a workstation. On it, there’s a haphazard stack of papers covered in scribbled notes and doodles, a few reference books, and a liberally pockmarked pencil nub. A small candle has melted down around a brass holder, and fused to the shelf. There are a few bottles and jars precariously balanced on the shelf as well; one of them is filled with a dark oily substance and labeled, cryptically, ‘DO NOT DRINK.’ Another one has a softly glowing light within it, pulsing gently. A third is full of what appears to be foam.

There are some pencil drawings tacked to the walls. A few are studies of flowers and plants, several portray a young woman with striking eyes, and some look to be floor plans. They are a little rough and unpolished, but pleasing—and displayed to suggest the artist was proud of his work, and took care with it, which was its own charm.

The window shows a fierce storm outside, the rain lashing against the panes punctuated by an occasional flash of lightning, and a particularly vicious burst of lightning causes the window to briefly glare in the light…

 

You see a young man sitting on the bed, poring intently over a piece of paper, brow furrowed. You recognize him–Michael, was it?

He finally tosses the paper to the side in a pique, huffing a little.

“Figures. The best spells always hide puzzles or mysteries, he says. Just a matter of spotting them. Like it’s easy. I’ve read this a dozen times, and I can’t sort it out for the life of me.”

He rolls his eyes, picking up the paper again, muttering under his breath.

“It’d be like Howl to give me one that didn’t have a puzzle in it at all, just to make me work at nothing to see how long I’d keep up… hm.”

He turns the page sideways, peering closer at the written text.

“Hm.”

Chapter 15: 2nd Floor: Howl's Room

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You recognize the room the moment you step into it. This room is full of the wild, blooming magic that tingles through you, that feeds and sustains you.

This is the home of a kindred spirit, your soul’s twin. One of you inspired the other, or perhaps you grew together into similar creatures. This is the nest of a magpie, filled with gems and jewels and crystals. It’s a cache of trinkets and tokens, the detritus of multiple worlds collected into a dragon’s treasure hoard.

You see painted paper fans and palm fronds, model ships and bone-handled knives, strings of seashells and mismatched tea cups. There are carved wooden beads, hanging oil lamps with delicate chains, stained glass panes in metal frames twisting in the air on copper wires. You hear the faint tinkle of windchimes and the burble of a fountain, although you can’t see either of them in the whimsical collection.

Two red dragons with forked tongues guard the silhouette of a castle on a pennant over the bed. The scrolls surrounding them read Pontypool Rugby Football Club. There are sprigs of wildflowers in bottles, jars, vases, tin cups, and fish bowls. Plants cascade from the ceiling in baskets and pots, hung on sturdy hooks.

Loose papers are scattered across the floor in drifts, fetched up against spindly chair legs and clawed stone feet. One of them catches your eye, the same pale gray color you’ve seen in a memory. The blurred black text reads GO AND CATCH A FALLING STAR.

A charm bracelet of dangling gold stars hangs from the end table above it, tucked beneath a book. The title on the spine reads The Nature of Elemental Demons. On top of it is a pinwheel on a stick, the kind a child might have for a toy.

There’s a white feather quill on the table, sprouting from a blue glass ink pot. You realize the feather itself has blue ink on it, a long line up the shaft and a chevron painted against the vanes. It’s an arrow, pointing across the room to the window.

Outside the window, the sky is pierced with stars. There’s one shining star that doesn’t look quite right, a distant gash of light across a constellation. A three-tiered incense burner sits on the windowsill, smoke curling up from the top to dissipate into the air.

You notice that where the smoke trails off, there is a brown leather strap studded with sleigh bells. It hangs from one of the plant hooks, which is surrounded by glow-in-the-dark star stickers. They march across the ceiling to the far corner of the room, where the spiders spin their webs. The spidersilk catches the light of a flickering candle below it, illuminating dozens of tiny sequins caught in the webs. Before you can look away and avoid reading it, you see the question spelled out in glittering points of light.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

Chapter 16: 2nd Floor: Library

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

The room is filled with books.

Shelves stretch from the floor to the ceiling, weighed down with texts of all sizes. They range up and down in height like a sheet music melody: folio, quarto, octavo, and back again. The bindings are cloth and leather, with some texts that are simply sheafs of paper tied together with string. They are green, brown, blue, and black, with the occasional streak of dark red. None of the shelves are particularly orderly. You don’t see a single matched-volume set.

You’re distracted by a flash of light from the windows. They stretch nearly as tall as the shelves, and through the glass you can see gray clouds over the horizon. You have time to take in the swaying tree branches and whistle of wind before you hear the dull roll of thunder.

