Happy Solstice

The world didn't end. We're still here. In honor of the Solstice, I've been polishing an account of a Solstice celebration in Elakand. On the shortest day, all fire is extinguished--a real hardship in cold climates. The next day is The Day of Change, the start of a new year, and it's celebrated with feasting and dancing. As the sun sets, priests reignite Brocar's Sacred Fire, and the people burn dead twigs as a sign that the old year is over. Then everyone enters the Sanctuary for prayers.

Here is a brief excerpt. The narrator is my 17 year old heroine who fled an order of Brocar's Handmaidens where her "fits" were deemed possession by the Dark Lady. She fears torment and castigation if  she's found and sent back. Tabeth, a village herbalist, saved her life when she was found lying half in a flooded ditch with a deep wound on her temple.

What an adventure to trudge beside Tabeth along the snowy road to Wullston at first light. When I heard the rattle of tambors, the tooting recorder, and the vielle's descant, I almost danced. Across the bridge I paused at the mass of people in the village square. I hadn't faced crowds in years. Tabeth drew me in and introduced me to her friends and neighbors. As we exchanged the joy of the season, I felt less strange. Soon I was sipping mulled ale, sampling slivers of goose and ham, and stuffing myself on Holy Night fruited breads, tiny loaves with a bit of nutmeg, and honey seed cakes. I even let myself smile when the country lads crowded around and asked me to dance. I'd forgotten the joy of stamping and twirling, sliding on frozen ground, laughing with one lad after another. So long since I'd been carefree.

Too soon the sun dipped to the horizon. The air grew cold, and folk gathered in front of the Sanctuary. My heart beat fast when I saw the basket of broken twigs by the door. Brocar's Holy Fire would conquer the Dark Lady Death and tonight I had no part to play save as witness.

Old Frater Evan limped out of the Sanctuary, bearing a dead branch as long as his arm. His hands trembled as he held it aloft. "The old year is dead. The Dark Lady is dead." He drew a small brass box from his sash, opened it, and lit the branch from the last coal of the old year. "Brocar's Fire returns! The new year is born!"

The people began to sing the new year's hymn. One by one, they shuffled forward, took a twig from the basket, lighted it from the priest's branch, and carried it into the Sanctuary to place in a sacred bowl. I ought to do penance for my grievous sins--abandoning my sacred duty, taking a lover. I held my twig to the priest's fire and, like a Handmaiden, I placed the lighted end on my inner wrist.

At my gasp, Tabeth snatched away the glowing twig. "Girl! What're ye doin'? Ye've suffered enough. Ye've no cause to take on more."

My eyes widened and I reached for my twig. "But my sins…"

Tabeth shook her finger. "'An what o' the sins done to ye? Them that beat ye? The man who abandoned ye?"

"They beat me for terrible things and I enticed him." But if Tabeth were right…?

Her lips tightened. "I'll give ye back yer stick, girl, ifn ye promise not t'hurt yerself."

I nodded and she handed it to me. It had gone out, and shamefaced, I had to light it again. Frater Evan's eyes twinkled. "Brocar can forgive even an aspiring Handmaiden."

Of course he'd learned about that. I cast him a pleading glance, fighting tears, as Tabeth pushed me into the Sanctuary. Countryfolk, bulky in winter layers, pressed so close I could scarcely breathe, and the smells made me giddy--wax and tallow, smoke, burning wood, wet wool, and old sweat. The hymn ended and Frater Evan limped around the Sanctuary, lighting the fire bowls from his branch. At the altar he held the branch to the tall wax candle. "Behold . . . Brocar's sacred Light!" The clear flame lifted and light blossomed over the great Wheel behind the altar. Such beauty and grace! My heart soared. The Frater raised his hands and recited the familiar prayers, welcoming Brocar's victory over Darkness and Death, rejoicing in the light and warmth of His fire. Light restored to life; joy to my heart.

Then silence fell over the Sanctuary. Lady Morlan, the highest born woman, stepped to the altar to recite the ancient prayers--in Elakanden, not the sacred tongue. "'Let the king dispense My justice and the queen My healing grace.'"

My heart fluttered and my breath stopped. I felt light flare around my head. This is the Holy Night, I told myself. It has no claim on me here.

Yet in a dream I paced toward the altar. Hands touched me and fell away; people melted into fog.

Lady Morlan prayed on. '''From My sacred altar shall the princess announce My wisdom to all people without fear.'''

I touched the altar--wood not marble. Low whispers in my head. No! Light flared around me, filling the small Sanctuary. No--no--no! And the Voice was declaiming through my mouth … 

I won NaNoWriMo!

I won NaNoWriMo--along with thousands and thousands of other people. It's still a thrill. Three days from the end I was hugely behind, thanks to "life," and I thought, "what the heck," and I sat down and pushed, and by golly, I did it--50,503 words and with hours to spare.


