Angela VanWell

Author | Reader | Traveler | Tea and Coffee Drinker

Writing

Tricksters in Folklore

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Whether exchanging the sugar for salt, refilled Oreos with toothpaste (I found this one on Reader’s Digest), or plastic wrapping a toilet seat, we all enjoy a good prank. Pranks have been around before humans existed. In many cultures, the Gods themselves were tricksters.

He is tolerated by the gods, perhaps because his stratagems and plans save them as often as they get them into trouble.

Loki makes the world more interesting but less safe. He is the father of monsters, the author of woes, the sly god.

Neil Gaiman, Norse Mythology

April Fools Day may be the modern day version, but humanity and their Gods have been playing tricks for years.

Patricia Briggs reminded me of Coyote and his importance as a trickster god in West Coast Native American lore. He embodied the idea of chaos and pushed the limits of expectations and social rules. By flaunting the rules through his self-indulgence, Coyote reminds us to push boundaries. To see what rules are worth keeping and the others we need to change. It began with him playing with the stars and ends with him tricking Gods and humans alike. His stories are cheeky, full of amoral choices, but he usually learns a lesson, or we do through him. I own a few wonderful books with Coyote stories, but there is plenty to enjoy online as well. You can find a few of them here.

The Story of Coyote and the Monster

A long, long time ago, people did not yet inhabit the earth. A monster walked upon the land, eating all the animals–except Coyote. Coyote was angry that his friends were gone. He climbed the tallest mountain and attached himself to the top. Coyote called upon the monster, challenging it to try to eat him. The monster sucked in the air, hoping to pull in Coyote with its powerful breath, but the ropes were too strong. The monster tried many other ways to blow Coyote off the mountain, but it was no use.

         Realizing that Coyote was sly and clever, the monster thought of a new plan. It would befriend Coyote and invite him to stay in its home. Before the visit began, Coyote said that he wanted to visit his friends and asked if he could enter the monster’s stomach to see them. The monster allowed this, and Coyote cut out its heart and set fire to its insides. His friends were freed.

         Then Coyote decided to make a new animal. He flung pieces of the monster in the four directions; wherever the pieces landed, a new tribe of Indians emerged. He ran out of body parts before he could create a new human animal on the site where the monster had lain. He used the monster’s blood, which was still on his hands, to create the Nez Percé, who would be strong and good.

Nez Perce Tale

I chose this quote as it is a marvellous example of how Coyote and Raven have similar stories but different executions to their mischief.

Raven, another trickster for many tribes, held a similar role to Coyote, was a transformer. Whether on purpose or accident, his stories hold transformation at their centers. He was a creator and light bringer, his primary goal feeding his never-ending hunger, using deception and guiles to those around him. Intelligent and mischievous, ravens brought food to humans and taught them how to thrive. Sometimes, Raven decided life was too pleasant for the humans, so would put a little chaos in their way. In the end, though, it all turned out okay.

While Coyote moved the stars to create outlines of his friends, Raven stole the light and released it to the world. While mischievous, he usually helped the humans thrive.

Raven used to live high up in the upper Skagit River country. He was very lazy. In the summer when the other animals were busy gathering food for winter, he would be flying from rock to stump and stump to rock making fun of them. Raven just laughed when Crow (his cousin) urged him to follow squirrel’s example – but Raven never prepared for the cold months, when the snow would drift over the ground and cover all the remaining food.But now Raven was in trouble. Winter had come and the snows were deep. He was hungry – and Raven loved to eat. He had to find someone who would share their food with him.

Raven went to see Squirrel. He had a huge supply of pine nuts and seeds and other food hidden all over the place. Raven poked his head in squirrel’s nest in a old fir tree. Squirrel had lots to eat. Raven politely begged for some food. Squirrel scolded him – that was always Squirrel’s way – “You refused to work and save for winter – and you poked much fun at me – you deserve to starve!”

Raven went looking for Bear. But Bear was sound asleep in his cave and could not be wakened. Raven looked around for some food, but it was all in Bear’s belly – Bear had already eaten it all and was sleeping till spring.

Raven was now very hungry. He thought: “Who can give me something to eat? Everyone is either stingy like Squirrel or sleeping like Bear and Marmot, or they have gone South for winter like the snowbirds.” Then he thought of Crow – he would be easy to fool!

Raven flew to Crow’s nest. “Cousin Crow, we must talk about your coming potlatch!” Crow answered. “I have not planned a potlatch”

Raven ignored his response. “Crow, everyone is talking about your potlatch – will you sing at it?” “Sing?” Crow had not known that anybody really cared for his singing voice – though in those days, Crow’s song was much more like that of Wood Thrush than it is today.

Raven continued to talk of Crow’s potlatch. “You are very talented and possess a beautiful voice – everyone will be so disappointed if you don’t sing at your potlatch!”

“What potlatch? . . . You really like my singing?”

“We love your singing, Crow,” Raven answered. “The Winter’s cold has chilled the forest and we’re cold and hungry and singing will help us forget our cold feet and empty stomachs. Now you get started fixing the food – looks like you have plenty here – and I will go invite the guests to your potlatch. You can practice your songs as you cook!”

Crow’s hesitation now overcome, he began to prepare all the food he had collected for winter, and as he prepared it, he practiced his songs. The more he thought the feast and how everyone wanted to hear him sing, the more excited he got about it.

Meanwhile Raven was offering invitations to all the animals of the forest. (Of course Marmot and Beaver were sleeping like Bear, and Robin and Goose were gone South) To each he said the same thing: “Come to My potlatch! I have worked hard to prepare it. There will be much food at Raven’s potlatch and Crow is helping and will sing for us. There will be fern roots and wild potatoes, dried berries, fish and meat. Come to My potlatch! It will be a great occaision.” Raven did not invite Squirrel however since he had refused to share his food with Raven. But all the rest of the animals were invited to Raven’s Potlatch.

When he returned to Crow – he was busy singing and cooking. Raven told him – “Everyone is coming – be sure and fix all your food – they will be hungry after their journey. And your songs are sounding so good! Crow’s potlatch will be a great feast!”