You shiver as cool air blows over you. There must be a draft. You can see a plain wooden door framed by bookshelves on one of the walls. It must be coming from there.

You turn your attention back to the bookshelves. At first, all you noticed was the books, but now you see objects interspersed on the shelves. They fill the open spaces, overlooking the room from the highest shelves and wedged at the end of rows.

The room is also filled with birds.

There are paintings propped up in free-standing frames. Statues carved from wood and stone. Feather bookmarks with jeweled tassels. Taxidermied displays in kinetic poses, so life-like you almost expect them to take flight. Their eyes track you from every corner, watching from every hidden place.

You hear a fresh spatter of rain against the window panes. You feel a damp chill in the air that can’t be good for the books. Lightning cracks again, and reflected in the glass you see…

 

”Howl!” Michael shouts, staring into the library in amazement. “There’s another one!” A pause and a distant voice, and Michael shouts again, “No, another room! Like the mudroom at the front door!”

“Why on earth would we need another mudroom on the second floor?” Howl appears in the open doorway next to Michael. “Oh, I see. A bit on the nose, isn’t it?”

“I suppose we did need one,” Michael says guiltily. He scuffs his toe against the hardwood floor. “Sophie’s always after me for leaving books all over the floor. Is that what you mean?”

“Sophie’s after everyone, there’s no remedy for that. But no, I mean all of this.” Howl gestures at the objects and framed drawings scattered among the shelves. “The maps, charts, globes…it’s a cartographer’s dream in here. I suppose we have our answer about that mudroom now.”

“You think it’s really the castle?”

“I do. I think it wanted to be kept clean - Sophie’s influence, no doubt - and now it wants to explore. A whole room full of discovery. That’s what books are, isn’t it? It’s very heavy on metaphor, this castle.”

“Maybe it wants help. I could make a map of the castle and draw the new rooms.”

“I don’t think we’re in any danger of losing track of it. This isn’t a big house,” Howl says drily. He pauses then, looking out the windows at the meadow of flowers. “Might as well, though. You never know what might be useful one day.”

Chapter 17: 2nd Floor: Hidden Room

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You feel a deep, profound satisfaction when you push on just the right spot on the carved filigree of one of the book cases, and a small hidden door in the back of the shelf silently swings open.

You enter through the small opening with ease.

It’s a secret space. You think no-one else has been there yet; actually, you’re quite certain of it upon seeing the dust on the floor completely undisturbed by any human foot, and the thought gives you a nearly vicious sense of pleasure.

It is a tall, thin room, all raw and unfinished wood lath and plaster, the roughness of the wood likely to cause splinters. Dust motes hang and dance playfully in the air, and while there is no clear source of light, the objects nestled within are dimly visible.

The room is full of treasures: a pile of black feathers that iridesce in the dim light, a neat stack of orphaned socks, a small gold ring, a broken silver chain, a bronze door knocker shaped like a face, a fragment of a broken pot with the face of a demigod on it, an iron poker, a carefully balanced pyramid of crumpled papers covered in scrawling script and scribbles, a delicate mouse skull, a few desiccated carrots, a lovely smooth stone, several needles and pins, and a green velvet ribbon nestled gently into a curl on the dusty floor.

They are beautiful things, arranged in a carefully curated manner to be most pleasing, and you can’t help but be satisfied at the way the pins point to the mouse skull, and the angle of the shard of pottery lined up just so with the curve of the ribbon.

The pile of crumpled papers is precarious; the topmost piece suddenly tumbles and bounces to the floor, marring the previously undisturbed dust in a swooping streak. You can only read a few of the words.

THE SECOND SP– REQ– INTERPRET–
–S NOT LITER–
IT – SYMB–

You wish the paper hadn’t fallen, even if it seems to be trying to tell you something.

Chapter 18: 2nd Floor: Observatory

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

The room is shaped like a dome, and made up of triangular panels. It gives the impression of being covered by a patchwork quilt, stitched together from wood, glass, and metal.

You’re not sure what this room is, and you think you should know. This is you, after all. Isn’t it? This is a part of you, only you can’t remember why it’s here.

You examine the contents of the room. Many of them are scientific tools for navigation and exploration. You see a brass pocket sundial with its lid raised, hiding a compass beneath. An armillary sphere sits next to it on a pedestal, with polished models of the planets painted in yellows, red, blues, and browns.

