Delia's Gone
O.k. We all know Lady Delia was bad news while she was alive. When I heard this song by Al Stewart, it
set me to wondering- what if she had a lover in the Yamanis? Or the Copper Isles? And this paramour was
never told anything except that she was dead? What would he think? This came from that. All characters
you recognize are Tamora Pierce's. The plot is mine, as is anything you don't recognize. The song is Al
Stewart's. *I changed the words a bit.
Delia's gone
And the days they run so slow
Here in the islands
Delia's gone
It's the only thing you know
Here in the silence
I stand here, thinking of the girl who left our shores years ago. What brings her back to my aged
memory? Was it the scent of an exotic looking orchid, its scent echoing the oil that perfumed her hair?
Perhaps the green silk gowns of my great-niece, so like those she once wore? Was it the news of Tortall,
her home country? I cannot tell you. But I remember her. An airy fairy, flitting about in the perfumed air of
the Isles. A foreign beauty, with eyes like emeralds, a verdant green, and hair the thick brown of chestnuts.
A devious piece of work, certainly, but all the girls her age were like that. That didn't keep me from falling
in love with her. I forgot her, but I remember now. A time years ago. Perhaps forty or fifty.
Fine rain combs the sand
The first breath of winter across the land
Try but you won't understand
How she could slip right through your hands
Delia's gone.
I don't understand how she could escape the lure of the Isles. What happened to her, Delia of the
silver, silken laugh? A drizzle beads the sand of the shore beneath my feet, spotting my satin tunic. Silver
hair gleams as I reflect. I thought I had had her. Thought that she was mine. And she slipped away in the
night, bound to some unknown port. I have never rationalized that. I thought she adored me. Ah well. Life
goes on. But still, in some odd way, I miss her. Perhaps not her, but the excitement which followed her
always.
Delia's friends no longer come to call
What can they say now
Delia's pictures are hanging on the wall
You can't look away now
Who knows why she left? Her syphocants cannot remember. I walk up the sandy path to the
manor. Entering, I walk to the small room. She left her things here, so I put them in the attic. I brush the
dust off of her chest. Mahogany and inlaid ivory. I open it, and a perfume a half century old pervades the
air. Dusty silks and satins she had no time to pack. Her less expensive jewels. Sketches on yellowing
parchment. A small remnant of lace tatting. A bundle of letters from someone named Roger. I pick up a
sketch. A large eyed child stares at me, her outfit bearing a coat of arms- a lioness. Beside the child was
another, with the mark of the gift. Written below it is- The Enemy- Thom and Alanna of Trebond. Other
sketches bore more enemies- a Jonathan, Gary, Liam, Raoul. Allies were Roger, Alex, numerous others. I
dimly recollect the names from somewhere.
Dream figures with moons for eyes
Stare from under an alien sky
Seem to watch as you pass them by
If they should know, they won't say why
Delia's gone.
Their eyes appeal for help. I feel revulsion to the allies- something is wrong. I should hate her
enemies, not allies. But there is something that warns me, I know not what. Delia could catch a person's
soul in her sketches. And it is the enemies who seem to be righteous. I don't understand. Perhaps it is
better. I sit here and wonder. They seem too young to do anything, and they scream for help and
understanding. They would explain, but I know not if they are imaginings or realities. If real, they are most
likely all dead. It is a pity. They might shed light on this matter.
Delia's gone like a darkening of the sky
A change in the weather
Delia's gone like a moment out of time
Maybe forever
I fall into the chair and wait, for what I know not. Only that I was and am forced to be an
accomplice in something? Good or evil, who can say? I reach into the trunk and pull out a diary. Her diary.
I read her spidery, faded writing. Skimming the pages, my face blanches.
'The fool thinks I love him. The plan is working.....he will give me the money necessary to
finace....Roger will be pleased and make me his Queen...'
How can this be? How?
Lines of coffee cups on parade
Soldiers for keeping the night away
Soon, too soon, you'll be moving out
There's nothing here to hold you now
Delia's gone.
I have lost the illusion. She never existed. A she-demon in truth. That is her factual self. The girl
I've carried in memory for 40 years flees my thoughts like the demon she is. And I helped her! I suddenly
recall a passage from a letter someone sent me after she left.
'Delia left life
On a hot summer night
She would not obey him and so
He shot her down at sight
Delia gone, one more round, Delia gone!'* The Traitoress of Tortall was she. Lady Delia of Eldorne. It
was her.