As the guest arrived, Raven welcomed each one to his potlatch. There was deer and mountain goat and mouse, rabbit, ptarmigan and jay. The guests were seated and the food was brought out. Crow started to sit and eat – but Raven asked him for a song first. “It’s not good to sing on a full stomach, Crow”. So crow began to sing. Every time he would stop to eat – Raven would insist he sing another song. “You can’t sing with your mouth full, Crow!” Encouraged again and again by the guests – who were busy stuffing themselves with Crow’s food – Crow sang song after song after song – all day until night – and Crow’s voice became hoarser and hoarser until all he could do was “Caw – caw”.

As was the custom – the left over food was collected by the guests and taken by them for their homeward journey. Even Raven had taken his share and left as Crow was cleaning up. Crow had nothing left to eat. ” At least,” Crow thought, “I won’t go hungry – I will be invited to their feasts.” For it was the custom that having been entertained, each guest was now obliged to return the favor and invite the host for a return potlatch.

But the invitations never came. Since all the guests thought it was Raven who hosted the feast, Raven was invited to enough dinners to keep his stomach full for several winters – and he never went hungry.

But Crow, who had been fooled, had been reduced to starving, and never regained his singing voice either. He was destined to spend his winters begging in the camps of men for scraps of food. And that’s where we find him today – squabbling over scraps in grocery store parking lots – Caw! Caw! Caw!”

Skagit Raven tale

While the Norse Gods appreciated the cunning and intelligence of ravens, the rest of Europe considered them a dark portent. Ravens were scavengers, and in Celtic mythology believed to be gods and goddesses transforming, bringing portents of death.

Odin had a pair of ravens, Thought and Memory, who brought Odin information from around the world. Odin also used them as messengers and connections to the supernatural. The intelligence of the ravens and their presence at battlefields led them to be considered as Odin’s ravens and accepting of the sacrifices of the dead to Valhalla. It is not the ravens that I am focusing on in Norse Mythology. It is Loki.

I have siblings and this quote reminds me of how my siblings were there for me when I needed them but bug me mercilessly the rest of the time

While there are many books, movies, television series, and comics based on Norse Mythology, it is Neil Gaiman’s book I will refer to today. I have featured the book previously, so it should be no surprise to you it is the one I am choosing. Loki was a known miscreant and used his whiles to reach his goals. Yet, despite that, Thor recognized his cunning.

There were things Thor did when something went wrong. The first thing he did was ask himself if what had happened was Loki’s fault. Thor pondered. He did not believe that even Loki would have dared to steal his hammer. So he did the next thing he did when something went wrong, and he went to ask Loki for advice.

Neil Gaiman, Norse Mythology

The perfect explanation for family. Supporting you when you need them, causing you trouble the rest of the time. Loki had many skills, but his fundamental skill was that of a trickster. The creation of Thor’s hammer is because of one of his tricks. Loki cuts off Sif’s hair. Thor, enraged, threatens to break every bone in Loki’s body, so Loki pleads he will fix it. He will provide hair even more beautiful.

One day, Loki the trickster found himself in an especially mischievous mood and cut off the gorgeous golden hair of Sif, the wife of Thor. When Thor learned of this, his quick temper was enraged, and he seized Loki and threatened to break every bone in his body. Loki pleaded with the thunder god to let him go down to Svartalfheim, the cavernous home of the dwarves, and see if those master craftspeople could fashion a new head of hair for Sif, this one even more beautiful than the original. Thor allowed this, and off Loki went to Svartalfheim.

There he was able to obtain what he desired. The sons of the dwarf Ivaldi forged not only a new head of hair for Sif, but also two other marvels: Skidbladnir (“Assembled from Thin Pieces of Wood”[1]), the best of all ships, which always has a favorable wind and can be folded up and put into one’s pocket, and Gungnir (“Swaying”[2]), the deadliest of all spears.

Having accomplished his task, Loki was overcome by an urge to remain in the caves of the dwarves and revel in more recklessness. He approached the brothers Brokkr and Sindri (“Metalworker”[3] and “Spark-sprayer,”[5] respectively) and taunted them, saying that he was sure the brothers could never forge three new creations equal to those the sons of Ivaldi had fashioned. In fact, he even bet his head on their lack of ability. Brokkr and Sindri, however, accepted the wager.

As they worked, a fly (who, of course, was none other than Loki in disguise) stung Sindri’s hand. When the dwarf pulled his creation out of the fire, it was a living boar with golden hair. This was Gullinbursti (“Golden-bristled”), who gave off light in the dark and could run better than any horse, even through water or air.

Sindri then set another piece of gold on the fire as Brokkr worked the bellows. The fly bit Brokkr on the neck, and Sindri drew out a magnificent ring, Draupnir (“Dripper”[5]). From this ring, every ninth night, fall eight new golden rings of equal weight.

Sindri then put iron on the hearth, and told Brokkr that, for this next working, they must be especially meticulous, for a mistake would be more costly than with the previous two projects. Loki immediately stung Brokkr’s eyelid, and the blood blocked the dwarf’s eye, preventing him from properly seeing his work. Sindri produced a hammer of unsurpassed quality, which never missed its mark and would boomerang back to its owner after being thrown, but it had one flaw: the handle was short. Sindri lamented that this had almost ruined the piece, which was called Mjollnir (“Lightning”[6]). Nevertheless, sure of the great worth of their three treasures, Sindri and Brokkr made their way to Asgard to claim the wages that were due to them.

Loki made it to the halls of the gods before the dwarves and presented the marvels he had acquired. To Thor he gave Sif’s new hair and the hammer Mjollnir. To Odin went the ring Draupnir and the spear Gungnir. And Freyr was the happy recipient of Skidbladnir and Gullinbursti.

Daniel McCoy, NOrse Mythology

Exploring the Trickster tales for several cultures was a lot of fun. If you have a favourite, I would love to hear it.