Many of the tools look old. You investigate a model of the universe, a paper note tied onto it with string. Astrolabe. For measuring stars(?) and telling time(??) without a clock. Howl says 16th century, Wales. Found on Tuesday afternoon.

A series of marked discs attached to a stand like metal fans is labeled in different handwriting. Museum says Equinoctial Torquetum, sounds like nonsense, can’t remember what it does, something to do with stars. Far too interested in acquiring it, told them it was a fake. 17th century, Wales. Friday morning.

To one side of the room, a large metal wheel is perched between two sturdy pillars. The handwriting is small and tidy. Meridian Circle. For timing the passage of stars. 20th c., Wales. Discovered Monday, between lunchtime and tea.

You read the notes attached to every cataloged item. A star chart mounted to a wall (Planisphere, ca. 1900s, Wales), a pair of triangles with one curved side (Sextant & Octant, 1850s, Wales), a set of two plates with photographs, and a strange mounted viewing lens (Blink Comparator, modern, no idea but probably blasted Wales).

Along one curved wall stands a telescope, aimed at one of the glass panels. You look through the glass, but only see the distant points of stars.

You look through the telescope.

There is a tear in the sky. A wound, an open gash with jagged edges, brighter than the stars around it but with darkness at its heart. Looking at it, you feel a chill creep through you, like a gust of cold air in winter.

When you go to leave the room, you notice a wooden knob above the door, with symbols etched on every side. When you rotate the knob, a chorus of voices echo through the air around you.

...rift…

…time…

…fixed…

…open…

…world…

…falling…

…through…

Chapter 19: The Second Spell

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

Guess who it is.
Created before the Flood.
A creature strong,
without flesh, without bone,
without veins, without blood,
without head and without feet.
It will not be older, it will not be younger,
than it was in the beginning.
There will not come from his design
fear or death.
He has no wants
from creatures.
Great God! the sea whitens
when it comes from the beginning.
Great his beauties,
the one that made him.
He in the field, he in the wood,
without hand and without foot.
Without old age, without age.
Without the most jealous destiny
and he is coeval
with the five periods of the five ages.
And also is older,
though there be five hundred thousand years.
And he is as wide
as the face of the earth,
and he was not born,
and he has not been seen.
He on sea, he on land,
he sees not, he is not seen.
He is not sincere,
he will not come when it is wished.
He on land, he on sea,
he is indispensable,
he is unconfined,
he is unequal.
He from four regions,
he will not be according to counsel.
He commences his journey
from above the stone of marble.
He is loud-voiced, he is mute.
He is uncourteous.
He is vehement, he is bold,
when he glances over the land.
He is mute, he is loud-voiced.
He is blustering.
Greatest his banner
on the face of the earth.
He is good, he is bad,
he is not bright,
he is not manifest,
for the sight does not see him.
He is bad, he is good.
He is yonder, he is here,
he will disorder.
He will not repair what he does
and be sinless.
He is wet, he is dry,
he comes frequently
from the heat of the sun and the coldness of the moon.

Chapter 20: 2nd-3rd Floor: Courtyard

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

The second spell washes over you. You know the answer to the riddle now. An air demon is lurking here somewhere, working against you. The people you’ve seen in memories—Howl, Sophie, Michael—are trying to help you break the curse.

You dive into the plumbing and follow the pipes upward, emerging from a burbling fountain in the center of a courtyard. A labyrinth is laid out in smooth white and black stones around the fountain, leading outward to the edge of the room. There are sapling trees in the corners. The sky is open above you, and you can hear the distant chirp of birds.

You move through the labyrinth. As you do, you hear the whisper of a spell from the stones.

 

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

Chapter 21: 3rd Floor: Impluvium

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

The moon rises over the slanted roof of the impluvium. White marble statues stand silent watch on either side of the pool. Their expressions are serene, their features familiar. You recognize The Baker’s Apprentice, The Dog-Man, The Scarecrow, The King.

Staircases ascend from three sides of the room. You don’t know where they lead. The sky is wide open above you, and there is nowhere else to go.

From the fourth side, you hear the rhythmic rush of the ocean. There is no wall on that side, only a sheer drop. You imagine there must be rocks below, based on the slap of the waves against them, the crash and roar as the currents twist in their confines. You imagine the rocks are slippery, and treacherous, and sharp.

Drops of water gather on the roof and slide into the pool with a plink, plink that echoes off the columns. This is a place of forgetfulness and madness. Already you can’t remember why you’ve come.

