A Picnic

It is August, and we have had no picnic. Well, the weather has been hotter than usual, to understate the case, but still.

Duckworth, Thalia, Jini, and I conferred and looked for a day that was predicted to be cloudy. We then determined the picnic would be more of a dinner than a lunch, occurring after 4:00 p.m. when the day would be cooling off. We might come home toward dark, but that would be better than being sunburned.

Where should we picnic became the next question. We ended up deciding on Christ Church Meadow. This involved a drive down to Oxford and renting a boat to row to the meadow. All this was at Duckworth’s insistence, he having a penchant for the Isis, which is silly of him. It is the Thames until it comes to Oxford, and it is then renamed the Isis. Duckworth is noted by me for cold logic until it comes to this one frivolous exception.

Thalia and Jini luxuriated in being rowed on the river as Duckworth and I labored at our task. Having no goal but the general direction of Christ Church Meadow, we were attentive when Thalia exclaimed, “That’s the spot.”

As we laid out our blanket, I admired Oxford University’s college towers rising up behind our greensward. Thalia and Jini set out a feast but would not let Duckworth and me partake of anything but some wine and cheese until Jini had read the story of the day.

She sat before us, cross-legged, the book Indian Fairy Talesin her hands.

“This is my new favorite tale, How the Raja’s Son Won the Princess Labam.”

One day, the raja’s son was out hunting in a jungle his mother had warned him never to enter. There he heard the parrots talking of Princess Labam, which is what his mother had feared. He determined to leave his father and mother and find her.

When he left, his mother gave him sweetmeats to eat along the way. When he took them out, they were covered with ants. True to his gentle nature, he offered up the sweetmeats to the ants. The raja of the ants promised to help him when he might be in need.

Next, the youth came across a tiger who had suffered from a thorn in its paw for twelve years. The youth offered to extract the thorn if the tiger agreed not to eat him. Both the tiger and his tigress complied, then promised to help him when needed.

The lad’s third encounter involved three fakirs (magicians) who argued over their deceased master’s possessions: a bed that could transport its sleeper anywhere, a bag that could contain whatever the owner wanted, a stone bowl that would always contain water, and a stick and rope that could defeat and bind any enemy.

The youth offered to shoot four arrows off in four directions. Whoever retrieved an arrow first got to choose first; the second to choose second, etc. As the fakirs pursued the arrows, the youth took off with all of the possessions, telling the bed to take him to the country of Princess Labam.

Once there, he took shelter with an old woman who protected him against the king, who abhorred foreigners. In exchange, he provided her with food from the bag and water from the bowl.

Thalia, realizing this was a long story, relented and began serving the potato salad and cucumber sandwiches. Duckworth and I had done all the rowing, after all.

Part Two

Second Half

Jini polished off a cucumber sandwich and took a sip of iced tea before continuing the story.

That evening, the old woman did not light a lamp. She explained that every evening the Princess Labam came out onto the roof of the palace and stayed there until midnight. Her radiance made the night as bright as day. The youth could see the princess sitting on the palace roof and admired her beauty.

After all were in bed, the lad asked his bed to take him to Labam’s bedchamber. There, from the bag, he left a good quantity of betel leaves as a present. In the morning, the servants much enjoyed eating the leaves, but no one knew where they came from.

The next night he left a wonderful shawl. Still, no one knew who gifted it. On the third night he decided on a glorious ring, but when he tried to slip it on her finger, she woke up. At first frightened, she soon realized he loved her, and she then wished to marry him.

Upon hearing of this, the king proposed a task, which the lad had to perform in order to marry his daughter. The king required of the lad—not the first suitor to face death if he did not achieve the impossible task—to squeeze the oil out of forty pounds of mustard seed in one day. The lad called upon the ants to help him.

Next, the king assigned him to kill two demons who were a concern to him. The lad called upon his two tigers. To beat the king’s kettle drum in the sky comprised the third task. The youth’s bed got him there.

Three tasks should have been enough, but the king proposed a fourth. He gave the lad a wax hatchet to cut a tremendous tree trunk. The lad had run out of helpers to complete the impossible challenges. That night, he visited Labam’s bedchamber once again and told her of her father’s demand.

“Do not be afraid,” she said, pulling a hair from her head and instructing him to tell the tree that Princess Labam says it must allow itself to be cut in two by the hair. He must then line the edge of the wax hatchet with the hair. This he did and succeeded.

Soon the marriage took place, and they returned to the raja’s son’s kingdom. The youth kept the bed, the bag, the bowl, and the stick, but given his peaceful nature, he never had need of the stick.

As the story ends, Thalia brings out the cold chicken curry and the stuffed eggs. I love stuffed eggs.

“I find that one an interesting story,” Duckworth says. “Because of him,” he points to me, “I have heard a lot of fairy tales. In this one we come across familiar motifs and then new elements side by side.

“The hero, hearing of a beautiful princess, goes off to find her—Sleeping Beauty—I have heard of. I have also heard of the tasks to win the princess in marriage, with death looming over the enterprise. The ants as helpers are perennial favorites.

“But then there are the tigers—not lions, popular in European tales—with a thorn in a paw that harkens back to Androcles and the Lion. Defeating two demons I don’t recall. The wax hatchet with the hair’s edge is totally new to me. Oh, and Labam lighting up the night and the king’s kettle drum in the sky? What are those about?”

“I think I can explain some of it,” Jini says.

We wait for her to gather her thoughts.

Part Three

Hindu Echoes

“I am sure,” Jini says, “anyone who sees me thinks I am from India. Actually, I was born here. My family is from Nepal. In any case, I am Hindu, but—because I did not grow up in Nepal— my parents have made a point of educating me about our sacred stories so that I won’t forget where we came from. I may know more of these tales than a real Nepalese teenager.

“This story is not a steal from any Hindu tales, but all the pieces are there. Indra is the thunder god, and it is he who destroys the demons Vritra and Vala. These are echoed in the king’s kettle drum in the sky and in the destruction of the two demons.any a

“Chandra is the moon god and has twenty-seven wives, having to do with the twenty-seven celestial mansions

, a sort of zodiac, so there are plenty of moon goddesses. I’m going to guess Labam could be a reflection of the wife Chitra, known for her radiant beauty.

