cjkiernanhttps://chaztales.wordpress.comStoryteller Charles Kiernan, now retired from gainful employment, performs at theatres, listening clubs, schools, libraries, and arts festivals. He is also coordinator for the Lehigh Valley Storytelling Guild, Pennsylvania State Representative for the National Youth Storytelling Showcase, Pennsylvania State Liaison for the National Storytelling Network and recipient of the 2008 Individual Artist Award from the Bethlehem Fine Arts Commission.
He has, of late, been fobbing himself off as Mark Twain with some success. Twain is wont to ramble on about his boyhood memories, the newspaper publishing business, life on the Mississippi and frogs. Mostly, though, he likes to talk about the river.
Charles also performs Americana stories, collectively labeled the "Lost Dollar" stories. This is a collection of Appalachian tales whose wisdom and humor is woven into the life of a little village stuck way back in the hills. The village is named “Lost Dollar” after the original settler’s mishap that caused him to stay there. The main industries seem to be the growing of apples and the catching of catfish. Just ask about Uncle Willard's Catfish!
Departing from this continent, he also specializes in Brothers Grimm and other fairy tales. Be warned, however, he does tell them in their original spirit, under the belief that the "grimness" of Grimm serves a purpose, and should not be removed.
In addition, Charles is a writer, best known for his blog “Fairy Tale of the Month” (https://chaztales.wordpress.com). His middle grade novel, Ailuros, resides with his agent, looking for a publishing home. Two other middle grade novels are in progress.
So, my New Year’s resolution was to properly launch the squeal to A Vacant Throne. Here we are in the middle of February, and I haven’t forgotten about my resolution. Not a bad start.
Crucial to this process, of course, is proofreading. Don’t try this at home.
Seriously, don’t try to proofread your own work. You wrote those errors, and you will read right through them. Then there is comma usage and other such punctuation pitfalls. There are a number of online editors, such as Grammarly and Hemingway. Almost all of them have a free version worth checking out. For my (lack of) money, QuillBot has the best free version. It will integrate into Word (if you have a new enough version), and you can call it up in Word. The free version will process up to 20,000 words at a time. You may need to chunk your novel into digestible parts to use the free version.
A quick tip. If you use QuillBot in Word, bring it up, select Grammar Checker, then move your cursor over to the text and hit Ctrl A. The QuillBot’s AI magic is off and running.
“AI!” you may say. Don’t think you haven’t used it already. It is behind most search engines and many apps. AI is a tool. It is a hammer. We can use it to build a house or bash in our neighbor’s head. The choice is ours. And, like the hammer, it is here to stay.
I am not going to suggest you use an online editor in lieu of a living proofreader or editor. However, the cleaner a manuscript you submit to a professional, the more likely they will work with you in the future and the more professional you will look. Don’t underestimate that.
Years ago, when we mailed (not emailed) entire manuscripts to agents, the first time I did that, I was not careful to follow the precise instructions and sent it in the wrong font. It was returned to me in my SASE without a mark or comment upon it. I am sure he opened it, saw the wrong font, and sent it back to me unread. Research how to be professional.
One more item before I go crawling off to bed. I shelled out five bucks to get a book launch checklist from Paper Raven. For the five dollars, they offer up some other freebies, but which I have not explored as yet. I intend to use the checklist. One of my faults is being unstructured. I’ll let you know how this works for me. And, yes, I am a panster.
All I have to do now is run the above through QuillBot, and I can go to bed.
I find the winter doldrums a good time to straighten things up around the house, especially my study. My table, piled high with stacks of books, became my first target to establish orderliness.
I have them mostly back in their proper places on the bookshelves, but here in front of me, previously hidden by dusty tomes, are three clear, acrylic paperweights with a blooming flower captured at each of their centers. The three sat in the box they came in. A gift from—I don’t recall.
How long have they been here?
I pick the box up and head for the third floor, to what I think of as the nick-nack room. It brims with items I own but have no use for.
The bare, wooden stairwell up to the third floor echoes with the hollow sound of my footsteps. I should probably carpet this someday. I open the door to the nick-nack room and am greeted by darkness and a cold draft. A window must have been left cracked open.
I reach for the light switch and find my hand touching the bark of a tree trunk. Around me are other trees barely visible in the moonlight. Not far ahead is a campfire, its light showing the arc of a wagon wheel and the broad side of a caravan, as well as the figures of three, black shawled, seated women. I venture forward.
“Ladies,” I say in greeting.
“Ah! Here he is at last,” says one of the three ancient crones I see before me. “Sit, sir. You have taken your time. Look at us! What makes you think we would last much longer?”
“Oh, sister,” says another of them. “Don’t be hard on him. He is here in time for us.”
“And so he is,” says the third. “I will start the stories.”
In a fair forest lived a girl along with her four brothers, father, and mother. She had fallen in love with a handsome, rich huntsman, but he would take no notice of her, never answering her calls to him.
She entreated the devil to aid her. He gave her a mirror and told her to show it to the huntsman. She did, but the huntsman knew this to be the work of the devil and ran away. Too late, the girl found out that whoever looked into the mirror thereafter belonged to the devil and that both she and the huntsman were now his.
Still, the devil promised she would get her huntsman if she would give him her four brothers, father, and mother. The girl, for her love of the huntsman, did so.
The four brothers, the devil turned into four strings, each of a different thickness. The father, the devil made into a strangely shaped wooden box with one long arm. The mother became a stick with her hair becoming horsehair.
