A Sinner’s Origins

Posted on April 23, 2023 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

In order to write Theobalt’s redemption in “Illumine Hades,” I had to know a lot more about the mortal man than ever made it onto the story page.

I’ll admit that I’m a Theobalt fan. I like his brashness, his good cheer, and his feckless good intentions. I sympathize with his vulnerabilities. I figure the readers of “Illumine Hades” likely include other Theobalt fans like myself. This post is for you!

I’m going to share my brainstorming process (which I did in my journal), because it presents Theobalt’s history as I learned it. It will have the side effect of drawing back the curtain to reveal some of my writerly methods, so if you prefer not to see the sausage being made… Read no farther! 😀

Here we go!

I need to know more about Theobalt. The heart of his issue is that he felt all through his life that he could never measure up. His response to the sense of inadequacy was that he just wouldn’t try. Why try when failure is inevitable?

I think his mother expected too much of him? Why? Was she a widow? No. Theobalt’s father arranged Theobalt’s marriage. I think Theobalt’s father was a lot like Theobalt himself. He was professionally successful, but relationally unsuccessful. Theobalt’s mother didn’t get what she wanted from Theobalt’s father. When she saw many of the same characteristics in her son, she raged at him.

Theobalt’s father was involved with olive oil. Not wine, because Theobalt is ignorant regarding wine and its qualities. Question: was the family a producer of olive oil or did they ship it? If they were in shipping, they would likely not specialize. So…they both grow olives and buy olives from other, smaller farms. They press the olives and sell the oil to folk in the city and to merchants in more distant cities. Ah! The reason Theobalt’s father was away from home so much was because he would meet with these faraway merchants to make deals. While abroad he would seek new prospects to expand his business.

The more unpleasant Theobalt’s mother became, the more Theobalt’s father would find reason to attend to business. The more neglected Theobalt’s mother felt, the more unpleasant she would grow. Vicious cycle.

That’s the family situation. What about Theobalt himself?

He was a happy-go-lucky lad who loved to run and play with his friends. He hated lessons, hated sitting still, wanted to be on-the-go all the time. If his mother had thought to co-opt him as an errand boy, things would have gone very much better. Instead she insisted on lessons, in-home chores, and keeping her company. It was a disaster.

When Theobalt grew old enough to accompany his father, he did, and his mother was outraged that both her menfolk were gone.

When Theobalt married, he took over managing the olive farm and the dealings with farmers supplying additional olives. His mother grew even angrier, since her husband was away all the time. She blamed Theobalt for enabling this state of affairs.

Theobalt himself didn’t find sea voyages necessary for maintaining sufficient distance from his own wife. He spent days in his office and evenings visiting friends. However, the marriage did not start out on such a bad footing.

I need to understand what Theobalt’s wife brought to the mix. She had been her father’s pet. She expected that kind of attention from Theobalt. She didn’t initially whine and demand such attention. That came later. At first she tried giving more to Theobalt. She cooked delicacies that were his favorites. She dressed up for him. She greeted him at the door when he returned home. She visited him at the office. And Theobalt was appalled. He was accustomed to emotional distance in the home. He started sneaking in and out so that his wife could neither greet him nor bid him farewell. He instructed his secretary to tell her he was out when she arrived at the office. He began to cage invitations from friends to spend evenings at their homes.

What did his wife try next? She asked him what was wrong, and he answered that nothing was wrong.

She tried harder. When that did not work, she tried leaving him alone. But leaving him alone meant they just led parallel lives. Then she started to fuss. And that is when Theobalt started to retaliate.

Okay!

Now I need to lay out the therapeutic process for Theobalt. What would get through to him? He is pretty resistant. Which actually makes him ideal for Dìs, since Theobalt absolutely does not want to recognize the truth about himself, and Dìs needs to learn that confronting the truth is what salvation is all about.

So what is Theobalt’s attitude? That women are just too demanding, it is impossible to please them, and one shouldn’t bother to try.

Dìs will ask: What did your wife want that was so impossible?

Theobalt will start on a long list of trivialities.

Dìs: No, those were what she demanded when you refused her what she really wanted.

Theobalt: What did she really want?

Dìs: Your loving presence and attention.

Theobalt: But I was afraid.

Dìs: Why were you afraid?

Theobalt: My mother had always insisted on more from me and found me supremely lacking.

Dìs: What did your mother want?

Theobalt: Me to sit still, keep her company, and do well at my lessons.

Dìs: That was not what your mother wanted.

Theobalt: What did she want then?

Dìs: Your father’s loving presence and attention.

Theobalt: !! Surely not!

Dìs: Yes.

Theobalt: So when she did not get that, and saw how like I was to him, she hated me.

Dìs: Yes.

Theobalt: But I think she was right to hate me.