A heavy beating of wings like the rustle and clap of silk cloth in the wind. An albatross lands on the austere marble head of The Wizard and looses its bowels on The Wizard’s noble visage. The albatross regards you with one black, beady eye. You regard it, in turn.

You look down into the full white moon, reflected in the pool. The statues gaze down on it with you in deep contemplation. You watch the water drops land, one and then another, spreading ripples across the surface of the reservoir.

You wonder where the water is falling from, when there are no clouds and no rain. Then you realize the statues are weeping. Their tears collect on the marble, condensing on the smooth stone.

A wave claps like thunder, dashing itself against jagged rocks. The churn of the ocean below rises to a roar. The statues continue to cry, their tears the only interruption to their silence, plink, plink.

A thought occurs to you, whole and entire, as though it were whispered directly into your mind.

These are the water’s speeches.

This is how you learn things in this place. This is how you remember. The World speaks to you, to share its hidden secrets. The House speaks…

But you are the House.

Chapter 22: 3rd Floor: Spire

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

At the top of the spire, wind rushes in your ears, so loudly that it seems like the entire world.

You know that it is the spire because you can feel your precarious balance on the pointed tip of the roof, the way it falls away under you. You are a creaking weathervane, spun by every breeze. This wind wants to rip you from it and fling you down into the patchwork quilt of the countryside.

The roof is your skin, as much as any other part of the castle. You let it simply part around you, tiles clamping down over you and hanging heavy and reassuring, like armor. You stretch into the eaves. The wind is only a song; it cannot pull you from your own body.

The song of the wind becomes a roar, a primeval howl. There is nothing now but gale and cloud and rain. It is a hurricane, and even the stones of the spire are swayed by it. A spire is not safe in this; a person inside a spire is not, either, but at least you cannot feel the jostling wind. You shrink down, a huddled, insignificant shape inside an attic.

The things stored in this attic, at the highest point of the castle, are not the things typically stored in such a place, no boxes of old clothes or forgotten end tables. Instead, they are discarded fancies, insubstantial as air. Here, gossamer-fine, the plan where you were a boat instead of a castle. There, flitting past like a butterfly’s wing, Michael becoming Howl’s errand boy and winning himself a place to stay through the winter—his boldest dream in his early days in the house.

None of these are real. Frantic, you hope to find a reflection in one of the fancies—something to show you something that really happened. You can already feel your grip on the truth slipping. Are those really memories? Or were they true somewhere?

A mannequin hand catches your eye. Around one slim finger, you see the gleam of a ring. Wrapped around it is Howl’s dream about a girl whose name you never knew; so many of the abandoned dreams in this attic are almost-loves. You grab at the mannequin hand, and laugh in triumph as the diamond on the ring catches a flash of lightning.

Sophie’s fingers move nimbly, drawing a needle through the space between a blue triangle and a silver one. As she works, the gap begins to close, worlds of silver and blue merging, the seam standing with one foot in each.

It seems you can almost hear a voice in the wind. And then, as the bulk of the wind falls away for a moment, in that eerie silence you do hear a voice. “Close the rift. Mend the break.”

One stitch, then another, even and tight, until the last loop of thread pulls through and the final space disappears.

The wind rises again, but you hear the voice again: “Bring the worlds back to—!”

Chapter 23: 3rd Floor: Aviary

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You are surrounded by birdcages. Simple and ornate, crafted of gold and iron and brass, bent wood and bamboo.

Each one holds something different. A bouquet of flowers. A dizzy swarm of fireflies. A set of Matryoshka nesting dolls, arranged in a spiral. A fishbowl with two goldfish, swimming around and around in circles. A live raven, which cracks its beak and caws hoarsely, perched on a nest of dry, broken sticks. A burning blue flame.

They remind you of a story you heard once, about a golden bird in a wooden cage. You can’t remember now who told it.

You can’t remember a lot of things.

You’re no longer wary of the glint and glimmer of reflective surfaces. You seek them out, hungry for knowledge. Knowing it may be a trick doesn’t stop you from craving the memories they reveal.

A bird’s wings batter against the window. Not the window here, in this room, which looks out on a meadow of flowers. Another window, in another world. You can still feel it, the scratch of talons and the stab of a sharp beak. You are under attack. You don’t know how long your walls will hold.

The golden cage gleams in the bright sunlight. As you focus on it, you become aware of coolness and shadow falling over you, the sun’s rays retreating behind a bank of clouds. It’s your enemy, now, who has learned to be wary of reflections.

Without the sunlight, the gold dulls to ordinary metal, with no promising gleam of remembrance. You will the clouds to part and the sun to break through, but the sky is growing thicker now, preparing for another storm.