Stringing the father with the four brothers and drawing the mother across the strings, the devil invented the violin. The music he played caused the girl to laugh and cry. The devil told the girl to play the violin to attract her huntsman. This she did, and the huntsman was drawn to her.
They only had nine days together before the devil returned and demanded they worship him. They refused, and the devil took them away, leaving the violin on the forest floor. One of the Roma found it and played it for all who would listen, causing them to laugh or cry at his will, depending on how he played.
“Do my eyes play tricks on me?” I say. “Now that this story has ended, the three of you look a good bit younger than when I sat down with you.”
They laugh, smile, and nod to each other.
Fairy Tale of the Month: January 2024 Romany Tales – Part Two
Caravan
Next Tale
The second of the Roma women feeds the campfire. Sparks fly up like little stars ascending to heaven. She adjusts her shawl around her shoulders and begins her tale.
The emperor of Bukovina gave a ball, during which a mist descended and carried away the empress. The emperor’s three sons set off to search for their mother.
They came to a place in the road that went off in three directions. Each brother took one of the paths. The youngest, a seer as well as a prince, suggested they each take a bugle to blow upon and call the others should they find their mother.
Entering a forest, the youngest eats an apple from a tree, and two horns grow on his head. While crossing a stream, the flesh fell from his body. At another apple tree, he declared he would follow God’s will and eat another apple. The horns fell from his head, and when he forded another stream, his flesh was restored.
On a mountain, he found a spot bare of trees with a boulder setting at its center. He found he had the power to move the rock easily, which covered a huge, deep hole. With his bugle, he called his brothers. They made a rope from the bark of trees, and it was the youngest who was lowered in a basket into the hole; the elder brothers not willing to try.
In the world below, he came to a house in which dwelt a princess, carried off and kept there by a dragon. The prince inquired of his mother, and the princess sent him to her sister’s house, and she on to the youngest sister’s house. It was she who knew where to find the empress.
He rescued his mother as well as the three princesses and had his brothers pull them up one by one in the basket. Before he sent the youngest princess up, they pledged marriage.
Not trusting his brothers, he put a stone in the basket, and, as he suspected, halfway up, the brothers let go of the rope. Wandering into the dragon’s palace, he found a rusted ring. When he polished it, a little man appeared to grant his wishes. The youth wished to be in the upper world.
After returning, he washed his face with certain water, which altered his appearance. He went to his father’s tailor to become his apprentice, knowing the wedding clothes would soon be ordered.
The youngest princess refused to marry either of the two brothers, so they arranged to marry the other two sisters. The youngest prince/apprentice, with the help of the magic ring, made marvelous wedding clothes and was invited to the palace. The brothers decided to marry off the youngest princess, who had refused them, to this apprentice. She, at first, again refused to marry, but the apprentice revealed his identity to her, and she accepted.
The apprentice/prince had his little man build a three-story castle that turned on a screw to follow the sun. The roof of the castle was made of glass in which swam fish so that guests would look up and see fish sporting about.
During the wedding feast, the younger brother washed his face with other certain water, and all now recognized him. He challenged his brothers to come out with him, so that all three could cast their swords high into the air. If they were innocent, their swords would fall in front of them. If not, the swords would strike them on their heads. In this manner, the two elder brothers killed themselves.
“I am sure of it now,” I say. “You all are indeed younger. Your skin, no longer wrinkled.”
Even their shawls have changed. Instead of somber black, they are laced with red and blue threads.
“Of course,” says the second of them, “that is why you are here.”
Fairy Tale of the Month: January 2024 Romany Tales – Part Three
Gustave Doré
Last Story
The third woman puts a log on the fire, sending up another wave of sparks. I am sure her story is next in the round-robin of Romany tales.
She sits quietly, looking into the flame before speaking.
The Red King declared he would reward anyone who could tell him who it was that every evening stole the food he had locked away for himself. His three sons tried in turn, but only the youngest managed to stay awake. He witnessed his baby sister turn into a hideous witch, steal the food, and, with a somersault, turn back into a baby.
Instead of telling his father about what he saw, he asked for money and a horse so that he may go out into the world and find a wife. He buried the money in a stone chest and marked the spot with a stone cross.
He traveled for eight years until he came to the Queen of the Birds. He told her he looked for the place where there was no death or old age before he would marry. She told him that with her, there would be no death or old age until she had whittled away her forest. That did not satisfy the prince.
He traveled on for another eight years until he came to the Maiden of the Copper Castle. She told him there would be no death or old age with her until the mountain and forest were leveled.
Again, the prince traveled on until his horse warned him they had come to the Plain of Regret, and they must flee.
They came next to the home of the wind, who appeared to be a lad. Here there was no death or old age, and the prince declared he would never leave.
After a hundred years, he was warned by the wind to never go near the Mountain of Regret or the Valley of Grief. The prince did not listen, went there, was overcome with both, and desired to go home.
The wind told him that nothing remained of the Red King’s realm and that, in fact, a million years had passed. Again, the prince did not listen. While returning, he came across the Maiden of the Copper Castle. Nothing was left but the dying maiden. He buried her and went on. The very same thing happened with the Queen of the Birds.
When he arrived at the place of his father’s kingdom, all he could find was his father’s well. There was his witch/sister, who attacked him, but she, too, perished when he made the sign of the cross.
He met an old man who would not believe his story. To convince the old man, the prince found the spot where he buried the stone chest. Only the very tip of the stone cross remained above ground.