That is the process—in outline—of how Theobalt might come to understand how he came to be who he is. But how would he regain—or gain—confidence that he is enough as himself? Because he is afraid of sitting still within being. Be here now. What do you hear? What do you touch. What do you smell? What do you taste? What do you see?

Theobalt will strongly resist that. But the only way to be able to give that kind of attention to someone else is to be able to give it to one’s own experience. And Dìs is in a position to hold Theobalt still enough that Theobalt can discover the ability to be present.

Now I need to think about Dìs’ own experience of all this. How does he start out? Where does he go wrong?

In The Goblin Emperor, Maia’s confusion, headache, and impatience with aggrandizing disputants are presented first. Then his realization that since he cannot please everyone, he need please no one. Next we learn that with the need to please removed, Maia sees clearly. We are shown what he sees and we hear his spoken discussion. Then we witness his assertion of his confident authority, and the scene ends.

That is a really important scene in the story, because Maia is an abused adolescent who is afraid of conflict. He has used placation as a means of survival. We need to see his thought process in his moment of growth.

I suspect my scene with Dìs and Theobalt is equally important in my story. The difference is that we’ve already been shown that Dìs is starting to change his autocratic thought process. Ah! And this is not the scene that is the crux of the matter. And it is not a scene in which he is learning a new skill, even though superficially it might seem that way.

The important thing in this scene is that Dìs discovers that his method of penetrating to the truth for the purpose of judgment can be wielded for a different purpose as well. We need not see him making the mistake of being overly sympathetic. In fact, that should be part of his own realization: Oh! he’d always thought Persephone must lean on sympathy and forgiveness, but—no—she leans on truth.

The mistake Dìs would make is that of moving from to truth to judgment, when he should be moving from his own realization of the truth to Theobalt’s realization of the truth.

Yes, that’s perfect.

I need to figure out where Dìs would start. He’s already been thinking about Theobalt and what he knows of him. He doesn’t need to refresh his memory, because one of the attributes of the gods is that when they want to remember something, they simply do so, accurately. Dìs, when he decides to seek Theobalt, can simply begin where they left off, if he wishes, although he will chose a different beginning.

Where would I start with Theobalt, if I were working with him? I suspect I would have a hard time with him, because I would be too soft. Dìs won’t have that problem. He needs to get him talking, maybe complaining.

What are the complaints Dìs (and we) have heard so far? Away all the time. Bringing unruly friends home. Eyeing the physical charms of other women. Being harsh with their son. Betting on horse races and losing. Dirty habits, uncouth language.

Dìs doesn’t want to hear all this again, and neither do we. What we want is a question that will surprise Theobalt into answering with his deepest fear: she wants me prim and proper and sitting still like a statue on a pedestal.

Dìs: That is not what she really wanted.

Theobalt: It’s what all women want! Even me mana mou wanted that!

Dìs: From you?

Theobalt: Yah, from me! Who else?

Dìs: Indeed. Who else?

Theobalt: Oh. (small voice) Me páppa.

Dìs: And was that her heart’s desire?

Theobalt: She said it was.

Okay, I’m ready to write the scene!

Dìs sipped his wine, reflecting that Theobalt knew nothing of wine, if he called this one merely good. It was superb.

But the wine was merely a means. Dìs must not allow its excellence to distract him. He must win the shade’s confidence—admittedly not hard—and then lead him along a path at which he would naturally balk…

* * *

And there you have it, my brainstorming from start to finish. I often find that writing out my own questions and the answers they inspire clarifies my thinking such that I am ready to begin writing immediately at the close of a brainstorming session.

For more about the lore and process behind The Hades Cycle, see:
Heroines in Hell
Hades’ Many Names
A Hero in Hell
The Reputation of Dís

Heroines in Hell

Posted on December 23, 2022 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

The Hades Cycle has gone though some real growing pains in its creation. In the blog post “A Hero in Hell,” I told you how the series might never have existed at all without inspiration from writer-editor extraordinaire Alex Butcher. And I recounted the near miss averted by my first reader when she determined that an early draft of “Tale 3” was in fact a chimera of Tale 3 and Tale 4 unfortunately smashed together.

But even with those hazards safely navigated The Hades Cycle encountered two more challenges.

The first of these was its timely completion. You see, after I wrote Tales 3 and 4, I had the vague idea that it might be nice to tell Persephone’s story at some point. And then exploring events from Dís’ vantage would surely be worthwhile. But these were some day and eventually ideas. It could easily have taken me a another year or two before I got around to these stories.

But when my second reader finished reviewing my revised Tale 4, her concluding remarks to her feedback were that she absolutely was longing to get Persephone’s point of view. Her enthusiasm ensured that I tackled Persephone’s story immediately.

And, in fact, I discovered that Persephone’s situation was sufficiently complex that it required two tales to do it justice.

