Raven & Death

This is something I wrote this morning—a tale within the tale of my second book: WistThistle: Along the Way. A little background: Éhto is the main character throughout the four books of WistThistle, like Ged in Earthsea. Duni doesn’t speak the language of Éhto, but Éhto speaks Duni’s language and is translating Duni’s story for Ímah, the brother of her husband. Duni, who is in love with Ímah, is trying to explain to Ímah, in her way, why she has made the choices she made. Part of the novel’s world building is the language itself, hence the tone of the story’s language.

Duni began with a sing-song voice, saying. “Iy’ta èþé ürio!” which meant, Speak, will I, of the raven!

Then Éhto translated. “And Raven did not always fly; and Raven was not always hoarse of voice, and Raven was not always black of eye. Raven was a beautiful woman—fair and lithesome. And it was for her beauty that men came to seize her, to possess her, to say of her that she was theirs and obeyed no other.

“Ezū’ta èþé Bodfyil!” said Duni, as though she sang, which meant, Speak, will I, of the sorcerer!

And Éhto said, “And the sorcerer, who also was a King, possessed a cape that was of black feathers. And when the cape was worn by the Sorcerer King, then did the cape become great wings that carried him to Raven. Though she did not desire him, he took her against her will. Then did she swear that she would never obey him, but would take his cape and fly away. The cape belongs to me, he answered, and should you ever wear it, then it shall tear you limb from limb. But Raven said, if I am made to obey you, then shall my heart be torn limb from limb, and so in defiance of the Sorcerer King, she put on the cape and the cape tore her limb from limb until she was only the black wings, the black beak, and the black claws of the cape. She and the cape were made one being. Then did Raven fly from the Sorcerer King, and she said, My choice! My choice and no others! But Raven still possessed her voice, and it was the most beautiful voice in all the world.”

“Éloa’ta èþé Najati!” said Duni, as though she sang, which meant, Sing, will I, of the enchantress!

And Éhto said, “The Enchantress heard of a black bird. The bird’s voice was more beautiful than any other’s. And so that she might command Raven’s voice, the Enchantress went into the forest to capture her. With a magical art that was like the gray mists of morning, she took Raven in the net of her spells. Then did Raven swear that she would never sing for her, but would escape the cage and fly away. The Enchantress said to Raven: Though you may escape the cage, your voice cannot. But Raven said, if I am made to obey you, then shall my heart also be caged, and so one day Raven flew from her cage and left behind her voice. Then when she spoke, her noise was a hoarse caw, and yet her voice, still within the cage, spoke aloud, saying, My choice! My choice and no others!”

“Uéi otoza’ta séða!” said Duni, almost in song, for with her speech she kept rhythm with a hand on her flank, which meant, Here me, I speak of Death.

And Éhto said, “All living things know and fear death—all but Raven! When death came, Raven was unafraid. The moth hid among the thorns. The skoko burrowed into the earth. The mother fled with her child. The harvestman abandoned his field, but Raven did not fly away. Raven waited even as the winds turned black the leaves, and swept them away. Then Death stood beneath Raven, holding before him the cage made by the Enchantress, for he had long ago claimed the Enchantress, saying: Hear me, Raven, I come now to carry you away. And Raven answered: If I obey, O Death, my spirit shall be caged forevermore. And then—for Raven felt Death’s chill upon her—she flew into into the hollow of death’s left eye, to see what was to see within death’s skull; and there she saw an infinity of great beauty—the stars, sun and moon of our and every world— for all that we see and know is conceived of and known by Death. Raven was greatly moved, but she would not let her spirit be trapped in Death’s cage. She took out her eyes, hiding one by the emptiness of Death’s left eye and the other by Death’s right eye. By this means was her spirit able to find her way back to life. By this means, through Raven’s eyes, do we all, for when Death calls, our spirits fly into Death’s left eye and return anew—remade and reborn—through Death’s right eye. And thus it was that Raven flew out of Death’s right eye and returned to the limb of the tree—reborn and with eyes as black as Death. My choice! she cried. My choice and no others! Death bowed and put aside the cage. And so it is that Raven alone, having traded her eyes for Death’s, remembers the many lives that she and all of us have lived. That is Raven’s wisdom.”

WistÞistle | Along the Way

I just started the second novel in my fantasy cycle, WistThistle (modern spelling), entitled WistÞistle | Along the Way. If you have a magnifying glass handy, you might see the little green pixel at 0.62%. That’s how much I’ve written. When I wrote WistÞistle: Under and Over the Bridge, I took the same screenshot. (The project always looks insurmountable at this point.) Then I procrastinated, put off posting the screenshot, and a couple months later the novel was finished!