The prince dug up the stone chest and opened it. Inside, sitting on the coins, were death and old age, who leapt out and seized the prince. The old man gave him a decent burial, placed the stone cross at his head, and left with the money and the prince’s horse.
“Well, well,” I mutter.
The three young girls, brightly dressed in scarves, bangles hanging from their wrists—the shawls gone—smile back at me. The sun is rising, and I see my box of paperweights lies in my lap. I hand each of the girls a present, over which they ooh and aah.
“Ah, but kind sir,” one says, “we must now take from you your memory of this evening that we can remember ourselves as you see us now; then we will not forget and become old again.”
Lightly, they touch their fingertips to my head. I thrill at this odd sensation, then find myself at the nick-nack door.
Why am I standing here? What did I come for? Ah! This short-term memory stuff! It is so annoying getting old.
My writer’s journey today is about Reedsy. This is a service of great use to readers and writers. There is a ton of advice and instruction for writers, plus a few fun things like the Pen Name Generator.
I am focusing on the Reedsy Discovery app. Here is a list of books, submitted by authors, that have been reviewed by Reedsy-approved reviewers as well as readers. Readers can find recently published books filtered by their desired genré.
For us writers, here is part of our book launch. For a fifty-dollar fee, we can submit a book, pick a launch date, and select a reviewer, who may or may not decide to look at our book, although the book is still out there for other reviewers to pick up. In my case, my selected reviewer agreed to review the book but then did not. I emailed Reedsy and did get a response. Eventually, a reviewer did pick up my book and gave a good, thoughtful review. Having our book reviewed is not guaranteed, and our book will not appear on Discovery until it is reviewed. Basically, this is how Reedsy vets what is on the list.
However, because of this, my “launch date” was moved forward twice. That could be a logistical problem if we have another launch date on KDP. We would prefer that all of our launch activities happen at one time so that the Amazon algorithms take notice.
Another nice thing about getting a review, besides being part of Discovery’s listing, we can use part of that review in Amazon as an editorial review by submitting it through our Author Central page.
I got nine upvotes (thanks guys), which is not too bad. I take it that an upvote is a sort of “like.” I have not as yet made the grade to be listed in their weekly newsletter or at the top of their site. However, I have noticed some of the titles with that privilege don’t have all that many upvotes. Knocking around on the site, the highest upvotes I saw was 62. Most of the featured authors’ upvote count are in the teens.
Despite the ups and downs, I plan to use Reedsy as part of my book launch this year, my book launch being my new year’s resolution. The working title is Sword of Ailuros, but as in all things about genré publishing, I will have to consider if that is the best title.
More next month, until then check out Reedsy and its many resources.
Melissa has instituted the first, annual Christmas Day tea at the bookstore for her loyal customers, which involves Christmas cake and mince pie, as well as tea.
At 5:00 pm we all gathered. I was a little surprised—although I shouldn’t have been—to find both Augustus and Duckworth were among the loyal customers.
It is now 5:30 pm, and Melissa has asked Thalia to read a story to the gathering after allowing them thirty minutes to devour cake and pie and sip some tea. Jini is here too, for moral support.
Thalia takes the stage—actually a chair in front of everyone—and we take our seats. “I have chosen a story that may not sound like a Christmas tale. It does start with snow and ends happily. However, in between, there is death, giants, and violence. Well, it is a fairy tale.” Thalia glances at Melissa, who nods her head and quietly applauds. Thalia proceeds. “The story is called, The Snow, the Crow, and the Blood” by Seumas McManus from Donegal Fairy Stories.”
One day, in the dead of winter, Prince Jack went hunting and shot a crow. When he saw this dark bird, lying in the white snow with the bird’s red blood staining it, he thought to himself that he would marry the woman whose skin was as white as snow, hair as black as the crow’s feathers, and lips as red as blood. Jack soon set off to explore the world and find this woman.
On his travels, he soon came upon the scene of a dead man being refused burial until his debts were paid. Taking pity on the corpse, Jack gave all his money to settle the accounts. Traveling on, penniless, a little red man caught up to Jack to become his “boy.”
That first night, they came to the castle of the Giant of the Cloak of Darkness. The little red man defeated the giant, they feasted and slept in the castle, and left in the morning with the Cloak of Darkness.
The second night was spent at the castle of the Giant of the Purse of Plenty. This giant had two heads, but everything else fell out as the day before.
The third night was spent at the three-headed giant’s castle, and they left in the morning with the Sword of Light, the little red man having used the Cloak of Darkness to defeat him.
With the Purse of Plenty, they purchased two fine horses, had them shod with gold, and made for the castle of the Princess of the East, who, the little red man said, was the very woman Jack wanted to marry.
They made a fine showing. Their gold-shod horses jumped the castle wall. They showered the people with gold coins. The Princess of the East called Jack to her and gave him the challenge of three tasks if he wished to marry her. As proof that failure insured the aspirant’s death, she showed him the Rose Garden of the Heads. There were three hundred and sixty-five rosebushes, three hundred and sixty-four of which had a prince’s head as its blossom. She desired Jack’s to be the three hundred and sixty-fifth.
The first task was to take the gold comb from her hair between midnight and morning, but she warned him that she would not be on earth. The little red man, wearing the Cloak of Darkness, followed her down to hell, where the devil greeted her warmly. Since the little red man could not be seen, he was able to steal the comb. The next evening—the second task—in a like manner he steals her diamond ring.