Once Persephone’s tales were complete, Dís himself had acquired such gravity that I could no more have delayed telling his story than I could have delayed breathing. And with Dís’ story complete, The Hades Cycle was complete. But it was not past all hazard.

The next danger was posed by the proper ordering of Tales 3 and 4.

Because the chronologies of Tales 3, 4, and 5 overlap.

They each follow a different heroine. A nameless shade (it would be a serious spoiler to tell you more about her) spearheads the action in Tale 3. Tale 4 showcases Eurydice. And Persephone carries Tale 5.

But Tale 5 starts first. Partway through Tale 5, the beginnings of Tale 3 and then Tale 4 occur. All three tales run concurrently for an interval. Tale 4 ends first. Tale 3 ends at about the midpoint of Tale 5. And finally Tale 5 ends.

Confusing, no?

Check out the graphic below. I think it makes things clearer.

Now you might think that Tale 5 should have mixed itself into my series-order confusion, but it didn’t. I was always crystal clear that Tale 5 should be Tale 5.

It was Tales 3 and 4 that muddled me. Because Tale 4 (Truth) ended before Tale 3 (Hell), I thought it should come first. So much did I think this that I actually published Eurydice in Truth as Tale 3. Yikes!

It was only when I wrote the synopsis for Take from Hell, getting ready to publish it, that revelation swept though me. It was the beginnings of Hell and Truth that needed to control their series order, not their endings.

All of this was happening in the middle of November 2022.

There I was with Tale 1, Tale 2, and what should be Tale 4 up for buying and reading! But no Tale 3.

You’d best believe that I completed the publishing work on Take from Hell in record time. I’d intended to release it in January. Instead I released it the instant it was ready, on Thanksgiving!

Then I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

I believe at least one reader purchased a paperback copy of Eurydice in Truth with “Tale 3” appearing in print on the front cover and the title page. They have my profuse apologies. My only consolation is that at least they have a true collectible in their possession. It is the only copy in print like that!

But I profoundly hope that The Hades Cycle has come to the end of its bumps in the road!

May all be smooth sailing from now through the publishing of Tales 5, 6 and 7. And may my readers enjoy all seven of the stories!

* * *

For more about The Hades Cycle, see:
Hades’ Many Names
A Hero in Hell
The Reputation of Dís

Hades’ Many Names

Posted on December 16, 2022 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

As I wrote the stories in my Hades Cycle, I found myself researching quite a few of the details. I knew the basics, having read and re-read the myths of the ancient Greeks from childhood on.

(I remember being particularly intrigued in my young adulthood by some modern explorations of the mythology: Goddesses in Everywoman by Jean Shinoda Bolen, Amor and Psyche by Erich Neumann, and Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis.)

But I have a poor memory for details (and some details were unknown to me), so I went digging.

Most of the Greek gods had multiple names, and some even a multitude. Many of them derived from the unique cultural references found in different geopolitical regions, such as Aricina, a name for Artemis from the town of Aricia in Latium.

But Hades, the god of the underworld, seemed to possess more names than any of his cohorts. Since Hades is the hub around which the entirety of my Hades Cycle revolves, his names pulled in a considerable portion of my attention. It was interesting stuff, so I’m going to share some of it with you.

Two sources seem to provide the majority of Hades’ names:
1•The change of language and culture through time, and
2•The creation of oblique epithets by people reluctant to pronounce Hades’ proper name.

I’ll explore both.

Hades through Time

The earliest form of the name was the proto-Greek Awides or Aides, dating from the late Neolithic period, 7000 BCE to 4500 BCE. Some later poetic variations may derive from that early form: Aidoneus, Áïdos, Áïda, and Áïs. The later Etruscan variant bears a superficial resemblance as well: Aita.

By classical times (510—323 BCE), the god’s name had settled to Háides, and thus it remained in Greece. This is the basis of our own anglicized Hades.

But while the Greeks recognized Háides as the god’s proper name, they spoke of him as Plouton or Ploutos (“wealthy”), and it was Plouton who was adopted by the ancient Romans as the god who both ruled the underworld and who distributed the riches from below ground. Variants on Plouton included Ploutodótes and Ploutodóter, “giver of wealth.”

Interestingly, Hades as Ploutos was given a priestess in Greece. He’d not received religious observance before, being deliberately ignored because of his connection with death.

But, moving on through time . . . we come to Orcus and Dís Pater.

Orcus was an Etruscan god, ruler of the underworld (like Hades) and punisher of broken oaths, who propagated into ancient Roman beliefs.

Dís Pater (“father of wealth”) was a Roman god presiding over fertile agricultural land and mineral wealth from below the soil. He was also called Rex Infernus (“king below”).

Just as happened in Greek culture, the Romans eventually conflated the two—Orcus and Dís Pater—but then blended them into the Greek Plouton to yield Pluto.

In both Greek and Roman culture, the underworld took its name from its ruler rather than the other way round, giving us Hades in Greece and Dís in Rome.

