NacisaNacisa before
HER FIRST TALES AS TOLD TO DOMINIC SALMON
STUPIDSTUPIDSTUPID. STUPID GIRL…
ProLogue
So Scheherazade began
“I took in anything that was new and strange…”
Arabian Nights
Oh no, no, no, no, no! What am I to do?
“What am I to do?” she repeated (this time, out loud, just a little).
From the playroom window she could see the Castle’s shadows were already crawling long across the west lawn. Practically winter, they were arriving longer and earlier each day, each night ushered in just that little bit sooner than the last. These lengthening nights meant more time had to be given over to occupy the Castle’s children, especially with what already felt like it would be an extra chilly winter, made worse by the Castle’s high prominence, as brisk weather often drove the inhabitants indoors. To keep them in equilibrium, they had to be entertained, and it was obvious that her extended stay hinged on her responsibility for such entertainment. Not their father or mother’s.
And now, after all these months, that was a problem, for she had to admit, she was all burnt out of stories…
But, that should not be so? In fact, it cannot be so! She, after all, was the inexhaustible Aunt, the never-ending storybook, the living library, the great conjurer (or was it conjuress? One never remembers) of yarns, fables, tales, what-have-you—anything that carried an enchanting or exciting story. The Narcisa Before Narcisa from The Datura Press
children certainly regarded her as a cornucopia of chapters, always overflowing with trolls, ogres, wizards, knights, and damsels (though she prided herself that her damsels often got themselves out of their own distress, thank you very much, for often her ‘gallant knights’ were nothing more than frightful nitwits or terrible bores, and usually nasty with it). Every kind of fantastic character one could imagine, and plenty one couldn’t—characters with even the slightest hint of magic or mystery about them—were very likely to turn up in some story or another. Only last week, for instance, there were two whole evenings about a simple, baggy old cloth cat who lived in a shop, and the children had loved it.
Yet here she was. Here. Now. With…nothing. Oh no, no, no, no, no.
She ran her mental inventory again of every book, overheard tale, folklore, legend she knew—even dredging sonnets, songs, poems (long and short, even epic) for good measure. But it only created a seemingly endless tumble in her mind, and it was apparent then that the well, which had once felt bottomless, had suddenly run very dry.
“Wait,” she thought, “no, that cannot be.” She might be out of the grander stories, and she admitted those were well spent. Of course, she could try simply turning—oh, I don’t know—trolls to ogres in a new telling, maybe with some different names. Paper the cracks? No, that would be a blatant cheat to the children, especially the eldest, Agatha, for she would see through the whole charade from the off, and that would be that. But surely something was left in her mind’s library?
“The Black Forest Witch? Yes. Certainly done, last year she seemed to recall. Overdone if anything, not that it wasn’t successful, for the twins’ tastes were ever for the grisly, but Agatha had felt the whole scene of the ‘Witch’ being burned at the stake a ‘beastly’ end to a poor old woman, who no one knew for sure was anything more than a midwife, let alone the cause of the village’s misery and all those dead cows.”
The mental list continued, and what a motley cast it was, containing all the great favorites. The witch (as described, but with dozens of variations: warts/no warts, snake or toad familiars, you know the type). So, your classics, but also your wraith, the goblin, a cast of ghouls, Jabberwocks to Djinns, and everything in between. In fact, if it crept across a child’s imagination, it was likely to have been well represented some evening or other.
The Black Forest Witch?
Yes. Certainly done, last year she seemed to recall.
Worst of all, she felt she had told a lot of these tales in a time of high summer, what a waste! Now, however, the weather was starting to lean grim. As the gothic gloom of winter arrived, she had nothing left, right when it was most needed! What an idiot she had been, for what was the point of telling of the curse of the Gollum whilst the summer’s evening sun was shining at the window? Fool of an Aunt, telling all the sure winners too quick! But when she was deep in a story, she found it very hard to keep the pace down, for she was as caught up in them as the children were, sometimes even more so. Sometimes, it seemed each line she spoke was eager to push past the previous, such was the frantic pace she could maintain, especially in the finales. After some particularly spectacular denouement, she was sometimes quite gasping for her own breath.