“Chandra’s wives are all sisters, daughters of the sage Daksha. Unfortunately, Chandra had a strong preference for the wife Rohini over the others, and the others complained to their father, who cursed Chandra with illness. Lord Shiva intervened and softened the curse so that Chandra would be sick only half the time, which is why the moon waxes and wanes.

“Anyway, I see Indra, Vritra, Vala, and Chitra in this tale, but I don’t know where the raja’s son, helpful ants and tigers, or the magic bed, bag, and bowl come from.”

I serve myself some curry chicken and grab a sausage roll.

“Jini,” I say, “turn to the notes at the back of the book. I believe Jacobs talks a bit about that.”

She does after nibbling a pickle with chutney, then wiping her hands. I see her read, frown, and go wide-eyed.

“Oh, wow,” she remarks. “He thinks it all comes from India, even the Androcles-and-the-lion thing. He suggests the motifs came to Europe with the returning soldiers of the Crusades.”

“That sounds about right to me.” I grab another stuffed egg. “Most of the fairy tales date from about the twelfth century.”

“No, wait.” Duckworth’s sausage roll nearly drops from his hand. “Are you saying all the fairy tales come from India?”

“Well,” I hesitate, “maybe. I am thinking of Jessie Weston’s From Ritual to Romance, where she traces the Arthurian tales back to Indian sources.”

“That I cannot abide!” Duckworth objects.

“Well,” I reach for another stuffed egg, “it seems to me Western storytellers were sponges for story ideas and motifs, no matter where they came from. Even before the Crusades, there was commerce between Europe and the East. I am thinking of what was called ‘The Silk Road.’ Now I am thinking of another scholar, Alan Dundes, who traces Cinderella back to China.”

“China!” Duckworth guffaws. “We’re getting farther and farther away.”

“The Eastern cultures,” Thalia puts in, “are older than ours. We were seen as barbarians, if I recall my history lessons. I think they had a head start on us.”

There is an unspoken agreement among us to let Thalia have the last word on this debate. She just laid out the Victoria sponge cake.

Your thoughts?

Hi All,

For this month’s mid-month blog, I am going to offer up an article I wrote some time ago. It is a bit cold and exacting. I sometimes pretend to be scholarly, but I still stand by what I said.

The Archeology of Story: Evolution of oral storytelling to literary storytelling.

Mythology, legends, folktales, and fairy tales can be lumped together as pre-literary.

Mythology: Myths are the creation stories of a given culture, replete with characters representing fundamental aspects of that culture. And yet those characters have personality traits that appear to be individual. These gods and goddesses are both universal and unique. We, as individuals, tend to identify with one or another of these divine beings. Each of us has our primary myth.

Legend: This form of storytelling deals with maybe/historical heroes and heroines, again associated with a given culture. King Arthur, Sigurd, and Roland come to mind. They touch on and converse with mythological figures. The distinction between the two is not always clear.

Folktales: More often stories of the common people, although not always. Legendary figures like the indomitable Irish warrior Fionn mac Cumhaill can appear as Fin McCool, a downgraded, buffoonish giant in the folktale.

Fairy Tales: These are a subcategory of folktales. The distinction between the two is that fairy tales have the element of magic. It hurts me to say “sub-category.” Fairy tales are superior to folktales and perhaps the origins of myth.

There is the argument among folklorists about whether fairy tales come out of myths or if myths come out of fairy tales. I suggest the answer is “yes.”

Literary Fairy Tales: These are, of course, fairy tales written down with an eye on the literate reader, one used to literary conventions. His name is Hans Christian Andersen.

Ok, maybe that is not fair, but he does exemplify the literary treatment of fairy tales.

Fairy tales have their own unique structure.

•    Few characters have names. Typically, they are identified by their position—king, queen, youngest son, or old soldier.

•    Descriptions are sparse. We are told little of how things look.

•    Tales are in the third person objective. We never get inside the character’s heads.

•    Tales are not dialog-driven. Dialog is used to highlight parts of the story.

•    There is more telling than showing. Showing is a wordier process than telling. Telling is succinct, as are the tales.

Moving beyond structure:

•    There is a propensity for the number three. For example, in The Goose Girl we see three drops of blood. Later on in the story, there are three streams to cross and three passages through the dark gateway.

•    Royalty has magical powers. This is always assumed, perhaps a reflection of the times.

•    Animals can talk, and not simply animals talk to animals, but also animals talking to humans.

•    Evil must be punished and good rewarded. Typically, evil is destroyed in rather graphic terms.

•    Story usually ends happily. You can have a fairy tale without fairies, but happy endings are the rule. However, there are cautionary tales that do not end so happily.

Shared traits between oral and literary storytelling.

Both (usually or frequently) have:

• A beginning, middle, and end.
• Characters, particularly protagonists and antagonists.
• Plot.
• Crossing the threshold.
• Helpers.
• Conflict.
• Rising action.

 (Note: The above list is less applicable to literary fiction than it is to genre fiction. Also, I did not include romantic relationships as a common trait, although there are plenty of fairy tales ending in marriage.) 

Limitations of oral storytelling.

Fairy tales:

• Are presented in the third person, never the first or second person.
• Lack character development. (Most characters do not even have proper names.)
• Do not get into the heads of its characters. (It is a hallmark of a literary fairy tale when the story does so. As soon as the tale describes what a character is thinking, you know this is not a traditional fairy or folktale.)
• Are highly limited in physical descriptions. (Princesses are typically “beautiful.”)
• Are rarely tragic or melodramatic. (There are cautionary tales that end badly but do not rise to the level of Greek tragedy.)

Conclusions:

My suspicion is that fairy tales are based on the dream structure of pre-literate, oral storytellers.

According to Marie-Luise von Franz (Jungian psychologist) in her Interpretation of Fairy Tales, “Fairy tales are the purest and simplest expression of collective unconscious psychic processes.”

Examples:

Old Woman in the Wood, Brothers Grimm, Kinder und Hausmärchen (Children’s and Household Tales)

The Turnip Princess. The Turnip Princess and Other Newly Discovered Fairy Tales, by Franz Xaver von Schonwerth, Erika Eichenseer (Editor)

The final element I want to mention that is common to oral and literary storytelling is the narrator. In the case of oral storytelling, we are dealing with real-life narrators, who, being human, were ephemeral. The literary narrators—including those of fairy tales written down—are more likely eternal.