Just to gather them all in one place, here’s a list of all these historical names:

Awides
Aides
Aidoneus
Áïdos
Áïda
Áïs
Aita
Háides
Plouton
Ploutos
Ploutodótes
Ploutodóter
Orcus
Dís Pater
Rex Infernus
Pluto

Epithets for Hades

The ancient Greeks, disliking death, avoided speaking Hades’ name. Even though he was not Death personified—that was Thanatos—his role as ruler of the dead in the underworld was too close for comfort. Therefore they devised innumerable alternates.

I’m not going to opine on all I discovered. Instead, I’ll give you a list (which is likely only partial, since the ancients were inventive, and not every variant was recorded):

Adesius, from Latium, meaning “grace”
Agelastus, from his melancholy countenance
Agesilaus, expressive of his attracting all people to his empire
Agetes or Hegetes (“one who conducts”)
Agesander
Agesilaos
Hegesilaus (“the god who carries away all”)
Aidoneos, from confounding Hades with King Aidoneos of the Molossi—Theseus and Pirithous attempted to abduct the king’s daughter, named Persephone
Axiocersus, the shorn god, from the mysteries of the Cabiri
Clymenos (“notorious”)
Polydegmon (“who receives many”)
Eubuleus (“good counsel” or “well intentioned”)
Hesperos Theos (“god of death and darkness”)
Iao, Hades’ name in Clares, a town of Ionia
Moiragetes, guide of the Fates
Ophieus, the blind god of the Messenians; derived from the Messenian practice of dedicating certain blinded augurs to him
Zeus Eubouleus
Zeus Katathonios (“Zeus of the underworld”)
Zeus Meilichios (“easy to be entreated,” a euphemism for Maimaktes, “the raging one, thirsty for blood”)

In Latin or Etruscan:
Altor, from alo (“to nourish”)
Februus, from februa, signifying the sacrifices and purifications of funeral rites
Feralis Deus, the cruel god
Lactum, from Sarmatia
Larthy Tytiral, from Etruria (“sovereign of Tartarus”)
Mantus or Manus, diminutive of Summanus, Etruscan
Niger Deus, black god
Opertus (“the concealed”)
Profundus Jupiter (“deep Jove”)
Quietalis, from quies (“rest”)
Rusor
Salutaris Divus, when Pluto restored the dead to life with drops of nectar from his urn
Saturnius, from his father Saturn
Soranus, his name among the Sabines
Stygius, from the river Styx
Summanus, from summus manium (“prince of the dead”)
Tellumo, derived from the treasures which Pluto possesses in the recesses of the earth
Uragus
Urgus, from urgeo (“to impel”)

In Egypt:
Amenthes, from the doctrines of the metempsychosis, signifying the “place which gives and receives,” from the belief that some vast gulf served as a reservoir of souls who arrived there upon death and in time departed to animate the newly born

That is one long list, isn’t it!

In my Hades Cycle, I chose always to refer to the underworld as Hades and to the god as Dís. Although, when I reached a story featuring mortals, I felt that Dís was too culturally wrong and branched out to Dís Plouton. 😉

If you’d like more about the lore and background of The Hades Cycle, see:
The Reputation of Dís
A Hero in Hell

A Hero in Hell

Posted on November 25, 2022 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

My friend Alex Butcher was virtually singlehandedly responsible for so many of my stories and novels being present in book bundles. Indeed, we became friends through the process of working on all those bundles together over the course of 4 years. But, make no mistake, she was the driving force behind the bundles, not me! I’m still impressed with her willingness to do all that work to publish writers other than herself.

But Alex also played an important role in the creation of my Hades Cycle. Without Alex, I suspect I would have stopped after the first two stories of what became the series, without in fact ever creating the series at all.

The defining moment for The Hades Cycle was its fourth tale, “Eurydice in Truth.” And that defining moment occurred solely because of Alex.

Devoted as she has been to the satisfaction found in creating bundles, she’s never limited herself to bundles. Before bundles were a thing (and now after their day has passed), Alex created/creates and participates in anthologies. Naturally, she’s invited me to join in the fun at times.

The anthology pertinent to The Hades Cycle was titled Heroes in Hell. At the time Alex spoke with me, Heroes in Hell was a done deal, already complete and en route to publication. But the publisher was planning another anthology with a fresh theme, and Alex thought I might wish to write a story to contribute.

My muse being a wayward creature, she immediately delivered up inspiration for a story fitting the outgoing anthology rather than the upcoming one, and I fell headlong into “Eurydice in Truth.”

When Alex described Heroes in Hell, she’d given examples of historical heroes who might have landed in hell after their deaths, such as Alexander the Great or Cleopatra. But mythical figures tend to catch my writerly imagination more than historical ones, and—thus far—pagan myths generate story ideas for me, while Christian theology has not.

