“The Return of King Lillian is a highly engaging work of fantasy and mythical fiction . . . a whimsical and philosophical fairy tale for the modern age.”

~ K.C. FINN, READERS’ FAVORITE AWARDS

Written and narrated by multi-media artist Suzie Plakson, The Return of King Lillian is a new hero’s journey, an allegorical saga full of comedy, calamity, and a host of unforgettable characters.

When Lillian, the one-and-only heir to the throne, is cast out of her kingdom by malevolent forces, she accidentally wanders into the Forest of Forgetfullness, where she is rescued by wolves and raised by an eccentric old wise woman. When she comes of age, Lillian is called by Destiny to return Home.  The trouble is, when she steps out of the Forest, she has no memory of who she is or from whence she hails.  Undaunted, the spirited, self-reliant young woman sets off into the unknown, determined to rediscover her long lost self and to reclaim her stolen birthright. Most of the tale is told by Lillian herself as she chronicles her extraordinary adventures.

Early readers and listeners have compared this unconventional fairy tale to such novels as The Last Unicorn, The Alchemist, The Princess Bride, and The Once and Future King. This genre-bending story celebrates the divinity of nature, the wisdom of animals, and the enduring power of art, truth, and freedom.
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If you’d like to read and listen to some excerpts from the story, click here:

Now then, let’s talk about you . . .
That’s right, you who are reading these very words
at this very moment.

So, knowing what you now know,
you know that the story that lies ahead
is the story of a person on a journey.
And now, lo and behold, you appear,
and you also happen to be on a journey in your own story.

Coincidence? Perhaps . . .

Or perhaps there might be something Marvelous and Mysterious
that weaves all things together.
And perhaps this Marvelous Mysterious has led you here
and is now inviting you to do something rather unconventional,
something altogether out of the ordinary in your world:

To have a rest. Yes . . .
To take respite from all that
hair-tearing, soul-wearing, world-wearying
wondering and wandering and worrying you tend to do.
Perhaps it even asks you to be so bold as to put your feet up,
to let all your troubles drop off you like an old coat,
to let your fancy take flight, in a light, easy way,
like a small bird – say, a Skylark – might.

So, O Wondering Wanderer,
whatever clever cosmic happenstance has brought you here,
know this:

You are most welcome,
and have been quite eagerly expected.

Alright, see, just this evening I were feasting upon a hearty supper in a bustling little pub.  Across from me there sits an Old Soldier staring into the fire, hunched over a near-empty bottle of strong spirits.  Though he is dressed in resplendent military regalia, he is drenched in a mighty misery.  So, there I am eating, and there he is drinking, and I can sense the deepest, darkest, angriest sadness in him.  I can also see that his bottle of spirits hasn’t nearly done the trick he meant for it to do and hasn’t made even a dent in the depths of his anguish.

Now, mind you, Book, had the pub been less packed with people, I would’ve chosen another place to sit in order to give this fellow a wide berth.  Being a Whirld Traveler, I do my best to be respectful of the solitudinous moods of others.

Anyhow, I am keeping my head down and eating my stew.  And just as I am slathering some more butter onto the last bite of my hot, fresh biscuit, I note the second hot, fresh biscuit just a-sitting there on my plate, eager to be eaten before it gets cold.  And though I didn’t want to intrude, as I were sitting right across from him like that, I wanted him to know that whatever his trouble was, he weren’t all alone in the Whirld, just in case he needed to know.

So I slather up that biscuit real good, ‘til it is fairly dripping with butter, and I hold it out to him, there in the periphery of his vision, and wait until he notices.  Well, when he finally spots the biscuit, he just waves it away, without even looking to see whose arm it is at the end of, and he pours himself another drink.  But then, after a few moments, why, he all of a sudden starts talking to me, as if he were just continuing a conversation.  And his story comes pouring out of him . . .

He tells me that he has spent the best part of his life doing terrible violence and killing people at the behest of a rich monarch.  And he tells me how fiercely he loathes himself for it, and has done so all along, but had thought all that violence to be his duty.  And he tells me how he can’t sleep at all anymore, and how all those faces keep coming back to him and all the sounds they made as they were dying.  And he tells me how he could not bear a single moment more of that dark and terrible line of work, so he just up and walked out on his king and kingdom, and kept on walking ‘til he ended up right here in this pub.

And I don’t know why exactly, but it suddenly comes to me to take out my Music Box, and so I do.  And I bid him to sigh into it, and so he does.  And, oh, Book, the look on his craggy old face when that violin begins to play . . . the tears that fill his eyes as that melancholy song pours forth through the Music Box and through me!  Oh, the power of Music is legion, to be sure, but to watch it work its magic upon such a suffering soul as that tormented Soldier . . . Well, it was something, Book, that’s all I’m saying.  It sure was something.

The crowd hushes as Judge Abernathy looks over the lot of us and takes our measurement.  And, oh, it is all too plain to see that this here Judge judges me, my accusers, and every last person in the whole entire place to be a bunch of swindlers and ruffians and worse, worthy only of suspicion and contempt.  In fact, it seems to me that this Judge is scowling at the whole entire Whirld and finding every last person in it to be the very worst kind of disappointment to him.  And I suddenly feel as if I have an anvil in my chest instead of a heart, and that I don’t stand a ghost of a chance of walking out of this mess alive.