The third task was a little different. Jack had to give her the lips of the one who kissed her that night. For this, the little red man had to take with him the Sword of Light as well as the Cloak of Darkness when he followed the Princess of the East to hell, where the devil greeted her with a kiss.
After the tasks were achieved, the furious princess was obliged to marry Jack. The little red man gave Jack a wedding present of ten blackthorn rods. Each day, Jack broke one of them over the princess. At the end, she was dispossessed of the devil.
After that, the little red man revealed that he was the dead man for whom Jack paid the debts. He then, with fond words, disappeared, leaving Jack and the princess to live happily ever after.
The end of Thalia’s story is greeted by more than one “Ah ha!” and a round of applause.
Fairy Tale of the Month: December 2023 The Snow the Crow and the Blood – Part Two
Frank Verbeck
Tea Conversation
The murmur of multiple conversations fills the bookstore. Augustus, Duckworth, and I pull our chairs to where Thalia, Jini, and Melissa are seated on a couch enjoying their mince pie.
“I am going to guess,” Duckworth begins, “this snow, blood, and bird is some sort of motif.”
“Oh, yes,” Thalia and Augustus chorus, then look at each other and laugh. Augustus gestures for Thalia to go on.
“Best known is Snow White. At least in some versions, before she is born, her mother, the queen, is stitching by an ebony wood-framed window on a wintery day, watching the snow fall. She pricks her finger, drawing a little blood. She wishes for a child as red as blood, white as snow, and black as ebony.
“When the child is born, it has those colors, blood-red lips, skin white as snow, and ebony-black hair. Unfortunately, the queen dies in childbirth, and the evil queen enters the picture.”
“Then,” Augustus puts in, “there is Deirdre of Irish mythology.”
“I don’t know the Irish tales,” Jini comments.
Melissa explains. “The story of Deirdre is considered the great Irish tragedy. She was born with the destiny to cause great conflict among men because of her beauty. The king tried to prevent this conflict by hiding the child away until of an age that he could marry her himself.
“Before the marriage could take place, Deirdre saw a raven in the snow, drinking the blood of a slaughtered calf. She declared she would marry only the man with cheeks as red as blood, hair as black as the raven, and his body as white as snow.
“She soon met that warrior and ran off with him, triggering the conflict the king had wished to prevent, the king himself seeking revenge and to win back his bride.”
“Let me add to the list,” I say. “I am thinking of The Juniper Tree. It is not exactly the same but certainly of the same ilk. The wife of a merchant is standing under a juniper tree in the garden, in winter, peeling an apple. She and her husband hoped for a child, but none had been granted to them. While peeling the apple, she cuts her finger, and a drop of blood falls onto the snow. She wishes for a child as white as snow and as red as blood.”
“No black?” observes Duckworth.
“Not in this tale,” I shrug. “But it is the same motif.”
“Well,” Duckworth frowns, “isn’t having Prince Jack—and I do love having such a humble name for a prince—seeing the blood, snow, and bird a bit of a turnaround; that is a guy instead of a gal?”
“It is,” says Augustus. “However, the fairy tales will do that on occasion, putting one gender into a situation usually reserved for the other. There are Cinderella stories with male protagonists.”
At this point, I realize I haven’t tried the Christmas cake and wander off to get myself a piece and refill my teacup.
Fairy Tale of the Month: December 2023 The Snow the Crow and the Blood – Part Three
Frank Verbeck
More Conversation
“Who was the little red man?” Jini asks as I am returning with my treats. I discovered someone added a plate of cookies to the fare.
“One of the fear dearg,” says Augustus. “A fairy, not unlike a leprechaun, but dressed in red, not green. They can be troublesome, sometimes dangerous as all fairies can be, but a good friend to those whom they like.
“I scratch my head a little over a human corpse turning a fear dearg, being that fairies are fallen angels, but I won’t let that stop me from enjoying a good story.”
“Yeah,” says Thalia, “the little man actually being the corpse got me.”
“The grateful dead,” says Melissa.
“Isn’t that a rock group?” Thalia cocks her head.
“Yes,” Melissa nods and smiles, “but they got their name from the motif.”
“And the motif is pretty universal,” Augustus fills in. “I first heard of it as a Romany tale. The motif usually involves the grateful dead solving the mystery of the bride, whose husbands do not survive the wedding night. Inside the woman is a dragon, snake, or demon that destroys the groom.”
“I have run across this before,” comments Melissa as she finishes her mince. “It comes straight out of the apocryphal Book of Tobit with the angel Raphael standing in for the grateful dead.”
“Wow,” says Duckworth, “that makes the motif pretty old.”
“Let me suggest,” I say nibbling my cookie, “all of the motifs were invented by the Bronze Age, and the storytellers carried them forward in one storyline or another.”
“Shouldn’t that all have gotten old by now?” Duckworth quips.
“Ah, but,” I say, “each generation is a new audience.”
Duckworth nods his consent.
“But this time,” Thalia says, “it got mashed up with the Celtic giants.” Jini giggles.
“‘Mashed up’ might be the right phrase,” Melissa reflects. “The term ‘giant’ seems to be a northern thing, I have noticed. The Norse have Jotunheim, the Land of Giants. Toward the Mediterranean, they get called ogres. I am not sure they are the same thing.”
“And the increasing number of giant heads? Is that another motif?” Duckworth asks.
“I don’t think it rises to that level.” I finish my Christmas cake. “The first giant having one head, the second having two, and the third having three doesn’t add to the storyline as a motif does. It is there for light entertainment.