So, at Alex’s words, my mind turned to the ancient Greeks, and then to Orpheus. He was definitively a Greek hero in the mythological Greek hell. Following this trail of musing, I found myself in Eurydice’s sandals, feeling her disturbed confusion and her terror. I had to tell her story!

But “Eurydice in Truth” had one more twist in store for me as I wrote it, and I didn’t realize this until after my first reader gave me her feedback. Without intending to, I’d written the first half of “Eurydice in Truth,” but grafted it onto the second half of what would become “Take from Hell.”

That didn’t work at all!

Discussing the draft with my first reader, I was able to sort out the problem. I separated the mismatched halves, wrote the second half that belonged to “Eurydice in Truth,” and then wrote the proper first half that belonged to “Take from Hell.”

There were two further developments in the series that I’ll tell you in another post, but with “Eurydice in Truth” and “Take from Hell” on record, The Hades Cycle was firmly established as an entity and I went on to complete it. As I draft this history of the series, the rest of the stories have been in existence for many months, and I’ve been racing to catch up on the publishing front. It’s an unusual feeling for me, since I’ve never had a backlog of finished, but unpublished work before.

Here’s looking at 2023! 😀

For more about The Hades Cycle, see:
The Reputation of Dìs

The Reputation of Dìs

Posted on November 18, 2022 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

When I embarked upon writing the tales that would comprise my Hades Cycle, I did quite a bit of re-reading of Greek mythology. Since I’ve always been fascinated by the stories of the ancient world, this was a pleasure and a treat.

Naturally, with the underworld serving as the lynchpin of the series, I needed to review the deeds of its ruler Dìs (also known by many other names and epithets). I’d not realized in my first reading encounters with him that his abduction of Persephone was not a one-off. The fellow had practice!

Theophile, a mortal girl who boasted that she was more beautiful than Persephone when the maiden goddess remained yet under Demeter’s aegis, caught Dìs’ attention with her claims. There must have been some substance to the girl’s words, because Dìs was captivated.

He stole Theophile away to Hades, where she lived out her mortal span of years as Dìs’ companion and lover. When she died, Dìs turned her into a white poplar tree growing in the Elysian Fields, a paradise where virtuous mortals dwell after death.

The white poplar has special significance, because of the stature it holds as the victory wreath donned by the hero Heracles in celebration of his return from the underworld after completing his twelfth labor there. The distinctive leaf of the white poplar—dark on its upper surface and pale on the underside—symbolizes the duality of the full tally of Heracles’ labors, most in the daylit world under the sun, but the final one in the dark of the underworld. A hero must prevail not only in waking deeds, but also in the murkiest depths of his own psyche.

The white poplar possesses an alternate symbolism (acquired from Dìs’ hands before the advent of either Heracles or Theophile), but I’ll discuss that anon. For now, let’s return to Dìs’ love life. 😉

Minthe, a later mistress of Dìs, was a river nymph. No mention is made of how she came to dwell in Hades at the god’s side, but she came to no good end. Dìs was said to have put her aside when he married Persephone, and the nymph refused to go quietly. Like Theophile, she boasted that she was more beautiful than Persephone, and she claimed that Dìs would soon take her back and place her on Persephone’s throne as his queen.

Demeter, jealous of her daughter’s rights, turned Minthe into garden mint! (In another version of the myth, Persephone becomes enraged and tramples the nymph, turning her into mint in the process or else simply killing her, with the result that Dìs turns Minthe into mint to preserve her.)

Leuce, perhaps the first mistress taken by Dìs, was an ocean nymph and reputed to be the most beautiful of all the nature spirits gracing the ancient world. Like Theophile and later Persephone, she too was abducted by the god. Despite that inauspicious beginning, Dìs loved her with a love that would not be rivaled until he married Persephone. When Leuce eventually died, Dìs was inconsolable.

After an interval during which he could only mourn and weep, he decided to create a memorial of his love for Leuce and of her love for him. In the Elysian Fields, he brought into being the first and archetypal white poplar tree. As a memorial, it stood for memory, memory of a love that would never fade, never grow old, a love so strong that it could be regenerative.

The white poplar was sacred to Persephone, and the name Leuce became one of Persephone’s epithets, almost implying that the nymph was resurrected in the goddess. In the first tale of The Hades Cycle, “Eurydice Otherwise,” my heroine makes essential use of the white poplar in her efforts to save herself. And I, as the author, make use of Dìs’ reputation to posit that the three abductions on his record might not have been the only abductions he attempted.

For more about the gods and goddesses of the ancient world, see:
Lugh and the Lunasad
The Norns of Fate’s Door
Mother Holle

Away to Fairyland

Posted on September 4, 2022 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

My short story “Faerie Tithe” was inspired by L.M. Montgomery’s novel The Story Girl.