So this time I’m posting it before I finish the novel. This is what the progress bar looks like after writing for one day. Sort of like the first step on the Long Trail. This doesn’t include work on my outline (in which I’ve actually written some scenes). I’ll think about a given scene all day, as though watching a movie, then have to write it down, complete and fully written so that I don’t forget anything.

I’ve been submitting WistThistle and Murder Most Monstrous to agents. Both are intended to be multi-story cycles. So far, no nibbles. It’ll be just my luck, though, if there’s sudden interest in both. Next I’ll be asked how soon I can write a sequel to each. I’m looking forward to the self-pity.

In the meantime, I’m happy to report that Tara Caribou, of Raw Earth Ink, who so beautifully published Tiny House, Big Mountain, is currently reading and considering North of Autumn—a stand alone novel that is also, loosely, a sequel to Tiny House. If you haven’t already read them, follow this link to read the poetry written for North of Autumn.

Available at Raw Earth Ink

Lastly, if anyone wants me to interpret another Dickinson poem—or at least make the attempt—I’ll take a request. It’s a nice distraction from writing novels and my own poetry.

WistThistle is Finished

I started the novel in August and completed it a few days before Christmas. My first fantasy novel, and the first of a trilogy. As a player of Dungeons & Dragons from the time I was ten years old, a year after the game was invented, I have always loved building worlds filled with magic, sorcery and dragons; and I have so enjoyed building the world of WistThistle that I’m even looking forward to editing the book, to adding the small details that occurred to me while writing the last paragraphs. I’ve already edited the first chapter, which means I could technically submit the novel to agents this evening.

The novel and main character are a little different than I first imagined them, but the spirit remains the same.

“Hwat! The tale of warriors, heroes, noble houses or great Sagelords is not what I come to tell.” So begins the tale of the Wayfarer Ta’Ehto, also called Ohéto—which is the name of the gray catkins that grow on the Wistthistle, meaning greycoat or mouse. In the dragon tongue she is called Findahl, which also means greycoat. While the War of the Isles is told in noble gatherings, portrayed in hall-length tapestries and elaborately sung by court poets, the tale told here is the tale of a woman beloved by the common folk. For her no tapestries are woven and for her no court poets sing. She had no gift for magic, lacked the warrior’s strength, and was not descended from the nobility, but girls dress in her likeness and her tale is preserved in the workaday poetry of Hæthrymic storytelling. I have tried to capture the lovely rhythms of the Hæthrymic language with a more fairytale-like English. And the dragon’s tongue—what can be said of it? One cannot truly translate the dragon’s tongue. The tongue has no nouns or adjectives, but is only verbs, for the dragon perceives the world, not as it is, but as a world of endless becoming.

My heroine, Ehto, is loosely an Inuit heroine with a gift for listening, languages, and kindness. She wants nothing to do with the war raging through the Isles, and doesn’t understand the forces arrayed. She only wants to wander the isles like the Japanese poet Basho—going from one utamakura to the next. She’s small in stature, hides and runs away when she can, yet doesn’t know her own power when she protects those she loves. She directly and indirectly causes the destruction and dissolution of the most powerful force in the Isles—the great wizards called the Sages of Halder. She learns the language of the dragons, hundreds of years after the last Sage spoke their tongue, and it is the dragons who give her the name by which she’s known—Findahl (greycoat or mouse in the dragon tongue). She is Findahl, the first druid in hundreds of years; and doesn’t herself know what it means to be a druid. Those who fear her the most look in all the wrong places. No one thinks that a woman, let alone a young woman, from the snowbound tribes of the North Crescent could be the most feared adversary of land and sea.

There were those in the village who had hidden when they heard the dragon speak. They had understood nothing else, but understood the name Findahl. Findahl was a man. Findahl was a young woman. Findahl was a sorcerer who might take the shape of a girl so small that she could walk unsuspected through town and city. Findahl spoke the tongue of every isle. Findahl could speak with dragons. Yet no person could speak the language of every isle and so it was thought that Findahl was both man and woman—being many people. Ehto, seated among the villagers, would ask if any had seen Findahl, and the traders would answer that none had seen the witch, sage, or sorcerer, and yet they boasted that if they ever saw Findahl, they would know him.

This from the closing paragraphs of the book.

I hope to have the first book of The Isles of Erþe fully edited by the first of January. I wrote the final page of my second novel on the first of January last year. Once I’m finished editing, adding the little details that add to Ehto’s world, I’ll devote January to writing some of the poetry I’ve wished to write. Then in February I’ll be begin to the second book of the trilogy. The current length of the book is 85,000 words, short for a fantasy novel, but just the length I was aiming for. I hope to finish the next two books in the coming year.

up in Vermont | December 19^th 2023