“Then comes the Princess of the East,” Melissa contributes. “The usual heads of failed princes on spikes are replaced by their heads as ‘blooms’ on rosebushes. I thought that a particularly striking image, not to mention that there are three hundred and sixty-five bushes, the same number as days in a year. That might suggest another dimension to the story.”
“One more question.” Duckworth finishes his tea. “I get the three tasks; that is pretty traditional—although that third task, poor devil—what about the ten blackthorn rods to exorcise the princess?”
“Oh,” says Augustus, “very Celtic. They have a special relationship with the blackthorn. It is associated with fairies, witches, and magic. Don’t let the moon fairies catch you cutting down a blackthorn at the wrong time of the month! There are many shillelaghs made of blackthorn.
“Why ten, I don’t know. That is not usually a magical number. That I cannot answer.”
Please check this out on or after the 20th. This event will be the subject of January’s Mid-month, and I’ll try to explain the thing about “upvoting” and more on how Reedsy works.
I wasted a few frustrating hours today reviewing how Mailerlite works, over something I thought was set and done. I need to back up a bit by way of explanation.
A prerequisite for a successful self-publisher is a large and engaged email list. In my struggle to build my list, I have adopted what is becoming a common practice, under the philosophy that in order to get something, you must give something away. Sounds fair and is.
In the case of self-publishers, if you give me your email address, I will give you something for free. However, once you, the author, have the email, you still need to keep the email holder engaged.
In the back of my A Vacant Throne, in one format or another, be it the paperback or the e-book, is the opportunity to get my “every growing book,” Stories and Poems of Trueterra, which relates to my novel, in exchange for your email. Periodically, I add another story or poem to the collection, email my list so they can download and replace the old version with the new version, and get another story or poem, keeping them engaged. At this point, all nineteen of them.
Back to Mailerlite. They offer a wonderful, free version of their software, which allows me to do all I described above. However, they are upgrading and informed their users they need to “migrate” to the new system, which I did, tested, and found it no longer worked.
Mailerlite is sophisticated, powerful, complicated, and not easy to navigate. They have made it as easy as possible, and I appreciate that. Nonetheless, there is a learning curve, which I passed through over a year ago when I set this up, and I had totally forgotten all of it. I spent hours reviewing their useful tutorials until I once again had a grasp of what I needed to do.
I reviewed my setup, and everything was in place. It should have worked. I tried it again. It worked. (Sigh.)
Why it didn’t work the first time, I don’t know. Something had not finished migrating or updating. Maybe the AI behind it was not woke. I don’t know, but all appears well.
Hey, if you would test this out for me, join my email list, and get a free e-book, here is the link. (As a self-publisher, never miss an opportunity.)
Why do we not get bored with our habits? Why do we do the same thing over and over again and continue to do the same thing over and over again and not go shrieking off into the sunset at our inanity?
The answer—comfortable familiarity; like the ringing of the bell over the door of Augustus’s tobacco shop. I have my pipe in one coat pocket and a book in the other.
Augustus sees me and reaches for the canister of Elfish Gold. “Back already?” he says. “But I am glad you are here; you can help me with a quandary.”
“I am at your service.”
“As you know, I compulsively concoct new blends. Eventually, I need to ‘cull the herd.’ I have two similar mixes, and one of them needs to go. I hear authors talk about ‘killing their darlings.’ I am in that fix, I cannot decide, and need someone else to judge.”
After I make my purchase, we retire to his smoking room, as we always do, and pack our pipes with the first blend, Leprechaun Gold.
“What is your offering for today’s fairy-tale discussion?” he asks.
I produce my book from the coat pocket. “Melissa sold this to me last week.”
“Think you keep her and me in business,” Augustus quips.
“That may be true. It’s entitled, Lovers, Mates, and Strange Bedfellows, by James Foster. I’m not finished with it, but one of the stories has caught me, Thomas Rymer.
Thomas of Erceldoune reclined on the Huntly Bank near the Eildon Hills, when he spied an extraordinary woman riding toward him. He first thought she must be the Virgin Mary, given her beauty, but then he noticed her less-than-Christian attributes. She dressed as a huntress, bells upon her magnificent horse’s bridle, and three greyhounds on leashes.
They talk and come to terms. Upon a kiss, he fell under her spell, and she now appeared as a hideous hag. Because of the spell, he could not refuse her. For three days, they traveled through the underworld, emerging at last in an enchanted wood. Having not eaten anything for three days, Thomas reached for an apple—low-hanging fruit. His conductress forbade it. These were the same apples that caused the fall of man.
In the enchanted wood, were four paths. His paramour, now returned to her former beauty, explained their meaning. One path led to heaven. The second—well worn—led to hell, and the third to purgatory. They would take the fourth path to Elfland.
She warned him never to speak while in Elfland, lest he say too much. Since they are lovers, and she is the Queen of Elfland, her husband must never know about their liaison.
He shut his mouth, and all went well for seven days. He participated in much merriment. Then the queen told Thomas to prepare to return to his world. Those seven days in Elfland were seven years in his world. But worse, the next day the ‘fiend of hell’ would come for his tribute, and someone as handsome as Thomas would attract his eye.
Placing Thomas again upon the Huntly Bank, she gave him “tender leave.” She also bestowed upon him the gift—or burden—of prophecy and the inability to lie. He pleaded with her to withdraw the gift, fearing it would destroy him, making him unsuitable for the church, market, king’s court, and ladies’ bower.
Instead, it made his reputation.