The Story Girl is an idyll of childhood, featuring children who are loved, protected, and supported, but who still encounter the typical challenges of growing up.

I suspect Lucy Maud Montgomery may have been reflecting on her own childhood while she wrote The Story Girl and realizing that in spite of the tragedy and darkness present in her young years (she was raised by her aunt and uncle, because both her parents died), there were many wonderful and special moments, too.

So, how did a golden idyll of childhood inspire a story visiting the darker side of Faerie?

In two ways.

Firstly, all Montgomery’s books include lyrical descriptions of the Canadian countryside that evoke a sense of wonder and awe. The forests, lakes, and meadows of Montgomery’s Canada might be fairyland.

And secondly, the character from whom the novel gets its name is a storyteller. Many of her stories recount the humorous doings of local people in the community or stirring events from history. But a few visit Faerie.

In chapter sixteen, “The Ghostly Bell,” is the merest sketch of the tale that inspired “Faerie Tithe.”

Accordingly, after tea we all set off, armed with jugs and cups. Felicity, thoughtful creature, also took a small basketful of jelly cookies along with her. We had to go back through the maple woods to the extreme end of Uncle Roger’s farm—a pretty walk, through a world of green, whispering boughs and spice-sweet ferns, and shifting patches of sunlight. The raspberries were plentiful, and we were not long in filling our receptacles. Then we foregathered around a tiny wood spring, cold and pellucid under its young maples, and ate the jelly cookies; and the Story Girl told us a tale of a haunted spring in a mountain glen where a fair white lady dwelt, who pledged all comers in a golden cup with jewels bright.

“And if you drank of the cup with her,” said the Story Girl, her eyes glowing through the emerald dusk about us, “you were never seen in the world again; you were whisked straightway to fairyland, and lived there with a fairy bride. And you never WANTED to come back to earth, because when you drank of the magic cup you forgot all your past life, except for one day in every year when you were allowed to remember it.”

“I wish there was such a place as fairyland—and a way to get to it,” said Cecily.

“I think there IS such a place—in spite of Uncle Edward,” said the Story Girl dreamily, “and I think there is a way of getting there too, if we could only find it.”

Well, the Story Girl was right. There is such a place as fairyland—but only children can find the way to it. And they do not know that it is fairyland until they have grown so old that they forget the way. One bitter day, when they seek it and cannot find it, they realize what they have lost; and that is the tragedy of life. On that day the gates of Eden are shut behind them and the age of gold is over. Henceforth they must dwell in the common light of common day. Only a few, who remain children at heart, can ever find that fair, lost path again; and blessed are they above mortals. They, and only they, can bring us tidings from that dear country where we once sojourned and from which we must evermore be exiles. The world calls them its singers and poets and artists and story-tellers; but they are just people who have never forgotten the way to fairyland.

It’s that last paragraph that makes me think Montgomery was appreciating her own childhood afresh.

But it’s the first and second paragraphs that formed my own inspiration. I wanted the full story on the fair lady with the golden cup and the mortal man she ensnared, which meant that I needed to write it myself.

Thus “Faerie Tithe” was born.

* * *

For a related post—on how a mortal healer enchants a faie knight—see:
A Song of Peace

The Tally Master’s Missing Scene

Posted on August 21, 2020 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

Uh, oh. I made a mistake.

I’ve been sharing my novel The Tally Master as a serial here on my blog, and…I left out a scene! Yikes! How did that happen?

Well, I know how it happened.

Most of the story is told in chapters composed of three or four scenes each. But there are two special scenes that form their own chapters and that have titles instead of “Chapter 1” or “Chapter 2” and so on.

The first of these special scenes occurs between chapters 8 and 9. It tells a North-lands fairy tale that shows the significance of Gael’s name.

So you could read straight from chapter 8 through chapter 9, skipping this fairy tale interlude, and never know that you’d missed anything. That’s just what my serial readers have done! I apologize, guys! I’ve fixed my mistake. The Legend of the Mark of Gaelan is now present in the sequence. New serial readers will encounter it in the proper place.

I’ll share it below in this post as well, so everyone who missed can catch it now. But, gosh, I’m sorry! Forgive me?

What happened is that I put the story up on my blog a chapter at a time. So when it was time to put the next chapter up, I looked to see which one I’d done last. Chapter 8. Okay, 9 comes after 8. So, Chapter 9.

Wrong.

I should have looked at the Table of Contents. That would have shown me that one of the special scenes came next. Lesson learned. Once I get Chapter 19 posted, I will not then post Chapter 20. I’ll post the next special scene!

So why is the significance of Gael’s name important? Because he’s named after a legendary hero who most people in my North-lands revile. Gaelan was the North-lands equivalent of our Earth’s Cain. To learn why, read on… 😀

Legend of the Mark of Gaelan

Long ago, in the dawn of time, there lived two brothers in the land of Erynis. They studied magery, and each vied with the other to be the most skillful, the most powerful, and the most creative magus in the north. Despite their rivalry, they loved one another as brothers do: strong affection mingled with equally strong jealousy.