Happy Reading!

Camp NANO 2021: Let the Outlining Begin!

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I was writing a twisted retelling of a fairytale shared by W. B. Yeats when I realized today is Friday, March 19th. The date itself is not significant to me personally, but the fact there is only a week smack between two weekends left before Camp nano is. There are two nano camps, one is in April and the next in July. It is a personal writing adventure where each writer chooses their own project, the length of it, and share the experience with friends. So if you are feeling the need to get some words down on paper, electronically, or on papyrus, by all means, join us! You can find the website here.

I haven’t finished rereading the three manuscripts in the series that come before this outline. And, last year being 2020, I spent most of the year between houses since the house we rented was in one country, our household goods somewhere on the ocean, and my family in a third country. It was a challenging year. My paper drafts were somewhere over the ocean, my electronic copies with me, and my ability to concentrate stuck somewhere between them all. We moved out of the Netherlands in December 2019 and to Texas, in the United States of America. My family, including our two cats, arrived within weeks of leaving the Netherlands, while everything else took a leisurely cruise across the ocean.

I was editing the first manuscript. It is amazing how much I forgot and my notes were not with me. I spelt one name four different ways and I really couldn’t remember which way was my original plan. With no home (we were in a temporary apartment in Houston) and no office, I was relying on my memory. And it was not helpful at all. So writing and editing at the beginning of the year was slow. We went to Canada for spring break when the border closed. Once again, I was separated from my books. I only had a few sets of clothes, but it was my books I missed.

In June, I had been without my library for 6 months. It was painful. I have many ebooks, but all of my nonfiction and personal journals are all handwritten. I’d reach for a book, usually found on the shelf beside me, and there was nothing there. It was like losing my best friends. I couldn’t replace my personal journals but some of my resource books I would buy second hand guilt free. With the pandemic shut down occurring, I only had one trip to a Half Price Books and one trip to Barnes & Noble.

I must write my outlines down on paper. I have tried writing them electronically, and I was less creative. I can’t wait to bring that creativity back this week.

Finding books filled with folklore from different countries was much harder than I expected. Local ghost stories, no problem. Modern fairytales, you bet, original folklore and fairytales, sadly missing. I rebuilt parts of my collection with new editions and local flavour. I editing my first manuscript and had a friend read through the draft and offer feedback. It sat again. Mostly because I flew back to my new host country to finish unpacking the house and my wonderful journals and books. I then scooped them into my husband’s car and drove them up to Canada. Now I, my old journals and books, and new books were reunited. I had no more excuses and continued to edit. All was well until my daughter’s computer died and I gave her mine during the day for school. It was great for reading, terrible for editing.

Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle!

Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

Life happens. There is never the right time for anything. Expect now. Now I must reread all the manuscripts, as once again I am in a different country than my outlines. So this time, I will read through, try only to take notes to create a new outline, not edit. I will carry my new outlines no matter where I go. I will be like Sheldon on the Big Band Theory carrying around his emergency kit, except mine will be filled with my prized pens and notebooks. Never shall we be separated again. I will see how it goes!

This means I must choose wisely my inspiring author of the week next week as I will spend most of my time reading my own books. It will interest to see who I choose.

Can you read new books when you are working on a project? Or do you reread books you know will get you in the right mood and frame of mind?

I found this quote when I was reading W.B. Yeats last week and it has stuck with me. Happy Reading!

It is only the spirits who are too bad for heaven, and too good for hell, who are thus plagued. They are compelled to obey some one they have wronged.

Lady Wilde, Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry

Travelling Through Books: The American Road Trip Part 1

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The quintessential road trip involved a motorized vehicle, a map, and never-ending snacks. At least, that is the way I grew up. Me, and my siblings, would pile into our parent’s station wagon. Its dark wood-panelled sides carved with scratches and dents from previous memorable trips. We have distinct zones in the car. Each child with their specific spot and no one, or their limbs, could cross those lines. Falling asleep on a long road trip was no exception. Outside the windows, with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band providing our travelling soundtrack, was our adventure. Our movement from something mundane to something new.

I was fortunate they placed me behind the front passenger seat. My seat was a window seat with views of the passing countryside and townships. No cars and big boxed trucks for me. I watched as we passed each power line seeded in farmers’ fields and daydreamed I was riding my horse beside the car. The Canadian Pony Express of One, whose horse must jump each power pole shadow or trip and fall behind the car we chased through the provinces. It was a shadow horse, a dark wisp of memory, racing alongside with me on its back. We never missed a jump and raced the car until the clouds stole our shadows away.

All road snacks came from the home kitchen. Our mom would prepare everything ahead of time and ration one piece of the overall picnic at a time. It was the first staged, 12 course meal of my life. Where we each had something sweet, salty, sour followed with water to cleanse our palates. My favourite was the course of crackers, pickles, and cheese. To this day, it is one of our travel snacks. With a side of homemade sour pickles to compliment the fattiness of the cheese. Delightful, easily handled by all. On the rarest of occasion, we would stop and eat fast food. We never ate it in the car. Car snacks were from the house only. Fast food was for when mom felt we needed to stretch our legs, use the toilet, and maybe she needed a breather from being in the car with the minimum of 4 kids, and sometimes the addition of a husband and kittens.

Our destinations were usually unknown to me, unless we were visiting family. Perhaps my parents planned, I don’t know. I know we were going somewhere new, somewhere interesting, and my shadow horse raced along to join in with the adventure.

I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I intended to be.

Douglas Adams, the Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul

As an adult, I travel the same. The shadow horse has gone, replaced by whatever vehicle I, or my partner, are driving. There are road snacks, some from my kitchen, some from a roadside fast food place. I now know the general direction we are headed. Though we have an idea rather than a set destination. We prefer to leave all options open and be spontaneous. It keeps the adventure alive.

But in times of Covid, where road trips are limited, I have turned my escapes to books. I usually join a book club in the town we are living in to explore the area. We choose local authors or stories that took place in our area. Book clubs are a great way to explore new genres and authors. But now, with book clubs moved online, I have changed to reading about my area.