What this means is, for your narrator in your story, who may be you if you are telling the tale, there is the DNA of long-ago storytellers floating beneath your tale.

Any errors, inaccuracies, and wonkiness in the above notes are the fault of the author.

Charles Kiernan, 2017.

Ultima Calls

I open the French doors, which are at the north end of my study. I breathe in the warm summer air of July. I light my pipe and stride toward the Magic Forest. Why? I don’t know. Maybe I do. I have been here before when Ultima calls for me. Not in words. It is a sort of magnetism. Both she and Melissa can do that to me. Why am I so weak-willed with these women?

As I approach the pond, there is Ultima seated on a lawn chair and an empty one beside her.

“What?” I ask, pointing.

“Previously,” she says, “we have sat upon the boulders surrounding the water. Not a good fit for an old Flossbottom.”

I concur by taking the empty chair.

She smiles. “It has been a little while since we have spoken. How have you been?”

“Good,” I say. “And you and your dragon?” I ask politely.

“Well, as well,” she replies. “I’m looking to trade a fairy tale from your world for a kiss from mine.” There is a bit of a glimmer in her eye.

I know “trading” in her world is akin to sharing in ours, but given the dragon’s greed, it comes out as such.

“What is in my head is a story recently read, The Three Fairies of Sandy Batoum. I think it odd, but I think of you as odd. Let’s see what you think of it.”

A young lad is apprenticed to the king’s butcher on the day of the king’s daughter’s marriage. For the morning after, the king wants the butcher to produce forty sheep for breakfast.

The butcher falls into deep worry, given the short notice, but the lad offers to do the task if the butcher gives him a bag of nuts. From evening until dawn, the lad enjoys himself eating the nuts. In the morning, he prays to God to aid him, and God obliges with the forty prepared sheep.

In gratitude, the butcher offers the lad his daughter in marriage, disregarding that he had promised her to another butcher. The rival, in false friendship, proposes a picnic for himself and the lad. He sends the lad off to pick grapes from a gigantic vine. The rival knows that anyone sent to pick grapes from the vine never returns.

While picking the grapes, the apprentice sees a fairy below him. He seizes her by the hair and smites her to the ground. She turns into a dove and leaves a golden bracelet behind, declaring, “Whoever searches for me will find me at Sandy Botoum.”

The next day, the king demands from the butcher three hundred and fifty gold pieces that the butcher owes to him. The lad offers up the bracelet to pay the debt. While the butcher is at the marketplace to exchange the bracelet for gold coin, a greedy merchant sees the exchange and declares the bracelet belongs to him.

In the trial that follows, the lad says the bracelet belonged to him, and given forty days, he would produce more bracelets.

Ultima frowns. “Trial. What is that?”

“It involves judges, juries, and lawyers.”

Ultima looks at me blankly.

“How do you resolve disputes in your world?”

“Ah! The convocation of dragons. A panel of seven dragons listens to the arguments and renders a fair decision.”

“Can it be appealed?”

Ultima looks shocked. “Why? Of course not?”

“We don’t have dragons.”

“Oh, right. How unfortunate for you.”

Part Two

Ultima Listens

I continue with the apprentice’s tale. The lad goes to the seashore and waves down a ship. At sea, a fairy appears and tries to seize the rudder and sink the ship. Again, the lad takes her by the hair and casts her down. As before, she turns into a dove, saying, “Whoever seeks for me will find me at Sandy Batoum,” leaving him a golden bracelet.

After being put ashore, he shelters with an old woman, who advises him not to be merry, for the king’s son has died. The lad asks to be taken to the tomb. Through a small hole that he bores, he sees a fairy cavorting with the king’s son. He enters the tomb and seizes the fairy by the hair, following the same ritual as before. He then returns the son to the living.

The king rewards him with any wish that he can grant. His desire is for someone to lead him to Sandy Batoum. An old man with that knowledge is found. The old man instructs him that three lions guard the home of the fairies. He must give each lion a sheep to gain passage. This the lad does and hides himself, peeking through a small hole to watch what happens.

Three doves fly in and turn into girls. As they eat and drink, they, in turns, describe their encounter with the apprentice, each saying, “To the health of that youth, I am drinking this wine.” After the third toast, the youth reveals himself, is embraced and kissed, and given more bracelets at his request.

In the morning, the eldest girl asks her lion how long it will take him to carry the youth back to his home. The lion says three hours, the second lion says two hours, and the third, belonging to the youngest, says half an hour.

Returning via the fleetest lion, the apprentice confronts the greedy merchant. The bracelet the merchant claimed was his is placed among all the other bracelets. The merchant cannot distinguish the one he claimed from the others and is hung for his dishonesty.

A forty-day and forty-night wedding feast is held for the youth.

Ultima applauds. “Lovely little tale. What is it you find odd about it?”

“Well,” I say, “having God as a magical helper seems a bit unchristian to me.”

I get another of Ultima’s blank looks.

“Christianity?” I venture the word.

Ultima shakes her head.

“Judaism?”

Nothing.

“Islam? Hinduism? Zen?”

“Ah! Yes. We have Zen,” she smiles. “You are talking about philosophy.”

“Actually, religion.”

We are back to the blank stare. “Let me try a few names. Jesus, Muhammad, Buddha.”

“Yes,” she says cautiously, “the ancient teachers, all previous to our Dragon Era. These teachers are interesting and still read but are really footnotes in our history. There were some fights among them, you know.”

“Do you have a God, I must ask?”

“God is a primary concept, the cause of creation. Oh, I think I see your point. Having a primary concept as a magical helper does seem strange.”

Strange indeed!

Part Three

Ultima Comments

“However,” Ultima taps a finger on the back of her other hand, “this butcher’s apprentice had unearned knowledge about magic. How did he know to seize the fairies by the hair and bash them on the ground?”

“My concern exactly,” I reply. “Royalty and henwives (witches), although they be at the opposite ends of respectability, are expected to have a handle on magic. Not commoners. Not butcher’s apprentices. Yet here we are without an excuse for a character who can navigate magic’s complexities.”

Ultima’s expression turns thoughtful. “The fairy tales always tell us what the protagonist does, but never why.”

“Yes,” I say. “These tales are told in the third person, never in the first person.”