Each boasted that his magery was better. And each laughed, because who was to judge between them?

The friends of Cayim, the elder brother, would surely say he excelled every other magus in the land, while the students taught by Gaelan, the younger brother, would choose their teacher as the best. And all the people of Erynis were either friends of Cayim or students of Gaelan.

Now it chanced that the twin gods of Erynis heard the boasts of the two brothers. Thelor, the god of cleverness and intellect, felt sure that his powers of reason could discern which brother was the more masterful magus. And Elunig, the goddess of wisdom, loved her twin and wished him to experience the enjoyment that exercising discernment would give him.

So, when next the holy hermit of Erynis sat in meditation, Elunig granted him a vision. In his vision, Gaelan and Cayim traveled to the hermit’s shrine and from there were transported to the heavenly home of the twin gods, where they would be judged. The superior brother would be offered the choice between two wondrous gifts.

When Cayim heard of the hermit’s vision, he longed for Thelor’s gift: the enchanting of a well such that the one who drank of its waters would always know whether a given fact be false or true.

And when Gaelan learned of the hermit’s vision, he yearned for Elunig’s gift: the enchanting of a spring such that the one who drank from it would always know whether a proposed action was wise or foolish.

On the eve of midsummer, the two brothers met and agreed to the trial of mastery. They journeyed to the hermit’s shrine and were brought to the twin gods’ home as the hermit’s vision had promised.

They received their welcome in a garden of surpassing beauty. Red poppies crowded the borders. White roses, heavy with scent, climbed the trellises. And a fountain splashed.

Elunig spoke the first words, her voice gentle. “You are safe here, but do not stray into the wilderness beyond the hedge, for it is perilous there.”

Thelor spoke next, his tone stern. “Nor should you leave the chambers to which we bid you in our house, for dangers lurk in unexpected corners.”

Gaelan, overwhelmed by the majesty of the twin gods, bowed reverentially. But Cayim delayed, curious to discover if he could understand more of the divine by scrutinizing these magnificent examples of it. While he stared, and while Elunig gazed affectionately upon Gaelan, Thelor laid a finger aside his nose and winked.

Then a servant brought them goblets of fruit nectar to quaff, and when they had quenched their thirst, led them indoors.

Gaelan bathed his face and hands in the basin provided and lay down upon the silken couch to sleep. But Cayim waited until his brother’s eyes closed and retraced his steps to the garden. There he found Thelor, seated on the steps below the fountain.

“Why did you wink?” Cayim asked.

“I wished to tell you that my sister longs for a babe, despite our great mother declaring that enough divine children have entered the world.”

“Why did you wish to tell me this?” asked Cayim.

“That I shall not tell you,” answered Thelor. And he dismissed the curious brother.

The next day, after they had broken their fast on cream and honey and peaches, the brothers were ushered into a great hall with white marble floors and pillars.

Gaelan performed his magery first. He summoned flame, which transformed to sunlight and then into ice. He built a palace of the ice, which melted to become a mountain lake in which brilliant fishes swam. One fish grew into a dragon, bursting from the surface of the water and soaring to the clouds. The dragon’s scales became rose petals, and the beast came apart in a shower of blossoms, falling through a rainbow.

Elunig clapped in delight when Gaelan finished.

“Beautiful! Beautiful!” she exclaimed.

Cayim’s performance was less elaborate, by far.

He spread a magical carpet of rich blue and green threads on the marble floor. He summoned a rush basket, intricately plaited, to rest upon the carpet. He caused the soft trills of a flute to sound. And then he laid an infant to rest within his nest.

Elunig rushed forward, catching the child in her arms and pressing it to her breast. “Oh!” she cried.

“She is a human child, not a divine one,” said Cayim, “and so I judge that the great mother cannot object. Neither can any human mother, for this child has neither mother nor father nor any kin to care for her. She is yours, if you will have her.”

“Oh!” cried Elunig again.

Thelor smiled. “You envisioned this trial of skill as a gift to me, sister. But now I make it over to you.”

Elunig kissed the babe’s downy head. “Cayim has won my heart, if he has not won your reason, my twin,” she said.

“Then Cayim shall be the master magus,” declared Thelor. And then, forgetting discretion, he winked in full view of both brothers.

Upon seeing Thelor’s wink, Gaelan guessed all that had hitherto been hidden to him. Jealous rage flooded through him, and he lashed out. Had he been arguing with his brother, he might have lashed out with words. Had he been wrestling with Cayim, he would surely have struck with his fists. But because he’d been performing magery, he assailed his brother with the energea of his magery. And because he was full of wrath, his magery lacked his usual control.

