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I’ve not seen it, but this is how I imagine Cartref Afon.

The first joint edition of Thio’s News and the Cartref Compass:

By Thio Isobel Moss in collaboration with my off-plane friend, Basil E. Credenza

Earbuddies

A curious thing has happened.

I bought a new pair of earbuds and, the very first time I slipped them in, someone spoke to me. I thought I must have tapped my phone by mistake, but no — nothing was open. The earbuds weren’t even connected.

The sound was scratchy, like an old gramophone needle, but the voice itself was energetic — brisk, a touch pompous — and carrying an accent I couldn’t place. He seemed as startled as I was to discover someone else on the line.

He spoke English — or a close cousin to it — and after a rather fraught exchange of greetings, we managed a proper conversation. What follows is a transcription of that most unexpected encounter:

"What the heck? Who is this? Is someone pranking me?"

“Ah—steady on, steady on! No need to bristle like a wet hedgehog. You’ve reached Basil Erasmus Credenza, Editor-in-Chief of The Cartref Compass, purveyor of fact, fiction, and the more cooperative varieties of truth. And no, good stranger, I assure you, I haven’t the foggiest notion what a ‘pranking’ is. Sounds like something done by bored pixies with too much treacle in their diet.”

There was a pause and the sound of paper shuffling, then a faint clunk, as if something wooden was being righted.

“Now then—what the heck, you ask? Odd turn of phrase, but I take your meaning. If you’re hearing me through a pair of little plugs you’ve jammed in your ears, as I have, you’ve stumbled onto a bit of wayward enchantment. Happens now and then. Cartref Afon is something of a catch-all for mislaid marvels.”

There was another pause, longer this time, and considering.

“You don’t sound local. Or even planar. Where, pray tell, are you calling from? And do speak clearly—your voice is coming through like a mouse shouting inside a biscuit tin.”

I can tell you, I felt more than a mite perplexed. Was he insane? Was I? Should I humor him and walk away slowly? But…to where?

“Uh…Kansas City… What kind of biscuit tin? Custard creams?”

Silly question, I know, but I was trying to test him.

“Kansas…City? How very…modern! But no matter—never heard of it, which means you’re very far from Cartref Afon indeed. Possibly sideways. Possibly twice.”

At this point, I knew someone was having me on. Cartref Afon, the mythical city of practitioners, was made up — I ought to know, being the author of the myth. But I still wanted to understand how I was being pranked. Wayward bit of enchantment, indeed! I couldn’t repress a snort. I didn’t even try.

I bet Oz, my brother, arranged this. He often thinks himself funny and, on the rare occasion, can plan quite an elaborate ruse.

Credenza rustled something again — maps, perhaps.

“And as for biscuit tins—custard creams? I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure? No, no, no. Biscuit tins contain an assortment of curmudgeons, lace hearts, and Anisian cakes if the baker hasn’t been raided by gremlins again. Custard creams? Fascinating!”

He pondered such delights a moment more.

“But listen to you — drilling for pitch already. Perfectly sensible, given the circumstances. I assure you, you’re not mad, and if I am, I’m frightfully good at hiding it.”

A faint chime rings somewhere behind him.

“Now then—Kansas City. What’s it near? Anything I might know? A ley line? A rift? A mountain that hums on Thursdays? Give me a landmark, and I might triangulate whether the enchantment picked you up by accident…or by invitation.”

I’d had quite enough. I was supposed to be writing! I just wanted an MP3 of a storm for some white noise.

“Tell Oz, he’s hilarious, but I have work to do. Get out of my earbuds.”

“Get out—? My dear correspondent, I cannot exit your ear…buds, as you say, any more than you can climb out of your own shadow. The connection is magical, not voluntary. And as for this ‘Oz’ fellow—he certainly sounds like a reputable trickster, but I assure you he is blameless here. Unless he’s recently gained the ability to navigate the filaments…or to whisper lawfulness into them…or to bend planar tides?”

He sounded so pitifully hopeful, I was tempted to comfort him.

After a long pause, he murmured, “No. I didn’t think so.”

A chair creaked and I could almost see him, swiveling in wooden chair to stare out the window at a gray, hopeless day.

“You said you were working. You sounded…tired. Pressed for time. That struck me. So let me offer proof of my sincerity.”

He cleared his throat.

“I am Basil Erasmus Credenza, Editor-in-Chief of The Cartref Compass. Our town thrives — or limps by — on the exchange of news. And if some lost enchantment has bridged your world and mine by way of two hearing-plugs barely larger than beetles, then surely it is not for idle chatter.”

It sounded like he was adjusting something metallic, like a microphone.

“Your world has news. My world devours news. And—if I may be so boldly presumptuous—your curiosity is practically shouting.”