After my reading, I tap the ashes from my pipe and sample the other blend, Pleiades’ Pleasure.
Fairy Tale of the Month: November 2023 Thomas the Rhymer – Part Two
Possibly by Bernard Sleigh
Settling In
“You’ve hit upon a rather favorite topic of mine. May I see your book for a second?”
I hand it to him, the book opened to the story.
“Odd,” he says, “Thomas Rymer was a seventh century poet, critic, and historian. The Thomas in this story is Thomas The Rhymer, also a poet and a prophet of the thirteenth century, also known as True Thomas.”
“Ah,” I say, “a real person.”
“Yes. In fairy tales, if the hero has a name, then he is probably a real person, even if the adventure he never had is attached to him. If the hero does not have a name—the usual case—then the storyteller was using an archetype for the main character: the prince, the youngest son, etc. This rule does not apply to heroines, sorry to say.”
“Sir Thomas was a Scottish lord, and I will guess charismatic if the folk remember him so well. He may have been the author of Sir Tristem, a version of the Tristam legend. Many a prophetic verse has been attributed to Sir Thomas, usually predicting events soon to be Scottish history but encoded in imagery hard to penetrate. Not unlike Nostradamus.
“It was Sir Walter Scott who became Sir Thomas’s publicist. In his Minstrelsy, he covered Sir Thomas’s visit to Elfland and his later return to the fairy world. How much of this is Scott’s invention is hard to say. He claims his source to be a Mrs. Brown, who heard and learned ballads about Thomas the Rhymer from an aunt.
“In any case, the story that Scott provides goes that, sometime after his first visit to Elfland, Sir Thomas is entertaining friends when someone arrives with the message that a hart and a hind are roaming about, apparently searching. Thomas immediately leaves his friends to follow the hart and hind. Since then, he has not been seen, but the expectation is that he will, one day, return.”
“Wonderful,” I say. “Not unlike Arthur going to Avalon. It also sounds like Oisín’s visit to Tir na nÓg, without the tragic consequences.”
“It,” says Agustus, “sounds more like Ogier La Danois and Morgan la Fay, complete with the hero mistaking the woman for the Virgin Mary.”
I am annoyed. “Are storytellers thieves? Do they take the adventures of one hero and graft them onto the hero they admire? Have they no conscience?”
“Oh,” says Augustus, “don’t be too hard on our illiterate storytellers—most of them were illiterate—the word ‘plagiarism’ was not in their vocabulary. All they wanted was a rollicking good story to tell to their peers.”
“I’m sure you are right,” I concede. “If I don’t hold the tales to high literary standards—and that would not be appropriate—then I should not expect them to play by literary rules. The fairy tales are a free-for-all, aren’t they? It is part of their charm.”
“Well, what do you think of Pleiades’ Pleasure compared to Leprechaun Gold?” Augustus raises an eyebrow.
“I’m not sure. Let me go another round.”
Fairy Tale of the Month: November 2023 Thomas the Rhymer – Part Three
Manesse Codex Circa 1300
Bad Marriage
I repack my pipe with a little bit of Leprechaun Gold, then light it, trying to savor its effect on my olfactory sense.
“Let me pose another question,” Augustus goes on. “What in your opinion is the fairy/mortal relationship all about? I don’t know of a fairy/mortal marriage tale that ends with the words, ‘And they lived happily ever after.’”
“Oh, good point,” I say, blowing a smoke ring as I contemplate. “I will guess it has to do with us mortals’ wish to hold on to the ephemeral.”
“How so?” Augustus frowns.
“The fairy queen took Thomas to a crossroads. One path led to heaven, another to hell, the third to purgatory, and the fourth to Elfland. That does put Elfland on a par with heaven, as well as the other worlds. The story suggests the path you take depends upon your guide. Mind you, Augustus, I am talking and thinking at the same time.”
“Go on,” he encourages.
“One of the differences between heaven-purgatory-hell and Elfland is that one can return from the latter, which Thomas did, only to disappear again when summoned.”
“And we now wait for Thomas as we wait for King Arthur?” Augustus suggests.
“We also wait for Jesus to return, but we sinners would be less happy about that than the return of Thomas or Arthur, but you are straying from my point, if I have one.”
I blow another smoke ring, then repack my pipe with the other tobacco. “How we think of a marriage between a mortal and an immortal is best represented in Oisín’s visit to Tir na nÓg. He spends three years with Niamh of the Golden Hair, but then desires to visit his family. He is warned not to dismount from his horse, not to touch the earth, or he will never return.
“When back home, he finds three centuries have passed, not three years. When the girth of his saddle breaks, he falls to the ground, turning into an ancient being.”
I blow another smoke ring as the implication of what I am saying occurs to me. “Time in Elfland moves faster than in our world. They are immortals; time has no value to them. Nothing for them should be ephemeral. Not until they touch our world can they experience it.
“For us mortals, time is precious. We hang on to it, not wanting it to slip away too quickly. You know I was married once. That has slipped away from me with her passing. Thalia’s childhood has slipped away as well. Time is the villain of us mortals. Time makes our world ephemeral.
“When Oisín enters Tir na nÓg, he escapes time and, for a while, is timeless. But being mortal by origin, he is drawn back to the physical world to meet his demise. I think it best if Thomas, Arthur, and Jesus stay where they are.”
“I must agree with your assessment of our world as ephemeral,” Agustus reflects. “I always think of tobacco as ephemeral, here today and the next day turned to ash. And what do you conclude between the two blends?”