Ultima points her finger at me. “What do you mean by third and first person?”

I hesitate and collect my thoughts. “Fairy tales seldom use the word ‘I.’ The narrator tells us what the protagonist is doing, but not what he or she is thinking. We are a fly on the wall, observing.”

Ultima nods in understanding, then, with another thought, pushes her feet against the ground, making her lawn chair creak. “Do we think of his possessing magic as a weakness or strength for the story?”

I shift uneasily in my chair, causing it to creak in a mating call to hers. “It is a unique element in the tale, as is God being a magical helper. I am not going to pass judgment.”

“I will give you leave,” she says. “But what of his abusing the fairies?”

I take a deep breath and contemplate. “The abuse was justified. In each case, it ended the evil being pursued by the fairies. The first fairy guarded a vineyard, destroying anyone who picked its grapes. The second fairy sank ships she encountered. The third brought about the apparent death of those with whom she wished to cavort. His acts were noble, ending evil.”

“I will not say you are wrong.” Ultima waves a finger in the air. “However, I will disagree. Let me suggest he did them a favor by breaking a curse under which they were subjected. When he defeated them, they turned into doves, a sign of peace, and left him a gift of a bracelet.”

“Oh, I like that,” I say. “It makes sense. They even tell him where to find them at Sandy Batoum. But let me introduce another ‘however.’ When it comes to helpful brownies, if you give them a gift, anything beyond a bowl of milk and crumbs, they appear to be offended and leave. Is the fairies’ reaction of the same unanticipated nature?”

“No. I felt the girls’ relief from their evil was sincere. They toast him with wine, not knowing he was listening. Then they embraced him, giving him more bracelets. But there is one more point. When he returns and successfully pleads his case against the greedy merchant, there is a three-day wedding feast celebration. I assume he marries the butcher’s daughter? We really have not heard from her in this tale.”

“A good observation. Dawkins, who collected this story, suggests, in his notes on this tale, that the youth marries the youngest fairy and not the butcher’s daughter. His translation does not make that clear. I can say no more.”

“You are right,” she says. “It is an odd story. But, oh, I have not fulfilled my part of the bargain.”

She leans over and gives me a kiss. I notice a twinkle in her eye.

Your thoughts?

An Interview with Tammy Burke

This month, I have decided to interview a fellow fantasy writer. I think I will do this from time to time. First up is an acquaintance of mine, Tammy Burke.

Tammy is the award-winning author of the Heart of the Worlds YA epic fantasy series, where faeries, flying pegasi, and ancient mysteries intertwine with stories of courage, belonging, and hope.

A former journalist with more than 400 published articles, she now helps writers master storytelling through speaking engagements and her educational platform, Mythic Observatory. She is also an admin for David Farland’s Apex-Writers and has served as president and conference chair for the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group (GLVWG).

When not writing, Tammy studies historical swordplay with sword and dagger and competes in fencing tournaments, drawing inspiration from these techniques to enrich her action scenes and worldbuilding.

Here is the interview:

What is your identity as a writer. How do you see yourself?

What a great question! I predominantly see myself as a young adult fantasy writer who feels deeply passionate about telling stories that offer hope and the message you are always enough…along with offering a kick-butt adventure with researched faery lore and real-life melee experience. I fence sword and dagger.

I also see myself as someone who pays it forward in the writing community. I’ve had some amazing mentors and teachers, and it makes my heart happy that I can pay it forward. I do this partly through presentations I give to various audiences, including an international one. 

Q: When did you begin to see yourself as that kind of writer? Was there a seminal moment, or did it evolve?

Another great question. I think when we first start writing, we don’t have a complete writing identity because we’re still learning ourselves. But we do have aspirations. Based on my aspirations, which are pretty close to who I’ve become, I’d say from the time I first set words to paper.

Q: Where/when/how do your story ideas originate?

For my Heart of the Worlds series, that story seed came into existence back in the 90s. That was before I could do it justice, but I worked on it off and on.

Since then, I’ve learned all sorts of things with the craft, including techniques to come up with story seeds quickly. I think the most important question to ask at any point of the pre-writing to drafting phase is “What if?” Oh, and trust your subconscious. It knows your stories long before it clues in your conscious mind.

Q: OK, are you a plotter or a panster? Do you plan out a story or discover it as you write?

I started my writing career as a pantser, and I would write myself off into the tall grass with no way back. I never finished anything.

So, I went the other way, and I became very much a plotter. I ended up with a severe case of plot-crastination.  And guess what? I never finished anything.

Neither technique worked for me. Then I found my sweet spot. 40 percent plotting and 60 percent pantsing. If I have just a bit more than the main story beats, I know what I’m writing to…so no getting lost, and it also allows me freedom of exploration. And that helps keep me engaged. 

Who are your inspirations?

Several years ago, I would have given you a list of amazing writers who inspired me. Some of them would still be on that list, but some of them made bad choices. That is always a problem with having heroes. It’s disappointing, and sometimes crushing, when they fall off their pedestals.

But that realization made me discover something. I find myself increasingly being inspired by the groups who I’m working with. Seeing them grow, learn, tell amazing stories… that’s the inspiration that pulls me out of bed in the morning. What can I learn, accomplish, and develop that I can bring back and teach.

Story itself is another inspiration, and storytellers are superheroes. Seriously. I mean story has the ability to change hearts, minds, souls, paradigms, cultures… They let people know that they’re not alone, that there are ways of finding solutions, that good can overcome evil. I mean, story can even cross time and space itself.

Q: Have you ever had a minor character demand a larger part in the story? Has your story suddenly taken off in a direction you did not see coming?

Lol. Yes! I recently had a minor character who demanded a larger part. This was in book 3 of my Heart of the Worlds series, and her name is Darla. She was meant to be a very minor character. In fact, at first she didn’t even have a name. But I gave her one and the next thing she was pushing my antagonist off to the side. I was like wait a minute you’re changing the entire plot. And then I realized no, this made story stronger. 

So yes, sometimes it happens. I think the key thing to consider when you are facing that is…will this make the story stronger? And no one can answer that except for you, the author.

I think this also answers that second question because by allowing Darla to have a much bigger role in book 3, the plot changed. It still arrived approximately the same place at the climax, but it was more vibrant, and it filled in a plot hole in book five.