On our biking trip a few weeks ago, I came upon a Free Little Library. In it, were several novels, self-help books, and best of all The Oxford Book of American Short Stories. The title might be dry, but what I saw was a trip through American. A trip through space and time, and all provided within the 768 page book.

The origin of my newest book. You can see it peaking out in the middle of the lower shelf.

Tales from the 1700s through the 1900s. Exploring internal struggles and external journeys. From as far north as Alaska down through XXX. The best part was, I could jump and hop through space and time. My shadow horse could return and leap between the stories wherever my fancy took me. Yes, I am climbing the walls and returning to the imagination of my childhood. I quite like it.

My first destination was the Catskill Mountains following the adventure of Rip Van Winkle, written by Washington Irving under his satirical pseudonym, Diedrich Knickerbocker. Rip Van Winkle, while running to escape the terror of his wife and his domestication, meets the spirit of Henrick Hudson, explorer for the Dutch East India Company. Henrick offers Rip a flagon of alcohol he consumes amongst the eery silence. Other than the sounds of ninepin bowling. Rip drank so much he settled into a deep sleep.

Rip… was one of those happy mortals of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who… would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle

When Rip woke, he found his gun rusted and his dog, Wolf, missing. Upon his return to the village, he found the place and people changed.

The very village was altered; it was larger and more populous. … [Rip] began to doubt whether both he and the world around him were not bewitched.

Washington Irving, Rip Van Winkle

Yet after he realizes he had slept twenty years, Rip is relieved. He does not have to run away from responsibility and his wife any longer. Now he can live with his daughter and idle, guilt free, in the village. His adventure, having a drink and a nap, ends his responsibilities.

After enjoying the tale, I looked into the folklore Washington Irving used to inspire the tale. Peter Klaus, a German folktale, inspired Rip Van Winkle. Perter, a goat herder, was led to “twelve grave old knights” who appointed him to set up the ninepin game they were playing. He took a drink of their alcohol, then fell to sleep. He woke to find his sheep missing and everything changed.

The people whom he met at his entrance to the town were unknown to him, and dressed and spoke differently from those whom he had known there.

Johann Karl Christoph Nachtigal, Peter Klaus

Both characters take a twenty-year nap after drinking from the strange individuals who met them. Both grew long beards and returned to dilapidated homes. Rip though, is grateful for his release from the tyranny of his wife and chores. Rip Van Winkle also had a political change.

So, by reading one short story in my new-to-me book, I have travelled to a village at the foot of the Catskill Mountains, and to a village in Europe. I learned they named the Hudson River after a Dutch explorer for the Dutch East India Company from the 1500s, and that he and his crew may haunts the Catskills. All in less than 10,000 words.

I miss travel, but I love to explore. My new to me book is filling that void.

Happy Reading.

My Writing Journey: Sources of Inspiration Part 2

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As mentioned in last weeks post, Neil Gaiman shared advice on how to look at what is around you with fresh eyes, for writing inspiration. As I shared, fairytales and folktales continue to have great impact on me, as an Anthropologist I love to study them as a part of their cultures, so I chose to look at a fairytale from my childhood with fresh eyes. The fairytale I chose was Rapunzel.

I went back to the original 1812 Grimm’s version of Rapunzel. The original story is darker and contains four characters, a husband and wife, their daughter, and a fairy. The original story has the fairy as the antagonist. I chose to look at the story with the fairy as the protagonist and a curse as the antagonist. The Curse is known as Hunger. Please enjoy my short retelling of Rapunzel below:

My wife saw your rapunzel from our window, and such a longing came over her, that she would die, if she did not get some to eat.

Grimm’s Fairytales, 1812

Rapunzel Retelling by Angela VanWell

Once upon a time, there lived a fine fairy who had a garden. Her garden was not a typical garden. Yes, there were roses, but they sucked blood through their thorns. The ivy entangled its prey, weaving a web around them, followed by a month of hanging before the ivy and the willow could absorb its flesh. Each plant was unique, which is why she kept them in her nursery. To keep them safe. The magical plants were her life’s work. However, they acted naughtily, so she raised a high wall to keep them safe and used her magic to block them from stalking mortals outside the wall.

One day, the fairy noticed her human, female neighbour staring out her window, lips parted, her fingertips touching the window’s glass. As though she wanted to touch the garden through the glass. Her skin appeared tight against her skin, no longer the plump figure she had been. Though time passed haphazardly for the Fairy so she was not sure how long ago it was. Many emotions had been rioting from their house over the years, loss, sadness, hope, fear, all delicious snacks to her garden. The fairy deepened her magics into the soil to keep the emoting out. The chaos of it would influence the growing patterns of her lovelies, and with them in bloom she was ever vigilant. 

Not that she didn’t understand the compulsions of her nursery. The ivy reached for her as she strolled, and she let the delicate end touch her finger. It shuddered as it twisted around her finger, and she shared a knowing grin. 

“How strong you have grown.” she crooned, as she loosened a wisp of magic down to her finger tip. The juvenile stem shuddered. Changing from green to purple as her power pulsed down its line. The creeping vines released their web that had grown around her and turned their blush pink blossoms towards the sky. They recognized a predator.

A throaty laugh escaped her lungs. It brought her joy to see them grow strong. The other delicate herbs, splendid blossoms, all flourishing, leaned away as she passed. They had tested her and recognized her power. They shared their perfumed calls and splendid blooms for the remainder of her walk.

The house wife touched the window again. Her gaze darting after the fairy who sauntered through her garden with no thought of her neighbours and their slumbering garden. Winter still froze their ground. It had been months since she ate anything fresh, and the larder lay near empty. 

It should have been a time of joy. For years, the couple tried for a child and failed. Then one day, like magic, she became pregnant. They spent the winter nurturing their miracle. Thrilled, the husband denied her nothing, no matter how big or small, how innocent or dangerous.