“Oh,” I say, “I been talking so much I didn’t truly take notice, but I’ll go with Leprechaun Gold. The leprechauns are close to the fairies, so I choose that blend in honor of Thomas the Rhymer.”
Last month, I mentioned Reedsy’s Discovery and how they were “launching” my book on October 21. That didn’t happen. Because the reviewer I requested did not follow through, and since no one else has volunteered to review it, they have pushed me off to November 20 for the launch. I remain unreviewed, which means I don’t have a rating. I rather despair of that happening at this point.
Don’t get me wrong, Reedsy is a great site, full of useful information and instruction. I still plan to use it when I launch my next book. A Vacant Throne was not properly launched. Actually, not launched at all, simply published on Amazon. A proper launch takes months to plan, involving advance readers (ARC’s), email lists, etc. That will be my next learning curve.
For a quick overview of how to do a book launch, check this article from Fiverr, another site not to be overlooked.
Another thought, before I go, about the synopsis. When we submit to agents for representation, most will want a synopsis of the story. Creating a synopsis after you have written the book, whittling it down to a page or two, is drudgery. There is a solution. Write the synopsis concurrently with writing your book. There is a huge bonus in doing this. You now have a running summary of your book, which you can look at, objectively, and say, “Gees, nothing happened in these last four chapters. What am I doing?” It can serve as a guidepost to your writing creativity.
OK, the synopsis you will create will be much longer than the synopsis you will eventually submit, but now you have something to work with. I am doing this with my current work, The Three Spheres (working title). I am at 4500 words, and the synopsis is 200 words. So it goes.
Halloween. Samhain. It marks the end of a yearly cycle. It’s not as well recognized as New Year’s Eve as the end of the year. For me, it is when we enter the colder days that bring about temporary death until the invigorating spring. Halloween is the transition.
“Basically, potatoes and other root vegetables,” I answer.
“Safe,” she says.
“How about caramel apples for dessert?”
They hesitate. These are candied apples, but they quickly cave.
American apple cider is a given in our household for such a party, not the British cider, which is, of course, alcoholic.
As we prepare the Mash of Nine Sort, I throw in my late wife’s wedding ring, to their confused looks.
‘You didn’t let him put a ring in it, did you?” Melissa asks them when the party starts. Their wide-eyed, nonresponse answers her question. “Well then, whoever gets the ring in their serving is the next to get married.”
The girls gasp.
I chortle.
Melissa gives me a harsh glance.
We decide to start off our evening with Thalia’s reading. We all gather in the study. By “all” I mean Melissa, Jini, Thalia, the fairy, Johannes, the brownies (in the shadows as usual), and myself.
“Tonight’s story is dedicated to Johannes. It’s calledKing of the Cats.”
Johannes’s eyes shine as he curls up on Jini’s lap.
One winter’s night, the sexton’s wife is sitting by the fireside with their old, black tom cat lying in her lap, waiting for her husband to come home. He does, at last, return, but in a fit of excitement, shouting, “Who’s Tommy Tildrum?”
The wife demands an explanation, and her husband embarks on a wild tale.
He was digging a grave when he heard meows. Looking out over the top of the grave, he saw nine black cats, eight of them carrying a coffin covered with a black pall on top of which rested a small, gold crown. The procession was led by the ninth cat. On every third step, they all chorused a meow.
As the sexton tells his story, every time he refers to the meows of the cats, their cat, Old Tom, meows as well. The sexton twice notices that Old Tom seems to understand what he is saying, but the wife returns his attention to telling the tale.
The sexton relates that the funeral party of cats came parallel to the grave he was digging. The nineth cat came over to the grave’s edge and looked down upon him, saying, “Tell Tom Tildrum that Tim Tildrum is dead.”
Upon hearing this, Old Tom speaks up. “What? Old Tim is dead! Then I’m king of the cats.” And disappears up the chimney.
Fairy Tale of the Month: October 2023 King of the Cats – Part Two
G. P. Jacomb-Hood
Of Cats
“A mostly true tale,” Johannes offers. “I knew the Tildrum litter well, and I approve of the story. It doesn’t have us of the Cat Sith stealing souls and such things from the dead.”
“You black cats,” I comment, “do have a bad reputation on the whole. I have always heard it is unlucky to have a black cat cross your path, for example.”
Johannes hisses gently in resigned agreement. “And to think we were once worshipped in Egypt. It could have led to someone’s death to harm a cat back in those days. Gone are the times of Bastet.”
“Bastet?” Jini asks as Johannes leans into her hand while she scratches behind his ear.
“Daughter of the sun god Ra and Isis. She served as a protector against contagious diseases and evil spirits. Isn’t it ironic that by the Middle Ages our reputation became the opposite.”
“How did that happen?” Thalia queries.
“Christians, is the short answer.” Johannes’s tail thrashes. “They eradicated anything pagan that they could not put a Christian gloss upon. Not only were we cats worshipped by the Egyptians, but we drew the Norse goddess Freya’s chariot. We had far too much contact with other deities for the monotheists to be comfortable with us.
“We were accused of stealing babies’ breath, snatching souls before they could go to heaven; our bites were poisonous. When the Black Death came, many thought we were the cause. Thousands of cats were killed to slow down the plague, when it was we who hunted the rats who were the culprits.”
Melissa raises her hand. “Why did cats and witches become associated?”
“I believe you ask that question because you already know the answer.”
Melissa smiles at him.