The Sheriff says, “Be seated!”

And so we sit.  The Judge grumbles to himself.  And then, suddenly, in a surprisingly vigorous voice, he roars:

“Just what in THUNDERATION do you think this is – a CARNIVAL?  Get rid of all that food this instant!  This isn’t any kind of a carnival, understand?  This is a COURT OF LAW!”

Well, everybody drops their sandwiches and cake and chicken legs mid-bite, trying to swallow without choking, rushing to put their picnicking out of sight, so he won’t hang anybody else before he gets to me.  And the Judge waits crossly as the crowd clears away all evidence of a good time.  Then everybody in the place falls stiller than still, too petrified to move even the smallest muscle for fear of rustling the hay.

Naturally, this tense silence prompts a baby to start screaming its head off – which prompts the Judge to hit the roof.  He sets about banging his gavel with the force of thunder cracking.

“THAT BABY IS COMPLETELY OUT OF ORDER!  Get that thing out of here!  And let me tell you something, if I hear one more crying baby or one single solitary fussing toddler, I will lock up whoever brought ‘em here for contempt of court!  IS THAT UNDERSTOOD?”

And under the Judge’s furious glare, a whole river of parents and progeny goes rushing out of that barn until, at last, the whole place falls into an abject, terrified silence once more.

And someone behind me whispers: “Hang ya soon as look atcha . . .”

Still, I am curious about this supposed Monster of theirs.

“May I ask what manner of Monster might the man – I mean, the Monster be?”

“Well, for one thing, he lives in a cave!”  “Aye, a big, black cave!”  “A dark and dreadful cave!”  “Oh, yes – terrible dark!”

They all agree he lives in a cave.

“And he hates everyone and everything!”  “Aye, everyone and everything!”  “And everybody!”  “Terrible monster . . . ”  “Terrible cave . . . ”

Once again, they are all in agreement.

“I wonder, ” says I, “just what might happen if I were to go near this terrible Monster’s terrible cave?”

Well, this causes a great stir, as you may well imagine.

“She wants to know what’ll happen . . . ”  “I’ll tell ya what’ll happen, he’ll yell so loud, he’ll scare ya into a million pieces!”  “A million pieces!”  “And then he’ll take every single one o’ them pieces and eat ‘em!”  “And all while you’re still alive to watch him do it!”  “Aye, that’s what’ll happen, alright . . . ”

Now, upon further inquiry, I deduce that no one ever actually goes near that cave, nor does anyone know of anyone who’s actually been eaten by this Monster.  For that matter, no one has ever even seen him up close – though they are all absolutely sure he is covered with hideous hair from hideous head to hideous heel.

I thank them, and I wish them good day, and I can see from the way the women are eyeing me up and down that when I turn my back and walk away, I will likewise be labeled some variety of monster.

My point is, after this one last bit of reverie, I will end this entry, and I will return to pure, pulsating Life.

Book, you know me, and you know that I have always felt it to be a glory and a gift to be alive, I have indeed.  But never before have I felt my soul to be gleaming so, seeming to grow so far beyond my physical form.  Never before have I felt every last particle of myself to be ringing to the furthest reaches of an Everywhere farther than mostly mortal me will ever travel.  For we two have now become a third creature, in humming harmony with all the Universe.  I am experiencing this absolutely, and I know it to be Truth.

“What have you done to me?” I keep asking him.  “What have you done?”

And I never wait to hear the answer.


PROLOGUE:  The End of the Beginning

I:  THE MIDDLE

Wherein I Say Farewell and Seek the Edge              

Wherein the Road Plays a Trick

Wherein I Meet a Horse              

Wherein I Buy a Map

Wherein I Get a Hat                                                

Wherein I Am a Champion Chatterboxer

Wherein I Dream Dreams                                    

Wherein I Have a Perfectly Reasonable Objection Which Is Not Appreciated

Wherein I Engage in Philosophical Conversation With an Elf

Wherein a Peculiarity Comes in Mighty Handy

Wherein I Encounter a Troupe of Theatrical Fellows

Wherein I Am Having the Most Wonderful Time

Wherein I Have a Headache

Wherein I Turn Myself In

Wherein I Am Trialed and Errored

Wherein I Attend My Own Funeral Picnic

Wherein I Am a Glutton and a Dreamer

II:  THE END

Wherein I Am Aimless

Wherein I Am Plagued by a Pernicious Vicious Narcissus

Wherein I Run Out of Ink and Into Faeries

Wherein I Take Stock

Wherein I Encounter Someone from Long Ago

Wherein I Meet a Monster

Wherein I Am Attuned to the Music of the Spheres

By the Shores of the Calico Sea

Wherein I Die

Wherein I Write Because I Suppose I Should Write

Wherein I Am Saved

Wherein the Time Has Come

Wherein I Claim My Throne

My Coronation

How It All Ends

III:  THE BEGINNING



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