 Taking a deep breath, she inhaled the magic on the breeze, escaping the garden. She had a craving. After many days ignoring it, it seeded in deeper as she broke into tears. Her stomach’s growl shook her. 

Grabbing fistfuls of fabric from her rapidly swelling belly, she whimpered, “I will die if I have none of the Rapunzel.” The lettuce stood tall, covered in dew, in the bewitched garden. The farm wife could deny her craving no longer.

He watched as his wife, who was so fair and now stood wan, lean into the window. Her hands shook as she held her belly. Walking over, he pulled her into his arms, rocking in place as he felt her chilled frame against him. She stood rigid and then slowly melted into his warmth. He didn’t understand why she desired something from the garden. The magic didn’t affect him. The St. John’s Wort he took for his depression, kept him safe from the garden’s magic.

 Holding her shivering, boney body close, he thought to himself. “No matter what it costs. I will bring her the Rapunzel.” She’d grown leaner as the winter progressed. As though her body sacrificed itself to their new family member. The thought of her dying before their miracle baby’s birth was too much for the husband. He resolved to grant her wish that night.

As evening fell, he clambered over the wall. Tiptoed through the garden until he arrived at the Rapunzel. The rosettes of the young plants with spoon-shaped leaves called out to him under the dusk light. Surrounded by so many competing, amazing smells, he wished to pick a piece of the lot. To bring it all to his wife and to see her joy. See her skin flush again with happiness and warmth. But she had eyes only for the rampion, Rapunzel. 

Crouching, he turned and watched as fireflies brightened the night. Swarming a grand tree deeper in the garden. Their dance drew him away from the Rapunzel and towards a willow whose branches twisted into the breeze, snaking towards him. He lifted one foot after another towards it until his heart squeezed tight in pain. Pain darted through him, like a knife blade in the gut, clearing his head. Reminding him. It wasn’t safe to be in a fairy garden. He cut a rosette of Rapunzel, as it reached up to his ankles, then slipped back over the wall and to the warmth of his family.

His wife rejoiced. Drawing the dewy greens from him, he gaped at her transformation. Her shoulders lowered, the shine returned to her eyes, and her smile returned like the morning sun. She created a beautiful salad between the Rapunzel and dried fruit from the pantry, and devoured the entire salad with an intensity he had not seen since their nuptials. When she finished, she was satisfied. They returned to their joyous state of soon-to-be parents. Once again, their home burst with love and laughter.

 And that made the husband happy too.

Hunger struck again the next dawn, Hunger like the house wife had never experienced before. The insides of her stomach quivered in agony, twisting around and filling her with fear. Even in the periods of famine, she hadn’t known deperation like this. Shocks snaked through her system and she feared the loss of their child. It wasn’t the child causing her pain, but the Rapunzel. It was not ordinary Rapunzel; it was Fairy Grass.

Fairy Grass, or Hungry Grass, contained a curse. It doomed any who walked across it or ingested it with ravenous desire. For though the fairy had protected the mortals from her plants spreading from the garden, she hadn’t stopped mortals from entering. When she was away, the garden had fed on the prey they called. The corpse’s cry of agony reached up through the soil and became one with the grass. The grass that wove its needs through the housewife.

In terrible pain, needing MORE, the wife begged her husband to once again scale the wall and fetch more Rapunzel. The cravings grew stronger than the day before, “I will die this time without it.”

Her husband knew, to save his family, he must visit the garden again. He sensed a wrongness in the air. A shiver of danger ran along his skin. The joy drained from him as he prepared for his journey. This time he would not be so lucky. But he’d made a vow.

And so he went. Petrified this time the fairy would catch him. Yet he pushed himself to enter the garden, keeping his eyes focused on his goal. His families’s health. When he reached the patch, he bowed to the ground, ready to fill a bag with Rapunzel.

The fairy yelled from behind him. “Why do you invade my garden? It belongs to Fairy not mortals.”

The husband turned, horrified. The diminutive female growing with her anger. Much as the fireflies had swarmed the tree, he watched as light glistened down to her fingertips. 

He pleaded, “but I must. This is the sole food my spouse will eat. She’s pregnant with our precious baby. I don’t wish her or the baby to starve. Please, please, I beg you to let her have the Rapunzel.”

The fairy noted the man’s lack of fear for himself. His malaise and medication protected him from the magic of Fairy. His eyes flashed with fear, but the fear reflected to his home. 

Movement in the window caught her eye. She watched for a moment with both her eyes and her magic. She recognized the wife’s suffering. It was the curse of Hunger. Insatiable Hunger. She had a Knowing as the magic murmured its secrets to her. It was not the wife, but the baby who was cursed. The baby who was not quite human. It’s magic touched her and recoiled back. It was young and weak. 

 Saddened, the fairy said to the miserable fellow, “I shall grant you the right to pick my Rapunzel, as often as you need.” The fairy exhaled a heavy sigh, savouring the magic she breathed in from the garden surrounding her. Her charges and her debt.

 “You shall take nothing else in the garden or you will lose your life. The Rapunzel is only for the babe and her mother. Upon the child’s birth, she is mine.” This too was part of the Knowing.

 The husband’s devotion to his partner was strong, but his dread of the fairy greater. He agreed to her terms. 

He continued to scale the barrier, pick Rapunzel and deliver it to his wife as it was the sole food she could eat. The one item that sustained her.

Then the day came where his wife gave birth to an exquisite baby girl. The fairy appeared, declared the baby’s name Rapunzel, and snatched her away. His wife’s eyes dulled at first, with the loss of their miracle child. But then she blossomed, like their garden, both grew healthier than ever before. She returned to herself and once again was his loving bride. He gathered her up and fled the area. Grateful they had survived their encounter with Fairy. 

At first the fairy raised Rapunzel in her little house next to her garden because Hunger needed fulfillment. The small girl was exquisite, a porcelain doll, her every look and smell, addicting. Enticing. And the fairy rejoiced for the lovely, wicked gift the garden had provided. She raised Rapunzel, in the cottage beside the garden, until the young lady turned twelve-years-old. Hunger grew stronger than the spells containing her small nursery and her home. The fairy realized Rapunzel required a place with deeper magic, a place to contain her.