I sputtered.

“Or you would have already dismissed me.”

Well, he had me there.

“If you will tell me something true about your world, I shall tell you something true about mine. Not myths. Not…pranks. Not Oz. A fair trade.”

A gentle hum rose, like distant water moving under stone.

“So then, Kansas City…what’s your headline today?”

My degree is in journalism. I’m blaming this venture on that. In any case, Mr. Credenza and I have reached an accord. I’ll publish some of his news in my paper, and he’ll publish some of mine in his. I don’t know where this will lead, but we’ll know when we get there.

From what Credenza told me, this is a rough map of Cartref Afon. For now. Apparently, the town shifts quite regularly, and they wake up with new neighbors.

From what I gather, Cartref Afon is a unique blend of charming old-world Welsh and cyberpunk architecture.

The Gloamspire:

Among the most notable places in Cartref Afon is the Gloamspire — part church, part refuge, part garden, and part event space. Everyone seems to find their way up the hill to the seamless, cream-colored stone edifice every day for one reason or another. In pairs or with their families.

They are not indigenous. The residents, some three hundred or so, come from various planes. The river…is not normal. It…well, has an unnerving habit of taking people. The locals do not know when or why, but it’s best to always move about the place with those you don’t want to lose.

It seems that the magic that created Cartref Afon does not discriminate. The River Wystffle brings new residents, both the willing and unwilling, as well as new buildings, flora and fauna, and random flotsam and jetsam. It also occasionally takes residents…presumably, back to their original home, but, possibly elsewhere.

One of their most prominent holidays is Finder’s Day. It’s not a scheduled day on the calendar, but celebrated when someone has found their way home. An optimistic point of view, but then, I’ve not lived through what they have.

Their strange culture and the ways they’ve adapted have gotten me thinking about family.

My father has two weeks of radiation left. Last night, my mother went to the ER with a migraine. Oz and Kendi are each carrying their own burdens, and I’m scattered in a dozen directions myself. This year, we lost Ty — our friend of thirty years — when a drunk driver rear-ended him on his way to work.

Losing any of them is my greatest fear. The other night, I found myself spilling my guts to ChatGPT and crying (I do not recommend using AI in a therapeutic role). I’m not unhappy or even terribly anxious. We’ve faced cancer before and have beaten it. Migraines are an old enemy. There is a point, however, when it’s too much.

It was not pretty, folks, but it helped.

We delve into fictional worlds for many reasons — to escape, to kill time, to be entertained, and sometimes to be pushed into feeling…something. Or something other than what we’ve been feeling.

I’ve repressed my emotions my whole life, and it really isn’t healthy. Now that I’m wise enough to give myself room to feel what I feel, I cry at the strangest things. Flash mobs; I love people giving their talents freely, without judgment or censure. It’s beautiful.

I also cry in Civilization, when Poundmaker offers pemmican and hides as tribute. It gets straight to the heart of why we give gifts — to say, “I have enough to survive, but your existence makes mine better. I want you to survive, too. I want you to thrive.”

I’ve learned, over and over again, that tomorrow isn’t guaranteed. Take this season to remind your loved ones that they fill your life with hope and cheer, that they matter, and that you want them to thrive.

Happy Holidays!

In upcoming newsletters (only available to subscribers), expect to read:

Scuttlebutt — “news” reports from Axiom Rogue and Atticus Nightling, in between cups of coffee and flirting with Beyra Myrrglass, the pretty server at Café Leonie;

It takes a lot of hammering to forge wit.

The Swifty Smithy, where Ranulph Ionhaven forges rhymes, riddles, and words of wit — such as Tom Swifties:

“The necromancer was murdered with a skillet,” Tom deadpanned.

“My…teleporter…malfunctioned,” Tom said disjointedly.

Please feel free to share your own in the comments.

Wystffle, the River of Misplaced Things: where extras, story ideas, the history of Cartref Afon, book news, and other goodies will be shared;

I picture a tented city aglow with colorful lanterns, casting the strange and the precious in half-light - all for sale…at the right price.

The Lantern Market, which stocks only the rarest and most exquisite of merchandise:

Molly Memorandum’s pocket-size memory jars – 4 for 30 Wystffellian crowns!

Pomona Penhalgion’s Evergreen Lantern-seed for only two crowns a pack — perfect for lighting paths, mood lighting, or nightlights!

The Tideset Wanderer’s portable sundial for pilgrims in strange lands, a bargain for 80 crowns — never be late on any plane;

And book recommendations provided by The Moss Library: Magic and Shinigami Detective (The Files of Henri Davenforth) by Honor Raconteur and Kate Griffin and Strike it Witch: The Smokethorn Paranormals Series by C. P. Rider for Urban Fantasy fun!