You push your awareness in desperation through the room as the raven hacks and barks in triumph. Then, in the bottom of a reed cage beneath a music box ballerina, you see the glimmer of a mirror.

Your enemy may have hidden it, but it doesn’t matter. One glimpse is enough.

 

”You’re very dedicated to metaphor, aren’t you?” Howl asks, studying the bird cages that hang at varying heights around the room. “I imagine that’s my fault, for nurturing you with so many riddle-spells. Is this how you see me? Or is this meant to be you?”

Howl moves through the room, peering in at the contents of the bird cages. “I can’t tell whether you’ve been cut off from us, or whether you’ve forgotten we’re here. I’m not even sure what this room is meant to be, but Michael says you’ve rebuilt these damned bird cages three times over now.”

He stops in front of one of the cages and twitches back his sleeves. “Still. If you’re trying to send us a message, the least we can do is send one back.”

Howl takes a round mirror from the sleeve of his wizardly robe, and sets it in the bottom of the woven reed cage. “That should do. While I’m here, though, I think perhaps…a diversion.” His gaze fixes on a sturdy wooden cage near the window. He makes a sound of satisfaction and strides over to it.

“Do you know the story of The Golden Bird? I haven’t thought of it in ages. There’s some business with a king and a magic fox, but the moral of the story is…” Howl lets his arm fall away from the shining bars and wires. “Never trust a golden cage.”

Chapter 24: 3rd Floor: Living Room

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You walk up the stairs.

At least, that’s what you intend, but something doesn’t seem right.

You walk toward a desert and hear the busy sounds of a festival. You turn right at a landing, still ascending the stairs, and see a bustling market ahead. When you get close, you hear the buzz of insects and smell the citrus fragrance of a fruit orchard. You turn right at the next landing to approach a sky-port busy with dirigible traffic and congested with the smoke from steam engines, and hear the wind in a field of rushes, tall grass rustling across a vast plain. You turn right on the landing, and see a grand white palace with a red carpet rolled down endless marble steps. As you get closer, you hear the clop of hooves on cobblestones, and smell the stench of a sewer. Fog clings to you, clammy and chill. You turn right at the landing, toward a sand dune desert, an oasis just visible in the distance at the top of the stairs.

You turn again at the landing.

You walk up the stairs.

You turn…

Eventually, you look down.

There are four sets of stairs, and four landings. Somehow they all connect into an infinite loop.

You’re not certain how you got here.

You don’t know how to leave.

Something glitters overhead, catching the light. You’re not sure what light. Spinning slowly, its mirrored surface splashes bright reflections across every wall, streaks and spots of illumination that shift even as you remain still.

You see, in a memory…

 

”I think there’s something really wrong, Wizard Suliman. This is the map I drew last week, but there used to be an attic that led into a treehouse, and now it’s gone. There’s just this strange room.”

Michael shoves his hand-drawn map beneath the nose of a craggy-faced man cradling a stringed instrument. It looks as though it might once have been a guitar, but it’s been patched together from wood that’s practically splinters. When Wizard Suliman strums his hand across the strings, it sounds much the same way it looks.

“It seems perfectly normal to me,” says Wizard Suliman, looking around the cozy room. He and Michael sit on a short row of carpeted steps, which form a square. The space within is layered with thick shag rugs in burnt orange, mustard yellow, and olive green. “Can’t say I care for the color scheme, but besides that…”

“These steps don’t go anywhere,” Michael exclaims. He gestures down into the pit. “There’s just part of the floor missing.”

“Hmm. What does Howl say?”

“He says it’s a sunken living room.” Michael’s voice is baffled and aggrieved. “What does that even mean? What if it sinks through to the second floor? My room is under here! And what about the giant hole in the ceiling?!”

“You mean the skylight?”

“That’s what Howl said! But what’s that mirror globe hanging over our heads?”

Wizard Suliman chuckles. He strums contemplatively, and the guitar twangs a tortured protest. “Well, that’s a disco ball. Although now that you mention it, I suppose I haven’t seen any of them in Ingary. You and Howl have said the castle is growing and expressing itself. Where’s the harm in a few unconventional decorating choices?”

“But that’s just it,” Michael insists, leaning forward and holding out his map again. “This is the Porthaven house. Everything in this room is from somewhere else. It’s like the house has forgotten who it is, and is filling in the spaces with all this…weird stuff.”

He gestures at the long tube hanging from the ceiling, which appears to be suspended over a brazier. Wizard Suliman frowns.