Q: On your social media, you talk a lot about structure. To you, what is the importance of story structure and its ramifications?

Oh, you’re talking about my Mythic Observatory platform on Substack and YouTube. I’m really enjoying talking about structure there. I recently went through character arc and the Seven Narrative Threads to keep your middle from sagging.

Structure is important in story. It’s the foundation. It also is a plotting tool that lets you find what’s missing in your story. It is not a paint by number or cookie cutter though I’m sure one could use it as such.

And know there are different plotting structures. For me story embryo works extraordinarily well. I can see at a glance where plot twists would provide the best bang and how tochiastically have theme and transformation resonate effectively.

Q: What question have I not asked that you want to answer?

How about what I’m up to next. Currently, I’m working on Faeries Don’t Love, book four to my Heart of the Worlds series. I have my shingle out for copy editing, and I’m taking clients. And I am wrapping up season one in the Mythic Observatory. Season two will start up this fall. I may have other news coming soon, but I don’t have anything that I can announce just yet.

https://tfburkeauthor.com/

https://www.facebook.com/TFBurkeAuthor

https://www.instagram.com/tfburkeauthor

https://mythicobservatory.substack.com

https://youtube.com/@themythicobservatory

Tammy, thank you.

Grimm Again

Earlier this evening, I found Thalia and Jini popping popcorn in the kitchen.

“Movie night?” I asked.

“Nixie night,” they replied.

I was a little stunned. “You’re visiting the Nixie? Why?”

Thalia and Jini glanced at each other. “Girl stuff,” they said.

“She’s dangerous, you know?”

“We know. Melissa has warned us as well.”

I let it go at that. I had tried to set up unbreakable rules with my daughter, which only led to the appeal of forbidden fruit. I tried to keep her from making mistakes, but it only kicked the can down the road for her to make mistakes later.

Nonetheless, I feel uneasy. I divert my attention by picking up Grimm when I settle into my comfy chair. Using Thalia’s childhood method of choosing a story, I close my eyes, whirl a finger in the air, and bring it down at random on the table of contents.

The Knapsack, the Hat, and the Horn.

I don’t think I have read this one.

Three young brothers, who found themselves getting poorer and poorer, decided to try their luck in the greater world. After much travel, they found a mountain made of silver. The eldest brother took as much as he could carry and returned home. The other two traveled on until they found a mountain made of gold. This contented the middle brother, but not the youngest.

The youngest entered what seemed to be an endless forest, in the middle of which he wished for something to eat. Magically, a table appears covered with a tablecloth itself covered with food and drink. He gladly feasts and then takes the tablecloth with him. It never failed to provide food.

During his travels, he comes upon a charcoal burner preparing his sorry meal of potatoes. The young traveler offered a better repast. Impressed, the charcoal burner proposed to exchange magical gifts. He had a knapsack that could produce seven soldiers to do one’s bidding.

The exchange was made, and the traveler took to the road again. After a short while, he tested the knapsack and sent the seven soldiers back to the charcoal burner to seize the tablecloth. Thus began his career of deception.

Next, he came upon another charcoal burner who had a hat, which, when turned about, produced cannons firing at will. The scenario repeats itself.

At last, a third charcoal burner had a horn that, when blown, would bring down walls, not unlike the horn at Jericho.

Armed with these three magical gifts, plus the tablecloth, he returns home. His brothers do not recognize him dressed in a tattered coat, carrying a worn knapsack, and wearing an old hat. Offended, the youngest produced an army to defeat his brothers.

The king got wind of this conflict and sent his army to quell the dispute. With a turn of the hat, the king’s army was sent packing. Seeing his advantage, the youngest demanded the king’s daughter in marriage and rule over the kingdom. The king could not resist and gave over his daughter.

She wheedled out of him the nature of the old knapsack, which she stole, and sent the soldiers back to kick her new husband out of the kingdom. But he still had the hat, and the cannons forced her and her father to relent.

Again, she seduced him to reveal the power of the hat and stole it when he slept. Enraged, and still possessing the horn, he blew it in revenge, bringing down the castle fortification and city walls, crushing the king and the princess to death. He was then king.

WHAT A HORRIBLE STORY.

Where is the moral? The Grimms were good Lutherans.

In the background, I hear Thalia and Jini returning. They are giggling. They are giggling teenagers. Everything is fine.

Part Two

Soldiers’ Tales

The bell over Augustus’s door greets me as usual. The heavy scent of tobacco dominates the air. Augustus, reading a newspaper, looks up, sees me, and reaches for the canister of Elfish Gold.

“And fifty grams of Traveler’s Due,” I answer an unspoken question.

He nods in understanding, then frowns a little. “You haven’t ordered Traveler’s Due in quite some time.”

“A story I read last night brought it to mind.”

“Ah, yes, a story, of course. Which one?” He scoops out tobacco from the canister, measuring it by eye, and dumps it into a small paper bag on a scale. Fifty grams exactly.

“It was a Grimm story about which I am upset.”

“Really, let me guess. The Knapsack, the Hat, and the Horn.”

“How did you know?”

“It might be the most upsetting tale in the Grimms’ collection. But see here, I am glad you asked for Traveler’s Due. I have changed the mixture slightly and will value your opinion while we discuss the tale.”

That is his cue for us to head to his “testing room” as we always do. His comfy chairs are more well-worn than mine and covered with a dinge of smoky grey. If he were to upgrade and replace them, I would be scandalized. We light our pipes and settle in.

“I imagine,” says Augustus, through a haze of smoke, “you were taken aback by the lack of a moral, as was I.”

“Quite right.”

“There are,” Augustus continues, “many soldiers that figure into the Grimms’ tales in one way or another. Let me enumerate a few. There is The Three Army Surgeons to start. Then there are the soldiers in The Worn-Out Dancing Shoes, The Devil’s Sooty Brother, The Blue Light, and The Devil and His Grandmother. I am sure I could find other examples.”

“Point taken,” I say. “But the youngest brother is not a soldier.”

“He may as well be. He holds weapons of mass destruction.”

“OK, I will buy it, but where are you going with this line of thought?”

“Good question. I am thinking out loud. Would many of the audience for these stories be, themselves, soldiers in taverns or sitting around campfires? They might well be discharged soldiers wandering around, hoping for another war to employ them. A story where a common soldier wins out over everyone else—including royalty—would appeal to them. They would not be looking for moral messages. Rather, something to entertain them and suggest possibilities.