All gone now, though, her tales were a dry well, like she had eventually read ‘The End’ in her own book, snapped it shut, and wondered aloud: What else might they do with their evenings? Did anyone have any ideas?
This, then, was a bind.
Certainly her welcome at the Castle had worn itself not a little thin. It wasn’t in tatters, no, not that, but in all honesty, the threads that it hung by were certainly sparse. With the grownups, at least. Did the Castle’s grownups love her? Why, of course they did. Well, maybe not the servants, not completely, for they thought her not a little odd, but she was always courteous to them, and they returned good manners. So perhaps they liked her well enough, for she never bossed them around and kept to herself. You know, maybe there was affection, but not love? She was too much of an odd thing for there not to be a little distance.
But there was the gossip, plenty of that for sure; there always was in such a huge sprawling place, with so many ants busying around it just to keep it ticking along. And she was never quite sure if she ever actually heard it, but she knew it was there all the same, as if those hushed words, once spoken, had ascended to those high ceilings and simply got stuck there—until she passed below, when they tumbled down to her hearing. Tricky to decipher totally, for they arrived perhaps not in the correct order, but she still got the sense of them.
In fact, she found herself muttering her own kind of mantra as she walked the Castle corridors when sleep wouldn’t take her.
Certainly her welcome at the Castle had worn itself not a little thin…
Still your breathing.
Still your heart. Then I can hear their whispers, Faint and far apart…
(In fairness, the sight of her in a nightgown, stalking the halls, no candle, just moonlight, singsonging that ditty. Well, it would be hard to argue she didn’t look mad.)
Yes, there they were, hints of the Castle gossip. “And still no husband.” “If only she ate as much as she drank, scrawny scraps of a thing. So sad.” “Such charity from her brother.” “But after all that’s happened, how could anyone be any different?”
All a bit much sometimes, but the truth she loved to stay here, and it wasn’t always so, but she loved the children, loved her brother, did not take against his wife. And really, she had an odd and terrifying relationship with the creeping old ruin that her family had lived in for centuries, she would hate to go, back to the city, the drafty apartments. The noise. Other people. There was a time she had run from here. And for a time she had been so, so, so happy. But look how that had ended.
It was about now that her thought’s thread came completely loose, because somewhere off, yes, she could hear it…the roar.
The roar of the twins, for they usually were barreling ahead of the pack to be first in line at her feet for the stories. Yes, of course they were coming now, for as soon as the sky took a darker hue, they sought her for something strange and new, with her as their very own Scheherazade. Her stories, from still-talking severed heads, demons and their devouring of the dead—gossiping ghosts spying on what’s said—mist-shrouded galleons forging ahead. The Twins were completely devoted, and the more demonic and dreadful the better. This is why they were never late to the Playroom; they always wanted to hear as much of every story as possible before the servants whipped and thrashed them into bed.
Bringing up behind, keen not to be seen as too eager but still at a distinct canter, came Darius and Agatha—for yes, for whatever ‘these children’s tales are beneath us’ aura they tried to suggest in their manner (which was, as they had grown older, sometimes not a little haughty), they too were just as invested in their dear Aunt’s tales as anyone. Really, they shared much with her in thought and personality; she was after all, young enough to be their sister, if
Narcisa Before Narcisa from The Datura Press
admittedly a very big sister.
The roar was not five strides away down the long corridor to the playroom, and still, she had no story to tell them. Nothing. Her mind was still a very long scroll, blank with naught written. Should she try to recast an old one, giving it a new coat of storytelling paint? A different castle here, a different princess there? No, she could already see the fallen faces, perhaps even falling to boredom themselves. What a ruin that would be, the disappointment. She could see that first yawn, probably one of the Twins, travel to her brother’s ear, possibly via a whisper from his wife. And then? Well, the carriage would be outside, her valises stacked in the hall, and finally, reluctantly, his kiss on her cheek as the coachman came to load her luggage, cursing their weight.
“Time enough, dear sister. Time for living something of your own life. But of course, please do visit. Visit anytime.” It would be heartfelt, but also a little final. “Yes, ‘anytime’,” she would think, knowing that really, that was family code for “not anytime soon.”