“Now, let’s not be too hasty. I wouldn’t mind keeping the fire pit. It gets cold in the winter. Still, I suppose I see what you mean. We’ll keep an eye on it for now.” He strums a resolute, jangling chord on his guitar and sets it aside so firmly that it squawks. “Let me see that map.”

Chapter 25: 3rd Floor: Armory

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You’re in an armory. You recognize it at once, although there’s a distinct lack of swords, shields, suits of armor, or quivers of arrows.

Instead, you see foam pipe insulation, weather stripping, window caulking, replacement siding, UV sealant, spare shingles, solar panels, and a gutter guard.

There are two external windows on adjacent walls. Through one, you see a night sky full of stars, and a faint streak of light. Through the other, you see the moon emerging from the pale blue twilight, and hear the roar and crash of the ocean. The stone window arches are guarded not by iron bars or a heavy portcullis, but instead by a white picket fence.

A pentagram is chalked onto the floor, covered with symbols you don’t recognize. An open book lies next to it.

The wind picks up through the open windows. It seems to come from both directions, assaulting you with the sting of sea spray and the creak of swaying trees. A branch strikes your side, blocking out the light of the stars and shocking you away from the book. You only catch the words a spell to before the book is blown onto another page.

Another branch lashes you, a heavy oak tree planted too close to your foundation. It has deep roots and a sturdy trunk, but you can still sense the danger. A powerful enough storm could bring down the strongest tree, uproot it and topple it against your vulnerable walls. The oak groans under the strain.

Loose pages fly from the book and into a whirlwind around the room. You read recover as one whips past, torn from its binding. A wave crashes against your side with enough force to make you tremble, and you feel water trickle into every crack, eating away at you, threatening a flood.

You arm yourself as best you can. The fence grows higher to cover the open windows. You raise your weapons of shingles and caulking. You manifest a downspout.

From the starry sky now barely visible between white pickets, you hear the angry screams of birds. You grasp after a page from the book, plastering it against one of the walls, and see the word lost before the wind snatches it away.

A flock of feathered bodies batter against the fence, shrieking and cawing.

You flee.

Chapter 26: 3rd Floor: Solarium

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You recognize the solarium immediately by its ceiling. At first it looks like stained glass, until a closer look reveals that every pane is a skylight looking onto a different sunset, from eggshell-pink and aqua to fierce red to the green-yellow light of a storm.

If you look up, then this room is always trembling on the edge of evening—but if you look down, then it is every time in the world, because the walls are studded with clocks. The deep tock-tock of a grandfather clock’s pendulum marks its slow march towards seven o’clock. A clock shaped like a red dragon wags its tail as the second hand ticks. Its bulbous eyes dart back and forth, just out of sync with its tail.

A loud chime sounds behind you, and you turn to find an intricately carved clock with the hour hand pointing to four. A door opens on the left side of the clock, and a tiny wooden man with a wodge of red hair pops out. As he makes his way jerkily towards a matching door on the right side, he opens his mouth. The voice that comes out is unmistakably Howl’s, though it’s shrunk down to match the figurine.

“The demon, it has to be you who fights it, no one—”

His voice cuts off as he disappears behind the door. The clock is still striking, and as you watch, the first door opens again and Howl returns.

“Blast this thing, you don’t get a dozen words out before it—”

The door closes. The door opens. Howl is practically shouting now.

“It’s ripped the universe open, even you can’t survive the rift forever!”

You realize, with a sick certainty, that he’s been round three times. The clock is almost done striking four; he only has one more chance to tell you something less terrifying.

“—cast is extremely powerful, but you can break it, so keep trying.”

As the last chime fades away, the floor falls away beneath you and you fall into nighttime, into a vast sea of stars. Nebulae form around you. Stars are born, die.

A powerful solar wind catches you. You fight it, sure that the universe you need is behind you, that there is something waiting for you beyond. You are carried on its shimmering back until it meets the resistance of a planet’s magnetic field. It parts and streams around it, and you hurtle down through thin air, through clouds, through a warm orange sunset…

You turn your head, searching for the ground, and your panicked eye catches a dazzling glimmer on an ocean below you. You swallow your panic and flip yourself over to chase this reflection. The white glare of it fills your vision.

A sulfurous ball of flame springs free of a chimney, soaring up into the clear sky over Market Chipping. From the roof, you hear him whooping and exulting.

“I’m free!”