City of Gold contains X-rated scenes and drek I didn't think I could write. It's illogical with over-the-top melodrama--and some dead-on plot lines and scenes that are pure gold. I love my opening hook:

"You! I thought you were dead!" 

Tora opened her eyes and looked up at moist, round, rosy cheeks, set off by blowsy blonde curls straggling from an unkempt bun. "I am dead, and don't you dare tell anyone otherwise, Lady Catina Dalmar."  

It will require very substantial rewrites before I dare show it even to my best friend.

White Cat Magazine is out

The Fall issue of White Cat Magazine containing "Heritage" is out. It's got a scary skeleton in a creepy house on the cover. We've gotten lots of positive, encouraging feedback on the story. Read for yourself:  http://www.whitecatpublications.com/?p=2611 You can download a .PDF for $2.99; a print issue will soon be out.  

The other stories in it are great, too. 

SF Poetry Contest Result

I just got notice that the poem I entered in the Science Fiction Poetry contest did not make the final cut. I am not at all surprised. If it had--now that would be a surprise!

Sold a story!

My alter-ego Christie Maurer just signed a contract for a short story, "Heritage," to appear in the October issue of White Cat Magazine.

"Heritage" is about two nasty people and a ghost in a crumbling Victorian. It came out of a writing exercise at a Monterey Bay Romance Writers meeting several years ago. The assignment was to write a brief scene of two people outside a house. There is something inside that one doesn't want the other to see. One tries to get in, the other tries to keep him/her out. Other members of the group came up with a dead body, a hidden treasure, drugs, or stolen loot. In "Heritage" it's none of the above.

Where to go?

I'm stuck in a scene, or rather an episode, and what to do? My hero and heroine blundered into a raid on a village. Knowing they couldn't win over the bandits, they started to leave--and the bad guys took off after them, wanting their horses. My hero turned to fight them, so the heroine could get away. And . . . a) manages to hold them off; b) gets captured; c) wounds/kills 1 or 2; d) tricks them and escapes; e) heroine doubles back and steals the pack horse and loot; f) hero escapes, can't find heroine . . .

I'll just leave it for a bit and go on to the next part for now while the inner juices churn.

Entered a poetry contest

I saw a post about the Science Fiction Poetry Association contest on the BroadUniverse listserve  http://www.sfpoetry.com/contests.html For kicks I checked it out and it looked feasible. So, what the heck, I went over "Loriano's" two poems with a fine-toothed delete key and entered the one about Sacerdote Danestor and the Dark Lady Death. I won't hear the results until November, but oooo it's exciting to put something out into the world!

Loriano's troubadour poetry

Everyone insisted I had to include Loriano's poems--and I am no poet. After one poetry class in college I read a few and got bored. What to do? I got a bunch of CD's of troubadour music and listened, probably hundreds of times, following along in the booklet both the Occitan and the English. The originals are in the public domain--the poets have been dead for 900 years--but the translations are not. In studying them I appreciated just how subtle and complex the poems really are. Finally I used metaphors and themes from Bertran de Ventadorn, troubadour to Eleanor of Aquitaine, and put together verses appropriate to Loriano's situation and character. He sometimes excuses their clumsiness by saying he's still working on it. 

I did "receive" a couple of epics. One changed my original 6,000 word short story into a novel. A major turning point in The Dark Lady's Stone comes when the old shaman Edroc recites an epic about the Sea Kings and Lake Illia. To get in the mood I listened to a CD of songs from the Icelandic Edda. The epic started to unfold and I got the basics out over a couple of days. It was much longer than I'd intended and it needed a lot of editing, particularly when I was struggling with the scenes at Lake Illia. A while later I took an on-line course on The Vikings. To my surprise many elements in Edroc's tale were right-on. Of course many others pertained only to my world. 

I read at J.R.R. Tolkien's Sigurd and Gudrun a couple of summers ago. It must've sunk in because Loriano's final epic came to me while I was washing dishes. I was finishing up the last chapter and Count Reynal asked Loriano to tell the court about their long journey. What the heck would he say??? I presumed it would be straight narrative, maybe a few summary sentences. To give myself time to think I got up from my computer to make dinner and discovered all the dishes were dirty. I put my hands in hot, soapy water and Loriano started declaiming in my head. I heard his voice, his tone, his rhythm. I rushed back to my computer and took dictation. When I surfaced and looked it over, I only had to change a few lines. 

To my surprise, folks seem to like it. 

Elakand Map Revised

While I was at it, I also revised the map of Elakand. Besides adding color, I've clarified the provincial borders, fixed some vague boundary lines, put provincial names in a larger type, and (re)moved a few mountain ranges. Also I realized that the Sidrak River had no purpose and an illogical direction (all other rivers flowed from the eastern mountains toward the west), so I put it between the Sidrak Hills and the Maracol Mountains.

Gosh, it is fun to play god(dess)!

New Map of Sarsia

I've updated the map of ancient Sarsia with more colors, fewer mountains, and clearer features. Hope you enjoy it.