They traveled to a fairy knoll. From its centre grew a magnificent tower, with no stairs, no exits, and a modest window at the top. Magic swelled from where the tower rooted in Underhill, in Fairy itself. The fairy knew it would contain Rapunzel without removing her needing to Rapunzel from the mortal world. 

Rapunzel developed into a lovely young woman with golden, glowing hair and a voice so appealing, she drew the birds down from the sky.  Such allure, twisted with Hunger, was dangerous where mortals roamed. She was like the fairy’s meadows, herbs, and blossoms; poisonous to mortals, but exquisite in her own way. The fairy didn’t believe poisonous creatures deserved removal from the world, instead she guarded them. So she protected Rapunzel as she did her garden.

Rapunzel lived for many years, as the fairy visited and guided her and her Hunger. They sang together, cooked together, and cared for one another as family. The fairy believed Rapunzel protected and safe in the tower. But what she didn’t realize was while she was away, Rapunzel rested in the window and sang, attracting the wildlife surrounding the knoll. One day, it was not just the birds who observed her sing, but a prince.

Once the prince heard her sing, he watched her sit in the window, breathless. He noted how graceful she sat, how beautiful she was, and how much he needed her. She was more exquisite than any bird he had ever seen, and he discovered, just as caged. There was no means to reach her. He fantasized of sweeping her away to his castle, but could find no way to reach her. He couldn’t leave without meeting and winning the heart of the girl with the magical voice.

Then one day, while he watched her from afar, he heard her fairy mother cry, 

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.”

A wondrous braid of spun gold dropped thirty yards below to the ground. The fairy, (who else would lock a lady away in a tower?), tied the roped braid around her and the damsel pulled her up and into the tower.

 At last, he knew how to meet the girl who mesmerized him with her seductive voice.

 He waited until near dusk, then he snuck to the tower and called out.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.”

He watched the spun gold fall from above. Once it reached the prince, he drew it around his waist and Rapunzel pulled him up to the window.

Upon his entrance, the prince terrified Rapunzel. Trembling, Rapunzel hid behind her wardrobe. She had seen no one but her fairy mother before his entry. But the young prince was so smitten, it didn’t take long before Rapunzel delighted at his company. He climbed the tower to call on her every night.

Over time, their adoration turned into love. Their need for each other was so strong, they rarely parted. The prince could hear his named called from afar, as his kingdom searched for him. But such a calldid not compare to the voice of his love. If only the fairy mother did not visit, they would never part again.

One day while the fairy visited her ward, Rapunzel asked, “Tell me, Mother Gothel, why are my clothes becoming so tight?”

The fairy stared at Rapunzel’s stomach and her previous Knowing came true. “What have you done?”

Despite moving Rapunzel within the greater magic of the Fairy Knoll, she hadn’t made Rapunzel safer, or mortals any safer from Rapunzel. And now, there grew another generation of Hunger. The fairy wept at her mistake. She was the protector, but had fallen in love with this poisonous flower. Knowing what she must do, she seized Rapunzel’s hair, wrapping it around her hand, and snipped off the braid with her knife. The glistening hair shuddered, then lay dead on the floor. 

 Heavy of heart, she then banished Rapunzel to the Mists. The Mists hid Underhill’s entrance, where the fairies played and humans died. There, at last, Hunger would be tied to the fae lands. Underhill was a merciless place, but Hunger was too strong for her spells to contain.

She knew that the prince would search for Rapunzel; his addiction to Hunger. So she waited. Throwing out the end of Rapunzel’s hair once he called.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.”

 When the prince climbed up the cut braid, he was shocked to find the fairy and not Rapunzel. She looked at him, sadly. “Do you know what you’ve done, you poor boy? Rapunzel is lost from this world. And now, so are you.” She pulled on the Hunger, calling it with her magic. 

The prince’s mouth fell open, his body frozen. He recoiled from her touch, shaking his head. His hands trembled as he reached behind him for the window opening. His eyes went out of focus and she could see the Hunger twisting his soul. It would unravel him. Then it would be contained. Sometimes pruning was necessary in a garden. 

In his despair, the prince threw himself from the tower. He escaped with his life, but he fell into the Bramble at the edge of the fairy mound. And with that, he lost sight in both his eyes.

 The fairy didn’t bother to capture him. She’s poisoned the seed within him. Her job was complete. 

He stumbled away and wandered alone in the forest, injured, eating nothing but grass and roots, starving, weeping, longing for Rapunzel.

The mists surrounding the entrance to Underhill were a magical place. Much like the roots of the tower could connect the Fairy Knoll to the magic of Underhill, the Mists allowed the Hunger to call to itself. The seed dying within the prince felt the song of mourning Rapunzel sang at the mouth of Underhill. The prince heard the song, the voice that attracted him to the fairy tower, and followed it. Over time, he climbed over hills through forests foraging as he went along, following the sound carried by the mists, until at last he entered the mists themselves. The magic in her voice wove through UnderHill, up through the earth, pulling him to her.

The prince recognized her by touch. She recognized him too, despite the hollow man covered in mud and rot that crawled towards her, and they embraced. Her tears fell upon his eyes, clearing his vision. At last, he could see. Within the Fairy magic, the two united. And their family lived forever at the portal between earth and Underhill, unable to travel home. Calling others to them and consuming their wills so they too lived in the mouth of Underhill.

The fairy returned to her garden. This time she did not trust the wall to keep the garden safe. She added a magical curse to any who crossed the wall to wander, lost forever. Never shall they enter her garden or her fairy knoll again. 

THE END

As you read, I returned to the dark ending of the original. Though it has Rapunzel raising the babies without prince within the briar patch until he happens upon her. It was a fun exercise to twist the tale and breathe new life into it.

I urge you to do the same. Happy Writing!