Calcifer does a series of loop-the-loops, then stops, mid-air, as if to take in the view at last. He’s muttering to himself like embers at the end of a long night, but the sound carries to your ears. “Free to do what I wish and go where I like—but where shall I go and what shall I do? Whatever will that fool Howl do left to his own devices? You’ve got into the habit of worrying over him; you’re just as much a fool as he is.”

He flops over, floating meditatively earthwards as he appears to think. “After all, it’s not servitude if I choose to be there. I’ll be a free agent. I can leave whenever I like.”

As he alights on top of the chimney, a small smile flickers across his face.

“Yes—whenever I like.”

Chapter 27: The Third Spell

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.

Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.

Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.

Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make you of the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

Chapter 28: 3rd Floor Finale: Windcatcher

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You’d thought you were alone in this fight. You realize now that you never have been.

The third spell resonates through you, a song of belonging and home. The final veil falls from your eyes, and your allies are revealed.

Calcifer roars in the hearth, blazing with strength and no longer merely a frightening gleam in the dark. Michael crawls into passageways and through hidden doors with his trusty map as a guide. He chalks messages to aid you on the walls, floors, and ceilings.

Sophie speaks to you, rallying words that breathe new life and purpose into you. Her voice was the first you heard when you awoke, and it’s the one you hear most clearly now, shoring up your support beams and reinforcing your foundation.

Howl floods you with magic. His power is a beacon, lighting your way.

There are others gathered to help. You recognize Lettie, Mrs. Fairfax, Wizard Suliman—everyone who knows you, joining in the fight. Their efforts are concentrated on the rift in reality, the one you’d snagged and torn open when you last moved.

Your other residents have joined in the battle. The spiders spin webs to slow the force of the wind, but they can’t hold back a demon. The cat stalks it, the only one besides you who can see the demon clearly. Cats always can.

You pull Howl’s power into you and snatch at scraps of paper that have fallen through the rift from Wales, channeling Sophie’s gift for words.

The cat walks. It listens, as I do,
To the wind which leans its iron
Shoulders on our door.

The air demon has taken the shape of a flock of birds to batter its way inside. It’s a flurry of feathers, talons, and hooked beaks. You grasp after another fragment and call out the demon, naming your foe.

This then is the big weather
They said was coming. All the signs
Were bad, the gulls coming in white,
Lapwings gathering…

You understand now why the demon has targeted you. You are the bridge between worlds, the impossible portal that can open a dozen’s dozen doors. You are the guardian at the gate, and if it can overwhelm you, nothing can stand in its way.

The rain stings, the whips
Of the laburnum hedge lash the roof
Of the cringing cottage.

You rise to meet your foe. The first floor of the castle is your birthplace and your anchor. The second floor is where you dreamed with Howl, before you woke, and where you first dared to explore.

The third floor is your domain. The rooms here are not practical things of wood and stone. They are ideas given shape by your magic.

This will be your battlefield.

A curious
Calm, coming from the storm, unites
Us, as we wonder if the work
We have done will stand.

In the worlds beyond your door, there are ideas with shapes that will suit your purpose.

Windcatchers.

A demon is no match for an architect. A tower breaks through your roof, a spear thrust into the storm-riddled sky. You pour your magic into the final words of the spell you’ve created, a song of unshakeable strength.

Will the tyddyn,
In its group of strong trees on the high
Hill, hold against the storwm Awst
Running across hills where everything
Alive listens, pacing its house, heart still?

You are the windcatcher tower, inside which the trapped demon howls. You are the hidden passages and secret spaces, and the warm open hearth where a family gathers. You are the moving castle.

You are the House.

And you will hold.

Chapter 29: Conclusion

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

[MP3 at Archive.org]

You expel the air demon, shutting all your windows with a resounding ‘crack.’

You find yourself humming as you sew up the tear neatly. You’ve never sewn before, but you’ve seen Sophie patiently working needle and thread countless times, humming a little song as she mends tears in Howl’s suits.

While you work, you’re aware of the others making their way towards the kitchen. It’s a truly fascinating sensation; you know the precise location of each and every being in the house, down to the smallest spider.

It takes a while for everyone to gather by the hearth; Michael is absolutely covered in dust and cobwebs, and Howl’s hair is sticking up at all ends. Sophie is passing out mugs of tea and fortifying biscuits while Calcifer crackles happily in the hearth.

Howl clears his throat, quieting the room, and you feel his sharp gaze upon you as he looks up towards the ceiling, and around the walls of the room.

“Well done,” Howl remarks, putting up his boots on the hearth with a nonchalant air while Michael whoops in agreement. Sophie, beaming happily, laughs aloud at Michael’s whoop.