“While the Grimms were quick to promote Christian values, they were also looking for stories that represented the German folk voice. Soldiers were among that folk.”

I think on this for a moment. “That soldiers may not be longing for a moral in the stories they hear, I will concede. However, this is still a story with an unsympathetic protagonist. All the tropes of a fairy tale are there. There are three brothers starting out into the world. There are magical devices, a mountain of silver, a mountain of gold, a king, a princess, a marriage. It’s all there except a moral. Our protagonist gets away with murder. Even soldiers must have a sense of fairness.”

“I am not defending the tale,” Augustus responds.

I nod. “I guess what I am saying is this is an unusual tale for the Grimm collection.”

Augustus blows an exquisite smoke ring. “There we can agree.”

Part Three

Another Thought

I clean out my pipe and repack it. “I approve of the new mixture. What did you do?’

“For the most part, I added a little Latakia. I felt it needed a bit more punch.”

“Well, back to our subject,” I say. “What about these charcoal burners? Where did they come from?”

Augustus chuckles. ”I am glad you have asked that question. I will pontificate on this item. My family history tells me that my great-grandfather was one of them by trade.

“Charcoal burners have been underserved by the fairy tales, a missed opportunity. Oh, they do appear at times, usually in variants of known tales, especially in the lore of Scandinavian, Slavic, and—for some reason— particularly Czech populations, yet rarely. Such a shame. They are the perfect magical helper.

“At first glance, the charcoal burner is the male version of a henwife—practitioner of the black arts—and the old-woman-in-the-wood character. But he holds a unique position. His abode is in the forest, away from society. Forests, in the minds of pre-industrial people, were associated with danger and mystery, especially a deep, dark one. The charcoal burner was elemental to that environment.

Like the henwife, he was always poor. Forgive me an aside; these two occupations are lowly, affording little benefit, yet, in the tales, the practitioners have access to magic but do not take much advantage of it to improve their condition. I find that a curious point.

“But, back to my argument. Since our heroes often find themselves wandering around in the wilderness on their quests, who more likely are they to run into than a charcoal burner and his humble hospitality? A convenient story element. And if they have a magical device to share, all the better.”

I lift an eyebrow at that one. “I doubt the fairy-tale Michelin Guide would list these lodgings.”

“I’ll ignore that,” he says. “Metaphorically, though—and here is my strongest point—he is transforming wood into charcoal, transforming one thing into another, like our protagonist transforming from a commoner into a king. The tales are about transformation. Why do they not take advantage of this symbolism more often?”

I tamp my pipe and relight. “I have noticed that those with magical powers—the black arts—are usually women, witches. There are a few wizards in the tales. Oh, lots in modern fantasy writing, but not in the traditional fairy tales, just like there are lots of dragons in modern fantasy and few in fairy tales. Also note, there are not many fairies in fairy tales.”

Augustus applauds. “They should be called wonder tales.”

“I agree, but I am straying from what I meant to say. Ah, yes. Magical devices can fall into the hands of males, be they giants or humans, and they usually lose them to the protagonist through trickery, as in our story.”

“Your point being as it applies to charcoal burners?” Augustus looks at me quizzically.

What is my point? What am I talking about?

“I think I am trying to say men, in the tales, be they anything other than a wizard, do not hold the keys to transformation, even if they are charcoal burners who transform wood. True transformation is in the hands of women. Charcoal burners can only blunder about, not appreciating magical devices they happen to have.”

Augustus smirks at me. “Would Melissa approve of your notion that women excel in the dark arts, while men are simply amateurs?”

“That men are amateurs, she would agree. Associating women with evil, not so much. Say?” I hold my pipe in front of my face. “This mixture is making my mind fuzzy. You didn’t put something like opium in it, did you?”

Augustus smiles but does not answer.

Your thoughts?

Philipp Otto Runge, who?

For those who also read my Fairy Tale of the Month blog, you know I talk about Philipp Otto Runge, not a household name (there is a pun buried in there). I have more to say about him.

Everyone knows about the Brothers Grimm.

Let me refine that statement. Are all the inhabitants of Indonesia interested in Western children’s literature? Perhaps not.

Everyone in our Western culture knows about the Brothers Grimm.

That is more likely, but are there still illiterates among us?

Every educated person in our Western culture knows about the Brothers Grimm.

Now I feel pretty safe, but do they know the first names of these two brothers? I’ll guess the percentage falls by about 50%. When we come to Philipp Otto Runge, I think the “everyone knows about” lands at about 1%.

I invite you to become a member of this exclusive 1% club with the following information.

Runge was an artist, draftsman, painter, writer, and color theorist regarded as a leading figure in the German Romantic Movement. His submission to the Brothers Grimm’s call for German folk fairy tales—The Juniper Tree and The Fisherman and His Wife—so affected Wilhelm that Runge’s style became the voice of the Grimm’s tales. However, he was known better for his paintings and portraits.

Born into a well-to-do shipbuilding family, the ninth of eleven children, he contracted pulmonary tuberculosis as a child and continued to be in frail health all his life. In his early twenties, he took up the career of an artist with his older brother’s support. He spent most of his adult years in Hamburg. He married, had four children, the last of which was born the day after Runge died at the age of thirty-three.

Runge, having a mystical, deeply Christian faith, conceived of a multimedia work of art before the word “multimedia” was current. The project bore the name “Times of the Day,” centered around four paintings to be housed in a chapel, accompanied by music and his own poetry. He hoped it would spark a new religious movement based on his notions of the harmony of the universe.

Some of his works are compared to those of William Blake. There is the suggestion that Runge served as an inspiration for the Art Nouveau Movement. In any event, his early death has denied us the full development of a genius.

You can find images of his works Here.

Bird Songs

I’ve had a very pleasant evening with Duckworth. Nothing special. I proposed a meal, followed by our sitting in the study drinking espresso. Duckworth does love a good cup of espresso, and I always make an effort to provide the best. I only drink espresso when he visits. I like it well enough, but it is strong. I keep my machine for it in the walk-in closet on the third floor.

My third floor can be a little “wonky,” I like to say, but lately I have had no problems. Up the stairs I go to return the machine to its storage place.

