Welcome to Maid Spin, the personal website of iklone. I write about about otaku culture as well as history, philosophy and mythology.
My interests range from anime & programming to mediaevalism & navigation. Hopefully something on this site will interest you.
I'm a devotee of the late '90s / early '00s era of anime, as well as a steadfast lover of maids. My favourite anime is Mahoromatic. I also love the works of Tomino and old Gainax.
To contact me see my contact page.
In the Hinterlands Chapter II: Down by Paperlily Lake
The dark oaks of the vale seemed to go on forever. Despite the pain they brought us, I began to sorely miss the craggy ridges and peaks of the mountains as our treck lingered on into its seventh sun. Gone were the sweeping vistas and clear view to the path ahead, replaced with a monotony of palid leaf-strewn footpaths which diverged and merged at random like streams of water down a window pane. It's hard to get lost when you are following the ridgeways, but it seemed half our time was now spent studying the route description we'd picked up in the Willow Town. Every so often we'd reach some defining feature like a stream or clearing, but the vast majority of the last week had been spent under boughs of beautiful yet indistiguishable arbory. We stopped for lunch on this, our seventh day of trudging, in a small clearing where grasses had managed to set their roots in the clay-soil. Laying down one's pack after hours of walking has one feeling like an unshackled slave, if just for a minute. We munched on our supplies in relieved silence as the myriad sounds of the forest played their orchestra around us. I still had no idea how far we were from the next town, it was simply impossible to tell from the information we had available. "Walk North until you meet the peat-stream which runs through the forest. Follow her course downstream until the clearing of the lighting-stump. From there find the gravel bed and follow that..." Such intructions gave me no sense of scale whatsoever, does this stream run for two miles or fifty? Oh well, choosers we beggars cannot be. At least the steep scrambles up screefaces were no more, with these rolling hills down in the lowlands feeling like mere child's play in comparison for our limbs. In times like these the only option is to move forward and see where the world takes you.
We kept on through the endless forest ocean. And before we knew it the sun began to set on yet another day. The sunset in a forest can be a strange time, the low light casting crazed crimson shadows of knobbled branches onto trunk and root and tricked the mind into seeing personages which aren't there. The birdsong begins to quieten and the low-toned frogs begin to croak as looming beasts of shadow jump out across your path. A shiver went down my spine as we tracked along the winding top of an earthen dyke and into an area of dense trees. After battling our way through several yards of undergrowth we emerged into a large clearing and the distinct sound of running water. Further exploration uncovered a broad brook which we follwed in search of somewhere to set up camp for the night. The brook brought us quickly onto marshy ground, and thusly onto a decently-sized lake. The lake's water was black and certainly unsafe to drink, but it did bring nice flat ground upon which we pitched our tents. The girls began dinner preparations as I started a small fire. The wood around this spot here was damp and rather unpleasant, so this turned out to be a more arduous undertaking than I had hoped. By now the evening had given way to twilight, but there was still just enough light to see by so I decided it would be prudent to do a quick search of the surrounding area for more suitable firewood. I ran off along the lake's edge for several minutes, soon reaching some drier ground free from rushes and sphagnum. As my eyes adjusted I noted the clear signs of former habitation: a drystone wall, the rusted remnants of a some intrument of agriculture, the shadowy door-archway of an abandoned building. I was investigating these archaeological remains when I noticed a group of small flowers growing from the cracks of the stonework. The tiny white flowers were shaped like little bells with petals of a papery texture. Although sure I recognised them I couldn't place exactly what they were. They seemed to be growing in some density in along the base of the drystone wall, their whiteness making them easy to pick out. They really were very pretty.
I did soon come across a few choice logs of dry-ish wood and made my way back to camp, the little flowers still at play in my mind. The warm smell of soup welcomed me back to camp, but suddenly the rather unpleasant sight of the shepherd's manky feet made me remember. The flowers, the were that same species which they have gifted us back several weeks ago, the kind which had such healing effects on our blisters. Who knew you could find them out in the wild like this? Dumping the firewood onto the fire, I told the others of my intent and ran off back down to the ruins to pick a few for our further journey. The darkness had set in now, and I found myself playing a game of "dodge the rock" to avoid stubbing my toes in the gloom. Back at the wall I picked a few, their white visages making them still clear to see despite the lack of light. The loud call of an owl directly overhead caught me off-guard, its shriek being proceeded by a swoosh and flutter as the bird made off into the canopy. Looking down the wall-line I saw yet more flowers, and probably despite my better judgement decided it was worth the time to get a few more of these soothing delights. As I make down towards them I then hear another sound. This one in contrast was nothing more than a whisper; I wasn't certain I even heard anything at all. In fact I'm sure I didn't, it must have been the wind; because what I heard was the whistling of a strange phrase: "with my potatoes..."
I looked around in confusion, the slight prickling of fear running along the hairs of my back. No lights, no further noises, no sign of anything at all. Bending down I grab another few flowers and deem it time to head back. "And my peas..." And there it was again. My deathly curiosity spurred me on this time, the curiosity which wells up in all of us to divulge fact from fiction. Could it be another owl? The wind blowing through a malshapen orifice? As I turned a bend a strange image presented itself to me from behind the bullrushes. I stopped stock still in the path, peering into the pitch black at a strange sight: there was somebody there. By the shore of the back lake an old woman. Pulling the mooring line of a boat to a stump. She worked in complete darkness, all I could make out of her was a white lace bonnet and a bundle of those white flowers held in the crook of her arm. In silence I watched as she carried on with her work, completely unawares of my existence. Again the quiet melody of her singing reached my ears as she sung sweet songs of vegetables. An intense stinging began in my extremities, pins & needles starting in my feet and slowly climbing my legs. A sudden terror. The sudden realisation that you can't escape. In a moment which replayed in my dreams for several weeks hence, the woman turned and looked straight through me. My conscious mind couldn't tell you what I saw, it was too dark. But my instinctive mind saw, and dropping the flowers and without care for toe-stubbing, it dragged me at a sprint away from that image never to dare to return.