No. No, no, no, no, no, no.
That wouldn’t do. She said.
Aloud or not. She could not tell.
I am not ready. I have, nothing... No!
But as ever, chance favourS the well-prepared and at first, a tinkling came, like a bell ringing, with an inkling: yes, she did have a story. In that moment she knew nothing of it, but she was sure—she could see far into a future where it was a very good story indeed—her best ever, she felt. So she drew her slouching shoulders up, stood tall, and where a moment ago she had dreaded the children’s roaring arrival, now she was impatient—impatient to start.
A girl? Yes, a girl. Definitely a girl. Defiantly a girl. Outrageously a girl. So there was that: our heroine was appearing. What a start! Then. She was in…not in the west…so not around here, though not a thousand miles from here…she was not totally East either, for there was nothing of the orient about her. Then where? The country of her birth seemed close. For some reason, she heard in her head…Transylvania? No, not there. It was a name known and a little over-famous, what with that Irishman’s story and everything. It was no surprise she had plucked at that place first; she herself had read that story near a dozen times, it spending weeks very much on her mind (and, a secret, she had stolen not a little of its ideas, in case they might prove useful in the future, which, given the circumstances, they definitely were).
But. Transylvania? But, but, but…it occurred to her that whilst it was not completely right as a name, it also was not completely wrong either. She just needed somewhere in that region, with all its great gothic turrets, and mountains and forests and dread spirits marauding abroad. And there she was, all of a sudden, floating above some great map, where she could see a whole swathe of such places, as she opened one of the great atlases she kept in her memory palace, deep in one of its extensive libraries. She counted off the names: Mutenia, Banat, Oltenia, Dobrogea—still they were not right. Until it was.
Bucovina! Yes, that’s it. Bucovina. Not German. Not Russian. Not Ukrainian. Not Austrian. Yet somehow, all of those. She knew nothing really else of Bucovina, excepting that, for whatever reason—and that reason being the very best reason of all—it was exactly the right place for her story to start.
Bucovina! Yes, that’s it. Bucovina. Not German. Not Russian. Not Ukrainian. Not Austrian. Yet somehow, all of those…
“Now,” she pondered, “now we are getting somewhere.”
She could hear the children’s commotion practically at the door now, and in any second, small hands would be fighting over a handle, and she would have two rattles at most before the door swung open, creaked, and they would be upon her! Demanding kisses, hugs, and her story.
Quickly now, some last details, just so she could start. “There was a young girl from Bucovina.” No, that’s a start to a limerick, not a story.
Our girl then, our heroine. Was she beautiful? No. Well, not entirely not beautiful, you understand. Agatha had such an eye roll when presented with obvious princess-ness. Darius, a young boy, one of an age to be pricked with some interest in girls and their beauty, would want her pretty, but only so a prince could swoop in and rescue her. And this story, well, it won’t include any of that simpering prince nonsense, thank you very much. So no. Not beautiful. Nor ugly. Nor plain. But very striking was our heroine in her own way, she suddenly saw.
And. Not too tall. Not too short. In fact, she was exactly the right size, shape she should be. Admittedly, non-pretty damsels don’t make it into many stories, but the Aunt had never cared for such rules in her stories. She did sound a little dull, though. Can’t have dull, so to liven her up, she gave her a temper, a mouth that ran her to much trouble. She was also a little scrawny, and most of all, she could be a frightfully clumsy oaf at times. And because she wondered if she had made her a little too run-of-the-mill looking, the Aunt gave her creation a writhing mane of raven hair that was simply magnificent.
And there she was! She could see her; she had stopped floating above the great Atlas’s map of Bucovina, and as she descended into its big ancient pages, the map started to colour in with real forests, rivers, mountains, hills, paths, towns, villages, horses and sheep. And yes, there she was, there she is, our hero, alive and real. Look! There she goes, carefree as she dallies through golden sunlight in a charming meadow, and…
Oh, come on! What was she thinking? Would she really extend her stay here at the Castle with a dreary tale of some dullard picking stupid flowers? No. That wouldn’t do. So she looked again. Suddenly, it was not a meadow; it was a forest, and there was no sunlight—it was night or at least dusk. The girl was not skipping along picking violets; no, she was running—and not just running, she was running, running for her life. So yes, now we had our heroine,
our scene, and a great drama—yes, this, she felt triumphantly, was where their story would start.