My Writing Journey: Sources of Inspiration Part 1

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Neil Gaiman shared this advice in the Masterclass Series. To inspect your own life and the community around and you and look at it from a different perspective. A great way to write with emotional honesty is to use the influences in your life with which you have an emotional connection.

It will be no surprise to know I have a great of connections to fairytales and folktales as I do to a place. By the age of twenty, I had lived in two countries and more than a dozen houses in different communities. At this point in my life, I have expanded to have lived in seven countries. More than twenty houses. So the place I have the most connection to would be the village my mother was born and where I attended university in Canada. Folktales tend to explore the idea of Other. I found the more we move, the more I feel Other. I no longer fit in where I grew up, and I am new to where we move to.

For my daughter, there is a term: Third Culture Kid.

As a parent of a Third Culture Kid, I consider myself a wanderer. There is always something to be cherished in our new home town and country and something to be missed by those that we have left behind. What I have gathered from all of the places are their stories. I pick up books filled with folktales, fairytales, as well as recipes. Cultural food is an important part of the past and current culture. But back to writing inspiration.

Neil Gaiman suggested taking a tale, a story you grew up with, and to look at it with fresh eyes. What doesn’t make sense? Step back and consider how that tale might change with modern beliefs and labels. Look at it from a different perspective, take one of the big plot points or characters and twist it.

I decided to use one of Grimm’s fairytales. I have multiple copies of their stories, but the one I chose was an English translation of their original 1812 and 1815 books. They were darker and not necessarily full stories. But they were the closest to the original tales the Grimm family collected. Of the 156 stories included, I chose one of my favourites, Rapunzel.

Jack Zipes’s provides important historical context, including the Grimms’ prefaces and notes.

I am sharing a link to Rapunzel from Project Gutenberg as there is the audio as well as the ebook formats available for anyone to enjoy. There was no mention of God in the original version, and the Enchantress was a fairy, Rapunzel became pregnant, and there was no kingdom, but otherwise, the version follows along well with the original tale.

RAPUNZEL

The Project Gutenberg eBook version

There were once a man and a woman who had long in in vain wished for a child. At length the woman hoped that God was about to grant her desire. These people had a little window at the back of their house from which a splendid garden could be seen, which was full of the most beautiful flowers and herbs. It was, however, surrounded by a high wall, and no one dared to go into it because it belonged to an enchantress, who had great power and was dreaded by all the world. One day the woman was standing by this window and looking down into the garden, when she saw a bed which was planted with the most beautiful rampion (rapunzel), and it looked so fresh and green that she longed for it, and had the greatest desire to eat some. This desire increased every day, and as she knew that she could not get any of it, she quite pined away, and looked pale and miserable. Then her husband was alarmed, and asked, “What ails you, dear wife?” “Ah,” she replied, “if I can’t get some of the rampion which is in the garden behind our house, to eat, I shall die.” The man, who loved her, thought, “Sooner than let your wife die, bring her some of the rampion yourself, let it cost you what it will.” In the twilight of evening, he clambered down over the wall into the garden of the enchantress, hastily clutched a handful of rampion, and took it to his wife. She at once made herself a salad of it, and ate it with much relish. She, however, liked it so much, so very much, that the next day she longed for it three times as much as before. If he was to have any rest, her husband must once more descend into the garden. In the gloom of evening, therefore, he let himself down again; but when he had clambered down the wall he was terribly afraid, for he saw the enchantress standing before him. “How can you dare,” said she with angry look, “to descend into my garden and steal my rampion like a thief? You shall suffer for it!” “Ah,” answered he, “let mercy take the place of justice. I only made up my mind to do it out of necessity. My wife saw your rampion from the window, and felt such a longing for it that she would have died if she had not got some to eat.” Then the enchantress allowed her anger to be softened, and said to him, “If the case be as you say, I will allow you to take away with you as much rampion as you will, only I make one condition, you must give me the child which your wife will bring into the world; it shall be well treated, and I will care for it like a mother.” The man in his terror consented to everything, and when the little one came to them, the enchantress appeared at once, gave the child the name of Rapunzel, and took it away with her.

Rapunzel grew into the most beautiful child beneath the sun. When she was twelve years old, the enchantress shut her into a tower, which lay in a forest, and had neither stairs nor door, but quite at the top was a little window. When the enchantress wanted to go in, she placed herself beneath this, and cried,

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

Let down your hair to me.”

Rapunzel had magnificent long hair, fine as spun gold, and when she heard the voice of the enchantress she unfastened her braided tresses, wound them round one of the hooks of the window above, and then the hair fell twenty yards down, and the enchantress climbed up by it.

After a year or two, it came to pass that the King’s son rode through the forest and went by the tower. Then he heard a song, which was so charming that he stood still and listened. This was Rapunzel, who in her solitude passed her time in letting her sweet voice resound. The King’s son wanted to climb up to her, and looked for the door of the tower, but none was to be found. He rode home, but the singing had so deeply touched his heart, that every day he went out into the forest and listened to it. Once when he was thus standing behind a tree, he saw that an enchantress came there, and he heard how she cried,

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

Let down your hair.”

Then Rapunzel let down the braids of her hair, and the enchantress climbed up to her. “If that is the ladder by which one mounts, I will for once try my fortune,” said he, and the next day, when it began to grow dark, he went to the tower and cried.

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

Let down your hair.”

Immediately the hair fell down, and the King’s son climbed up.

At first Rapunzel was terribly frightened when a man such as her eyes had never yet beheld came to her; but the King’s son began to talk to her quite like a friend, and told her that his heart had been so stirred that it had let him have no rest, and he had been forced to see her. Then Rapunzel lost her fear, and when he asked her if she would take him for a husband, and she saw that he was young and handsome, she thought, “He will love me more than old Dame Gothel does;” and she said yes, and laid her hand in his. She said, “I will willingly go away with you, but I do not know how to get down. Bring with you a skein of silk every time that you come, and I will weave a ladder with it, and when that is ready I will descend, and you will take me on your horse.” They agreed that until that time he should come to her every evening, for the old woman came by day. The enchantress remarked nothing of this, until once Rapunzel said to her, “Tell me, Dame Gothel, how it happens that you are so much heavier for me to draw up than the young King’s son—he is with me in a moment.” “Ah! you wicked child,” cried the enchantress, “what do I hear you say! I thought I had separated you from all the world, and yet you have deceived me!” In her anger she clutched Rapunzel’s beautiful tresses, wrapped them twice round her left hand, seized a pair of scissors with the right, and snip, snip, they were cut off, and the lovely braids lay on the ground. And she was so pitiless that she took poor Rapunzel into a desert, where she had to live in great grief and misery.