“But for the benefit of others,” Johannes continues, “disadvantaged women and cats—themselves disadvantaged by their history—were thrown together by the ignorant, popular mind. Scapegoats are always needed, and here was a pairing not to be ignored.
“To be fair, Christianity is not the only religion or philosophy to denigrate women and cats. However, not since the fall of the pagans has anything feminine or feline been treated fairly.
“Whenever have you heard of a ‘sorcerer hunt’? It’s always a ‘witch hunt.’ Sorcerers have tomes, which they consult. Witches have familiars with whom they confer. The popular mind has cast different scenarios for men and women in the black arts.”
“Aren’t you being a little harsh?” Jini objects.
“I don’t think so. You are young. I have been about, perhaps, a little too long. Forgive me if I appear jaded, like an overworked horse.”
“Aren’t the Cat Sith inherently evil?” I prod.
“No!” Johannes’s fur bristles as Jini tries to pat it down. “Ah, you are baiting me. You got me on that score. Are my buttons so obvious that you must push them?”
It is my turn to smile.
Johannes growls a bit, despite Jini’s calming hand. “Evil is a relative state. Visit politics to see examples. Whose side are you then on?”
Good point.
Fairy Tale of the Month: October 2023 King of the Cats – Part Three
Gustave Doré
Cats Considered
Melissa and I are in the kitchen, warming up the Mash of Nine Sort, cooking the bangers, and pouring ourselves some wine, leaving the girls to chat by the fireside with their American apple cider and Johannes contently curled in Jini’s lap.
“I feel like I am talking behind Johannes’ back.” Melissa sips her wine. “But what is the role of cats in fairy tales?”
“An interesting question to contemplate while we prepare our little feast,” I say, checking the oven temperature. “Let’s think on this.”
“The first to jump to mind is The Companionship of the Cat and the Mouse, which is almost the lead story in the Grimm collection. The tale does not end well for the mouse, and the cat is cast as villainous. The whole piece is a cautionary tale.
“A fox and a cat were talking. The arrogant fox asked the cat what skills it could boast of compared to his many. The cat said she could climb trees, a talent that the fox belittled until hunting hounds suddenly descended upon them. The cat scampered up a tree, and the fox was killed.”
“I see. In this cautionary tale, the cat is in the right.” I move the bangers about before saying, “However, I think first mention should be given to Puss in Boots.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Melissa agrees. “Here the cat is the protagonist and a witty hero, outsmarting humans and ogres. Certain Johannes would approve.”
“I recently read Wood of Tontla,” I say. “In it is a cat having something to do with magic, but it has a small role and never says anything.”
“That makes me think of The Cat on the Dovrefell. The cat is just a cat, but its presence works into the pun at the end of the story.”
“A device, in other words, not a character like Puss in Boots,” I reflect. “And then there is The Bremen Town Musicians, one of whom is a cat. The cat, and her companions, fall between being devices in the story and protagonists, maybe?”
“Let’s just label them as characters,” Melissa decides.
“I’ll buy that.” Melissa takes another sip of her wine. “Oh, Madame d’Aulnoy’s The White Cat! While the prince is the protagonist, the white cat is certainly the heroine.”
“But,” I protest, “the cat is really a princess under a spell and not a real cat. Does that count?”
“Well, she had enough claws on her front paws to count to ten. She counts in my book.”
I will not argue. “Ah, Gabriel Rider.” I raise my finger in the air. “In that story are the very Cat Sith representing evil that Johannes complained about. These cats are not devices or protagonists, but rather antagonists.”
Melissa considers. “That is the first story we have cited in which the cats are the minions of the devil. None of the stories we have mentioned had a witch and a black cat in them. The witch and black cat pairing is not a traditional fairy-tale convention.”
When the oven bell chimes, we finish our wine and carry the hot dishes into the study, along with the caramel apples the girls and I produced earlier in the day. We set the study table up as a dining table and have at it.
I take no more than two mouthfuls of the Mash of Nine Sort when my molars clamp down on a round, metal object. It makes a clink. The three others look up at me and smirk.
I am re-instituting my mid-monthly blog post. This is different from my end-of-the-month post on fairy tales.
A little history. My original concept of the fairy tale blog was to post three times a month, parts one, two, and three. If you know anything about fairy tales, the number three is rather sacred. From the very first month back in December 2010, I procrastinated until the last day of the month, putting out all three parts at once and have done so ever since. (sigh)
Now I have decided to challenge myself and put out a mid-monthly blog. I did this before when I was part of StoryOrigin, a site for authors to promote each other. I do not feel it worked out for me, but I will say nothing against the concept. The failing may have been mine.
What I now want to do is document my writer’s journey, in hopes I have something to say that will benefit others.
However, before I go on about my writer’s journey, we are in the month of October. October means Halloween. During the pandemic, I produced a video to sell to libraries for Halloween programing. Now I have put it up on Youtube for free. Happy Halloween. Please enjoy. If you want a higher quality version than Youtube offers, send me fifteen bucks and the MP4 yours.
On to the writer’s journey.
My latest endeavor is with Reedsy’s Discovery. They are “Launching” my book A Vacant Throne on October 21st. Actually, it has been out for some time. If you can get to Reedsy Discovery on or after October 21st and “upvote” my title, I will appreciate it. I am struggling with how all this works, but Reedsy is a wonderful source for writers and readers. I use it all the time as a source of information for the newsletter I produce for the Greater Lehigh Valley Writers Group. I will have more to say about GLVWG in following posts.
Fairy Tale of the Month 