Apparently, there are lessons I refuse to learn.

Opening the door to the walk-in closet, I find myself in Melissa’s bedroom. She is dozing in a stuffed chair beside her bed but startles awake at my entry. She pulls her night shift about her.

“What are you doing here? How did you . . . I locked up hours ago!”

“I am not here,” I say. “I’m in my attic.” I look behind me, through the door, to see my third-floor hallway.

Melissa glares at me until her countenance quickly softens. “Oh, no. It’s my fault. I’ve summoned you again. Sorry. I didn’t intend to.”

“Well,” I say, “I am sure my cursed attic has something to do with it.”

“Oh, please, have a seat.”

I take a chair with the espresso machine resting heavily on my lap. Melissa continues.

“I just read a variant of The Juniper Tree and decided to talk to you about it as I fell asleep, and now you are here.”

“Well then, what is the story that has brought me here?”

She holds up the book from her lap. “Folk and Fairy Tales from Denmark, volume two, collected by Evald Tang Kristensen and translated by Stephen Badman. This version is called The Little Bird’s Song.”

There was a husband and wife with a son named Hans. The mother died, and the husband remarried. By his second wife, he had a daughter. The new wife much preferred the girl over her stepson and was abusive toward him. His father did little to protect him.

Events came to a head when the woman decided to dispose of Hans. When her husband was at the mill and Hans returned from school, she proposed treating Hans and her daughter, Berline. She took them to the attic, where there was a chest filled with apples. She gave one to Berline, who took her treasure back downstairs, and allowed Hans to choose an apple for himself. As he bent over the chest, she slammed down the lid, decapitating the boy.

She then set the body up, sitting in a chair by the stove, tied the head back on with a scarf, and placed an apple in his hand. In a short time, she sent Berline to ask Hans if he had finished his apple. The corpse, of course, did not answer. The mother sent Berline a second time and then a third, with the instruction to box his ears if he did not answer.

When his head fell to the floor, Berline thought she had killed her brother. Without pause, the wife cooked up Hans for the evening meal, turning him into a soup. Berline warned her father about what her mother had done, but he took no heed. During the repast, Berline sat under the table, crying, and collected the bones as they were thrown to the floor. These she put into a gilded chest.

Sometime later, she reopened the chest to gaze upon her brother’s remains. Out flew a lovely little bird, the prettiest she had ever seen. It flew off to sit on the roof of a goldsmith’s home and sang a morbid song about its previous life. Nonetheless, the song charmed the goldsmith, and the bird sang the song again in exchange for a string of pearls.

The next visit was to a blacksmith to sing for an axe. That was followed by a visit to a miller to acquire a millstone. The bird flew back to its home, perched on the roof, and sang its morbid song. Berline came out to see if it was her little bird. The bird dropped the pearl necklace down to her. When the mother came out to see what was going on, the bird chopped off her head with the axe. When the father came out to see what had happened to his wife, he was crushed by the millstone.

Berline kissed the little bird, and it turned back into Hans. They lived happily together ever after.

“Well,” I say, “that is different for The Juniper Tree. Different enough to be interesting.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Melissa replies.

Part Two

Let’s Compare

“The Juniper Tree has an interesting and particular history.” I feel a pontification coming on.

“Yes, it does, but please remind me,” Melissa says. “You just startled me out of sleep.”

“Right. I’ve been drinking espresso all evening with Duckworth. So I’m wide awake.” She’s given me free rein. “The Grimms were not field collectors of fairy tales. That science had not been invented when they wrote Kinder und Hausmärchen. Rather, they collected the tales from friends, family, and acquaintances. One of the acquaintances was Philipp Otto Runge, a German Romantic artist, something of a polymath, who died too young.

“He sent to the Grimms The Juniper Tree, and The Fisherman and His Wife. Runge’s ‘voice’ for his two stories is what Wilhelm adopted as the voice of the Grimm fairy tales. All the stories in Kinder und Hausmärchen were vigorously edited and reedited, even though the Grimms’ goal was to find the German folk voice. There was a nationalistic spirit driving their work, facing down the culture of the Holy Roman Empire.”

Melissa taps her finger on the cover of the book that lies again on her lap. “Let’s compare the stories side-by-side.”

“I’m game. How does the Danish version start?”

“By the end of the first paragraph, we know a husband and his wife had a child, Hans, but the wife dies, and the husband remarries. The second wife has a daughter with him, whom she dotes over, treating Hans badly.”

“Oh, my,” I say, “Runge’s version has quite an opening scene. One winter’s day, a rich man’s wife is peeling an apple under a juniper tree. She cuts her finger, and drops of blood fall onto the snow. She wishes for a child as red as blood and white as snow. The story follows her progression month by month, tracing her emotions that move from happiness to sadness. In the seventh month, she eats the juniper berries.”

“That,” Melissa says, “was considered an abortive drug at the time.”

“Correct. In the eighth month, she asks her husband to bury her under the juniper tree. In the ninth month, she gives birth to a boy as red as blood and as white as snow, then dies. The husband buries her beneath the tree as promised. The story does not give a name to the boy.

“He remarries and has a daughter by his second wife. The new wife has it in for the boy, just as in the Danish version, but a motive is given that the boy stood in the way of her daughter inheriting her husband’s wealth. The story suggests the devil is also at play.”

“Therefore,” Melissa temples her fingers, “what my tale covers in a paragraph is a couple of pages in the Grimms. Juniper is much more detailed and dramatic. Then we come to the chest of apples. On the surface, the events are the same or at least similar.

“The children are offered an apple, the boy loses his head—literally—the wife props up the body, ties the head back on with a scarf, the daughter knocks off his head (this is where we hear her name as Berline in the Danish version and Marlene in the Grimms), and the boy is cooked up and served to the father as the daughter, weeping, collects the bones.”

“Yes,” I say. “But we both know the circumstances are different. In the Grimms’ tale, the second wife acts out of evil impulse, inventing the crime as she goes along. In The Little Bird’s Song, the wife plots it out beforehand. However, it is in the Grimms’ version that she comes up with an excuse for the husband’s son not being at home. In the Danish, Berline warns her father about what has happened, but he does not seem to believe her and does not question.”

I raise a finger. “Marlene collects the bones in a silk neckerchief and puts them under the juniper tree.”