On the same day, however, that she cast out Rapunzel, the enchantress in the evening fastened the braids of hair which she had cut off to the hook of the window, and when the King’s son came and cried,

“Rapunzel, Rapunzel,

Let down your hair,”

she let the hair down. The King’s son ascended, but he did not find his dearest Rapunzel above, but the enchantress, who gazed at him with wicked and venomous looks. “Aha!” she cried mockingly. “You would fetch your dearest, but the beautiful bird sits no longer singing in the nest; the cat has got it, and will scratch out your eyes as well. Rapunzel is lost to you; you will never see her more.” The King’s son was beside himself with pain, and in his despair he leapt down from the tower. He escaped with his life, but the thorns into which he fell pierced his eyes. Then he wandered quite blind about the forest, ate nothing but roots and berries, and did nothing but lament and weep over the loss of his dearest wife. Thus he roamed about I in misery for some years, and at length came to the desert where Rapunzel lived in wretchedness. He heard a voice, and it seemed so familiar to him that he went towards it, and when he approached, Rapunzel knew him and fell on his neck and wept. Two of her tears wetted his eyes, and they grew clear again, and he could see with them as before. He led her to his kingdom, where he was joyfully received, and they lived for a long time afterwards, happy and contented.

Part 2 I will share my version of Rapunzel. My intension is to follow the original storyline but to change the protagonist to the fairy. We will see how it turns out.

What story would you choose to rewrite? Happy Writing!

My Writing Journey: Writing a Killer Prologue and Epilogue

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We made it to the final chapter of the book! And the best part is it is a bonus chapter. The focus of this chapter is on prologue and epilogue development.

Prologues are set before Chapter One. Many readers prefer to skip the prologue, according to the exercise book Plot Development Step by Step by Jesper Schmidt & Autumn M. Birt– I for one always read them — so if you are to add one, ensure it is engaging and revealing information interesting enough to hook the reader.

A book with a fantastic prologue is Elantris by Brandon Sanderson. For those who read my Inspiring Author of the Week posts, yes. I chose this one because I spent the last week back in Brandon Sanderson’s story world. So it was the first one that popped out at me!

Elantris was beautiful, once. It was called the city of the gods: a place of power, radiance, and magic. Visitors say that the very stones glowed with an inner light, and that the city contained wondrous arcane marvels. At night, Elantris shone like a great silvery fire, visible even from a great distance.

Yet, as magnificent as Elantris was, its inhabitants were more so. Their hair a brilliant white, their skin an almost metallic silver, the Elantrians seemed to shine like the city itself. Legends claim that they were immortal, or at least nearly so. Their bodies healed quickly, and they were blessed with great strength, insight, and speed. They could perform magics with a bare wave of the hand; men visited Elantris from all across Opelon to receive Elantrian healings, food, or wisdom. They were divinities.

And anyone could become one.

The Shaod, it was called. The Transformation. It struck randomly—usually at night, during the mysterious hours when life slowed to rest. The Shaod could take beggar, crafts­man, nobleman, or warrior. When it came, the fortunate person’s life ended and began anew; he would discard his old, mundane existence, and move to Elantris. Elantris, where he could live in bliss, rule in wisdom, and be worshipped for eternity.

Eternity ended ten years ago.

Elantris prologue, Brandon sanderson

The first line hooked me in. The idea of of place of eternal beauty, before set my imagination on fire. What happened? Then he followed up with a visually engaging view of Elantris and how it was open to those who were mysteriously chosen. Where they could be turned from a beggar into a ruler to be worshipped for eternity. However, eternity ended. How can eternity end?

The setting up of the history of Elantris through visual details engaged my senses and drew me to the story. I needed to know what happened as well as what is happening now, after eternity.

An epilogue can be used in a similar matter. It can be used to add to the reader’s understanding of the character, their personal growth since the final chapter, or it can be used to set up the next book in the series. I am a serial series reader, so I am always hoping for the next book in a series. Having a piece of writing that alludes to what is coming, is a glimpse into the next adventure I cannot wait to read.

An epilogue that shows character growth and their paths in the future I enjoyed was the ending of the Wheel of Time Series by Brandon Sanderson and Robert Jordan. It is too long to share the full ending so I have to excerpts from it:

“I see the answer now,” [Rand] whispered. “I asked the the Aelfinn the wrong question. To choose is our fate. If you have no choice, then you aren’t a man at all. You’re a puppet.”

Memory of Light, Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson

The wind blew southward, through knotted forests, over shimmering plains, and toward lands unexplored. This wind, it was not the ending. There are no endings, and never will be endings, to the turning of the Wheel of Time.

Memory of Light, Robert Jordan & Brandon Sanderson

The final quote is one of the last paragraphs in the series. It is similar to how the series began, with the wind and the understanding of the Wheel of Time. The text suggests the epilogue be kept short. But when the epilogue is the end of a fourteen book series, I think there is an expectation of all the character arcs and the story arc to be complete. A chance to say goodbye to the characters we loved and hated.

Thus ends my examination and execution of the exercise book Plot Development Step by Step by Jesper Schmidt and Autumn M. Birt. I think this book supported my story development and outline, made it stronger. Soon I will find out if it makes the editing process shorter. NaNoWriMo has one week left and I am currently at 45,463 words. I look forward to finishing the book and in another month, the editing process.

Next week I will examine a story exercise suggested by Neil Gaiman in the Masterclass Course. Happy Writing!