O.k. We all know Lady Delia was bad news while she was alive. When I heard this song by Al Stewart, it
set me to wondering- what if she had a lover in the Yamanis? Or the Copper Isles? And this paramour was
never told anything except that she was dead? What would he think? This came from that. All characters
you recognize are Tamora Pierce's. The plot is mine, as is anything you don't recognize. The song is Al
Stewart's. *I changed the words a bit.
Delia's gone
And the days they run so slow
Here in the islands
Delia's gone
It's the only thing you know
Here in the silence
I stand here, thinking of the girl who left our shores years ago. What brings her back to my aged
memory? Was it the scent of an exotic looking orchid, its scent echoing the oil that perfumed her hair?
Perhaps the green silk gowns of my great-niece, so like those she once wore? Was it the news of Tortall,
her home country? I cannot tell you. But I remember her. An airy fairy, flitting about in the perfumed air of
the Isles. A foreign beauty, with eyes like emeralds, a verdant green, and hair the thick brown of chestnuts.
A devious piece of work, certainly, but all the girls her age were like that. That didn't keep me from falling
in love with her. I forgot her, but I remember now. A time years ago. Perhaps forty or fifty.
Fine rain combs the sand
The first breath of winter across the land
Try but you won't understand
How she could slip right through your hands
Delia's gone.
I don't understand how she could escape the lure of the Isles. What happened to her, Delia of the
silver, silken laugh? A drizzle beads the sand of the shore beneath my feet, spotting my satin tunic. Silver
hair gleams as I reflect. I thought I had had her. Thought that she was mine. And she slipped away in the
night, bound to some unknown port. I have never rationalized that. I thought she adored me. Ah well. Life
goes on. But still, in some odd way, I miss her. Perhaps not her, but the excitement which followed her
always.
Delia's friends no longer come to call
What can they say now
Delia's pictures are hanging on the wall
You can't look away now
Who knows why she left? Her syphocants cannot remember. I walk up the sandy path to the
manor. Entering, I walk to the small room. She left her things here, so I put them in the attic. I brush the
dust off of her chest. Mahogany and inlaid ivory. I open it, and a perfume a half century old pervades the
air. Dusty silks and satins she had no time to pack. Her less expensive jewels. Sketches on yellowing
parchment. A small remnant of lace tatting. A bundle of letters from someone named Roger. I pick up a
sketch. A large eyed child stares at me, her outfit bearing a coat of arms- a lioness. Beside the child was
another, with the mark of the gift. Written below it is- The Enemy- Thom and Alanna of Trebond. Other
sketches bore more enemies- a Jonathan, Gary, Liam, Raoul. Allies were Roger, Alex, numerous others. I
dimly recollect the names from somewhere.
Dream figures with moons for eyes
Stare from under an alien sky
Seem to watch as you pass them by
If they should know, they won't say why
Delia's gone.
Their eyes appeal for help. I feel revulsion to the allies- something is wrong. I should hate her
enemies, not allies. But there is something that warns me, I know not what. Delia could catch a person's
soul in her sketches. And it is the enemies who seem to be righteous. I don't understand. Perhaps it is
better. I sit here and wonder. They seem too young to do anything, and they scream for help and
understanding. They would explain, but I know not if they are imaginings or realities. If real, they are most
likely all dead. It is a pity. They might shed light on this matter.
Delia's gone like a darkening of the sky
A change in the weather
Delia's gone like a moment out of time
Maybe forever
I fall into the chair and wait, for what I know not. Only that I was and am forced to be an
accomplice in something? Good or evil, who can say? I reach into the trunk and pull out a diary. Her diary.
I read her spidery, faded writing. Skimming the pages, my face blanches.
'The fool thinks I love him. The plan is working.....he will give me the money necessary to
finace....Roger will be pleased and make me his Queen...'
How can this be? How?
Lines of coffee cups on parade
Soldiers for keeping the night away
Soon, too soon, you'll be moving out
There's nothing here to hold you now
Delia's gone.
I have lost the illusion. She never existed. A she-demon in truth. That is her factual self. The girl
I've carried in memory for 40 years flees my thoughts like the demon she is. And I helped her! I suddenly
recall a passage from a letter someone sent me after she left.
'Delia left life
On a hot summer night
She would not obey him and so
He shot her down at sight
Delia gone, one more round, Delia gone!'* The Traitoress of Tortall was she. Lady Delia of Eldorne. It
was her.