Melissa nods. “Berline collects the bones and puts them in a gilded chest.”

“Marlene watches as smoke and flame rise up, out of which flies a beautiful bird.”

“One day, Berline opens the gilded chest, and out flies a beautiful bird.”

“The bird flies off to a goldsmith.”

“Aren’t you uncomfortable with that espresso machine in your lap?”

I set it down on the floor.

Part Three

The Differences

“Where were we? Ah yes,” I say. “The beautiful bird flies off to a goldsmith’s house, perches on the roof, and sings his morbid little song.”

Melissa echoes, “The beautiful bird flies off to a goldsmith’s house, perches on the roof, and sings his morbid little song.”

“The bird sings his song a second time after the goldsmith promises him a golden chain.”

“This is an odd note in my version. The goldsmith gives the bird a pearl necklace, not a gold chain as in Runge’s tale. The illogic cries out to me.”

“Granted. My bird flies off to a shoemaker, landing on his roof. He brings out his whole family and all the servants to hear the bird sing after promising a pair of red shoes.”

Melissa knits her brow. “The bird flies off to a blacksmith to sing for an axe.”

“The bird then goes to a miller, whose twenty workmen are finishing a millstone. This, for repeating the song, is given to the bird, who wears it like a collar.”

“There are twenty workmen in the Danish version. That always struck me like a Greek chorus. My miller also gives the bird a millstone to wear like a collar.”

“The bird returns to his father’s house to settle in the juniper tree.”

“The bird returns to his father’s house to settle on the rooftop. There is no juniper tree in my version.”

“Here,” I say, “is where our stories diverge even more. The bird sings his song, which is heard by the household. Marlene begins weeping again. The mother is filled with horror. The clueless father falls into a blissful state. He goes out to see the beautiful bird, who drops the golden chain about his neck. He returns to the house, showing off his prize.

“The wife has fallen into madness. Marlene visits the bird to be given the red shoes. She, too, like her father, is filled with joy. The wife, in her madness, flees from the house. The bird drops the millstone upon her. The father and Marlene come back out of the house to see smoke and flames rising out of where the millstone has fallen and sunk into the earth. When all clears, there is the son, returned to life. Happily, they return to the house and eat.”

Melissa, again, taps her finger on her book. “The bird flies back to his father’s house, settles on the rooftop, and sings his song. Berline comes out, and he drops the pearl necklace down to her. The mother comes out and gets the axe, literally, perhaps a retaliatory beheading. The father comes out to see what has happened to his wife and receives the millstone on his head. The little bird flies down, and Berline kisses him, turning the bird back into her brother. They live happily together for the rest of their lives.”

Melissa and I pause to contemplate.

“Both end a little uncomfortably for me,” I conclude.

“Violently, certainly.” Melissa nods. “Another odd item: I recall Runge’s version starting out stating this story might be two thousand years old.”

I raise a finger. “I think Runge is making an historical reference, comparing his story to the curse of the House of Atreus.”

“My thinking as well. Here are more oddities. Why in my story are there apples in a chest in the attic? And why would a goldsmith be handling pearls? Runge’s story is much more consistent in these matters.”

I am back to pontificating. “Let me suggest that Runge, as a folklorist, is not to be trusted. He was an artist; he made sense out of the material he covered. Real folk material is full of inconsistencies and nonsense given its dream-based origins.”

I think that is a good point, but missed by Melissa, who has fallen asleep again. I pick up my espresso machine and quietly close the door.

Standing in the attic hallway, I open the door again. It is my walk-in closet. I return the machine to its shelf.

Will Melissa think this was all a dream?

I stop at the top of the stairs.

Are we all someone else’s dream? Might I be the imagination of some wacky author? That would explain a lot.

Your thoughts?

AI vs. Movable Type: Which constitutes the greater crime?

OK, so I got you to start reading this missive with a catchy title, but I see a parallel, and I have a point to make.

Johannes Gutenberg, around 1450, invented a system for printing books that used a couple of emerging technologies, replacing what had been the exclusive task of monks and scribes. Books had been rare and expensive. Suddenly, they were cheap and available. Also, there were pamphlets and broadsides.

In 1517, according to tradition, Martin Luther nailed his Ninety-five Theses to the door of All Saints’ Church in Wittenberg. It was a local act of dissent. There had been local acts of dissent to the Catholic Church before, but the Ninety-five Theses was reprinted and distributed, getting the word out.

Then Martin Luther upped and translated the Bible into the German vernacular! What was he thinking? Giving the common people access to the word of God without the necessary filter of the Catholic Church? What did that get us? The Thirty Years’ War, for one; Protestant and Catholic princes battled each other, resulting in the deaths of a third of the German population.

Considering this single example, was it worth the cost of having movable type? Should we not, at long last, return to the less inflammatory system and limit knowledge to those who do not have the training to understand?

OK, I hope you see the exaggerations I’ve made for this fallacious argument. While Gutenberg’s improvements were significant, they were only one factor in an evolving European culture moving toward what historians have labeled the Enlightenment.

I am making a comparison between then and now. AI is an emerging technology introduced into a world of many moving parts. Interestingly, movable type is a technology no longer used, replaced by other, more inexpensive digital methods.

I see two options:

• Ignore AI. Do not use it in any of its forms, which is not to be on the internet; off the grid. Welcome to the world of Luddites.
• Accept AI. As with the effect of movable type, it is already established. There is no going back.

I am in full agreement with Linda Caroll , who writes on Substack, when she says we need clarity. If an item has used AI, which is derivative, that act must be acknowledged as such. In my books, I state the use of AI in the cover design. (Oh, check out my new covers for A Vacant Throne and Sword of Trueterrathat my son created with AI. He likened the experience to being an art director.)

In addition, the courts have said derivative content cannot be copyrighted. Does that open up a whole new consideration? Can we lean on the writings of great authors and yet profit from them when we ask for paid subscribers? If I use AI to simply correct my punctuation, am I being derivative? AI is, ultimately, derivative.

What I am suggesting is that we have been here before but continue to struggle. We would be wise to consider the possible consequences, given our experience. What we need to do is use AI and not let AI use us. AI would lead us towards the common denominator. We ought to aim to be unique. This, in my mind, is the current challenge. The consequence could be profound.