“Welcome, Home.”

Chapter 30: Credits

Chapter by AirgiodSLV, Ellejabell, epaulettes

hiraeth and hwyl

The Sentient Hive
AirgiodSLV, CompassRose, ellejabell, epaulettes, kitkat50311, mahons_ondine, minnabird, sisi_rambles

Concept & Project Lead: AirgiodSLV
Story Development: AirgiodSLV & kitkat50311
Writers: AirgiodSLV, kikat50311, & minnabird
Sound Editing & Soundscaping: ellejabell
Visual Art: CompassRose
Twine Design & Coding: epaulettes
Beta Readers: AirgiodSLV & epaulettes

Poems
"The Gower Wassail", Traditional
"Song for the Wind" by Taliesin
"Especially When The October Wind" by Dylan Thomas
"Storm Awst" by Gillian Clarke (partial)

1. Introduction
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Cast
Calcifer: CompassRose

2. Entryway
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Cast
Narrator: kitkat50311
Sophie: mahons-ondine
Wassail: epaulettes

3. Kitchen
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Artist
CompassRose

Cast
Narrator: kitkat50311
Sophie: mahons-ondine
Mrs. Fairfax: sisi_rambles
Wassail: CompassRose

4. Backyard
Writer
kitkat50311

Artist
CompassRose

Cast
Narrator: elle-ja-bell
Sophie: mahons-ondine
Wassail: AirgiodSLV

5. Bathroom
Writer
kitkat50311

Cast
Narrator: epaulettes
Michael: kitkat50311
Wassail: sisi_rambles

6. Broom Cupboard
Writer
kitkat50311

Cast
Narrator: epaulettes
Sophie: mahons-ondine
Lettie: sisi_rambles
Wassail: Elle-ja-bell

7. Stair Landing
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Cast
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Howl: AirgiodSLV
Michael: kitkat50311
Wassail: minnabird

8. Cubby
Writer
kitkat50311

Cast
Narrator: mahons-ondine
Percival: minnabird
Wassail: kitkat50311

9. Chimney
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Cast
Narrator: CompassRose
Riddle: The Sentient Hive

10. Hallway
Writer
kitkat50311

Artist
CompassRose

Cast
Narrator: epaulettes
Miss Angorian: CompassRose
Old Sophie: mahons-ondine

11. Linen Closet
Writer
minnabird

Cast
Narrator: AirgiodSLV
Riddle: The Sentient Hive

12. Sophie's Room
Writer
minnabird

Cast
Narrator: CompassRose
Sophie: mahons-ondine

13. Michael's Room
Writer
kitkat50311

Cast
Narrator: minnabird
Michael: kitkat50311

14. Howl's Room
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Artist
CompassRose

Cast
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Howl: AirgiodSLV

15. Library
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Cast
Narrator: CompassRose
Michael: kitkat50311
Howl: AirgiodSLV

16. Observatory
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Cast
Narrator: elle-ja-bell
Michael: kitkat50311
Howl: AirgiodSLV
Sophie: mahons-ondine
Calcifer: CompassRose

17. Hidden Room
Writer
kitkat50311

Cast
Narrator: kitkat50311
Howl: AirgiodSLV

18. Courtyard
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Cast
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Poem: The Sentient Hive

19. Impluvium
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Artist
CompassRose

Cast
Narrator: Elle-ja-bell
Howl: AirgiodSLV

20. Spire
Writer
minnabird

Cast
Narrator: mahons-ondine
Sophie: mahons-ondine

21. Aviary
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Artist
CompassRose

Cast
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Howl : AirgiodSLV

22. Living Room
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Cast
Narrator: minnabird
Michael: kitkat50311
Wizard Suliman: elle-ja-bell

23. Armory
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Cast
Narrator: sisi_rambles

24. Solarium
Writer
minnabird

Cast
Narrator: epaulettes
Calcifer: CompassRose
Howl: AirgiodSLV

25. Windcatcher
Writer
AirgiodSLV

Cast
Narrator: CompassRose
Poem: The Sentient Hive

26. Conclusion
Writer
kitkat50311

Cast
Narrator: sisi_rambles
Sophie: mahons-ondine
Howl: AirgiodSLV

Twine-only: Solving the Puzzle
Writer
kitkat50311

Cast
Calcifer: CompassRose

Twine-only: The Moving House
Artist
CompassRose

Notes:

The Sentient Hive

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 5 of The Sentient Hive