If you were to blink, you’d still be outrun by how fast the Aunt conjured all this. Fortunately, and in the nick of time, the Playroom door, despite its ancient and heavy creaking weight, nearly burst apart. The roar was here! Twins! Agatha! Darius! They all tumbled through into the room and were standing before her, confused that her back was turned—their Aunt was not, as was her wont, gathering them in her arms and slobbering kisses over them like a great friendly dog. No, this was new. And they were nervous. Nervous and excited.
They all stood a moment like that. There was a game to all this; the Aunt demonstrated her control of the room, of them, and of the story. The children had to wait. There was still some needling and pleading of course, but she simply ignored it. Easily done when it was little more than various squeakings of ‘Please’ and ‘Auntie’.
She let the Playroom’s big clock tick. Then let it tock. Tick again. Then, right on the beat of the next coming Tok, she whirled around to the children with enough scowl to silence them all. She would, after all, as befits the triumph of her new tale, have order.
For details were tumbling into her story now, and she was a giant taking in the breath of a hundred men, ready to blow it all out in one big exhale. The last pieces, in the forest with our heroine, were: torches, shouts, a huge commotion of noise and fear. In the chase, the chasers’ eyes were burning with anger and humiliation. The girl’s were wide with fear and flight. Somewhere near, a giant wolf’s eyes reflected the rising moonlight.
And…enough now. Let me begin.
She raised her hand and ushered them obediently to the cushions. It was a silent order they obeyed without question.
And as she started the story, there was luck. And such luck. A key piece of her puzzle, out from nothing, came clicking to its place—and its fit was perfect.
Narcisa, she thought.
The girl’s name is Narcisa.
A girl? Yes, a girl. Definitely a girl. Defiantly a girl!
Outrageously a girl! So there was that… our heroine was appearing.
What a start!
But firSt — a secret. A great big one. One I don’t even know myself.
The Aunt they called it witchcraft. i called it remembering what they tried to make us forget my arSe is wet! no! soaked! and my dress! and my boots! My arSe. my dress. my boots. all soaked!
Queen Seraphina
some spells are made of language. some spells are made of silence. the best are made of both The Weird Sisters
and so the Aunt’s tale begins, and such a cast of characterS
Narcisa
begins, and what a tale it is, S too, so let us meet some… they will never give up their hunt for us will they?
Fenrir, The Great Silver Silly isn’t that how these things are supposed to work, or am i missing something? And what of the well? how on earth is it twenty miles deep? no one has ever dug anything that deep!
I am the motherless daughter, And my name is not for you to say and go where? for we are everywhere
Agatha
Darius Iyam
Obscura Murdek
NacisaNacisa
COMMERCIAL RIGHTS & OPPORTUNITIES
The world of Narcisa is envisioned not only as a novel but as a rich and expandable intellectual property. With its unique blend of classic fairytale structure (after Scheherazade), a grounded Eastern European setting (Bucovina), and a cast of unforgettable characters, the story holds significant potential for development across multiple media platforms.
All inquiries regarding the following subsidiary rights are welcome.
AVAILABLE RIGHTS INCLUDE:
FILM, TELEVISION, AND STREAMING
The narrative, with its episodic potential across multiple books and compelling character arcs, is well-suited for screen adaptation.
FOREIGN LANGUAGE & TRANSLATION
The universal themes of storytelling and identity, combined with the specific cultural flavor of Bucovina, offer strong international appeal.
AUDIOBOOK PRODUCTION
The distinct narrative voice of the “Aunt” and the dialogue-rich scenes provide an excellent foundation for a full-cast or single-narrator audio performance.
MERCHANDISING & LICENSING
The unique character designs—from Narcisa herself to her “big silver silly,” the giant wolf Fenrir—present opportunities for collectibles, apparel, and other licensed products.
DRAMATIC & STAGE RIGHTS
The story’s structure, contained within a castle setting, lends itself to theatrical adaptation.
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