His energea cracked out as black lines of force limned with gold. Not blue or silver or green, all safe. But most perilous black and gold.

Cayim fell to the floor, dead.

Within Gaelan, his heart broke—for he loved his brother yet—and his nodes—the source of his energea—tore. So strong was the disruption that Gaelan’s inner damage manifested immediately in his outer form. His ears grew enlarged and cupped. His nose lengthened, curving up. His skin sagged, and his back hunched. His thumbs became crooked and long. The truldemagar claimed him violently.

The twin gods returned Gaelan to Erynis and then did penance for centuries. They had destroyed two worthy men.

Ever after, all who dwelt within Erynis called the truldemagar the mark of Gaelan. In other lands, some who heard the legend of Gaelan adopted that name as well.

And though the righteous hate Gaelan for his fratricide, the merciful grieve for Gaelan’s loss and revile Cayim for his trickery.

* * *

Want to read the serial? See:
The Tally Master, Chapter 1 (scene 1)

Want to know more about Gael’s world? See:
The Dark Tower
Mapping Ancient Rome onto Belzetarn
What Does the Tally Master Tally?
Map of the North-lands in the Bronze Age
Bronze Age Swords
Brother Kings

Dragon-gods of Hantida

Posted on February 7, 2020 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

Last week, I emailed my newsletter subscribers a note about the Hantidan dragon-gods. Since I was about to announce the release of Sovereign Night, I thought a bit of intriguing trivia might be something fun for my subscribers’ in-boxes.

The thing is…you, my blog readers, might enjoy it also. So here it is for your perusal.

(To those of you who are both blog readers and newsletter subscribers, my apologies for the duplication.) 😉

The Hantidan gods are more truly shapeshifters than dragons. They can take any living shape—man, woman, child, or beast. But in Hantidan belief, the native essence of dragon is shapeshifter. Hantidans describe the dragon form as one in which the god assumes the physical nature of nine beasts all at once.

The dragon’s head resembles that of a stallion, the eyes those of a hawk, the ears a cow’s, the antlers a stag’s, the neck a snake’s, the belly that of a tortoise, the scales those of a carp, the claws an eagle’s, and the soles those of a tiger.

The Hantidan pantheon consists of nineteen dragon-gods, seven of them “greater” and twelve of them “subtle.” Each one possesses a characteristic color when in dragon form, and preferred forms when walking as a human or prowling as a beast.

For example, Enyakatho—the god of intelligence and the spirit of inquiry—bears green scales in dragon form, but might stalk the jungle as a lynx or visit an outlying village as a skinny and wizened old man.

Gael and Keir first attempt to scope out the Glorious Citadel by attending an offering ceremony held for Enyakatho in the public Court of Earthly Order.

Enyakatho is considered the patron god of Hantida’s royal family, as well as of scribes, poets, and philosophers.

Here’s a list of the “greater” dragons and their attributes:

Name—Attribute—Symbolic Hue—Preferred Beast—Human Appearance
Orunal—will and power—gold—lion—queenly old woman
Enyakatho—intelligence and inquiry—green—lynx—wizened old man
Okegiga—commitment—red—dog—young man
Eningizimu—inspiration—blue—eagle—woman of middle years
Imfanelo—life or vitality—bronze—bull—18-year-old youth
Bochabela—luck—silver—cat—5-year-old girl
Bophirimela—beauty—white—horse—2-year-old child

The Hantidan dragon-gods play no active role in Sovereign Night, but rather form a pervasive part of the physical and cultural landscape.

The ruler of the city is called the “Dragon Blessed.” And much of the art—paintings, sculptures, vases, scrolls, and architectural ornament—depicts dragons.

When one such artwork is damaged during events in Sovereign Night, the nobles of the royal court speculate that whoever did the deed should have targeted the bronze Imfanelo—patron of peasants—rather than the gold Orunal—patron of the Dragon Blessed himself.

For more about Sovereign Night, see:
Timekeeping in Hantida
The Baths of the Glorious Citadel
A Townhouse in Hantida
Hantidan Garb
Quarters in the Glorious Citadel
A Library in the Glorious Citadel
Following Gael & Keir: a Photo Tour

Following Gael & Keir

Posted on January 24, 2020 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

I’ll be announcing the release of Sovereign Night very soon.

While we wait…I thought it might be fun to take a photo tour, following in Gael’s and Keir’s footsteps as the first few chapters of the story unfold.

* * *

Sovereign Night starts in the city streets of Hantida. They’re narrow, with a lot of foot traffic, some rickshaws and palanquins.

But soon enough Gael and Keir enter the formal northern court of the Glorious Citadel. Tourists are welcome there, as well as pilgrims to the temples located within its vast sweep of stone.

A ceremony sponsored by the priests of the green dragon-god—Enyakatho, patron of scribes, scholars, and the royal family—provides Gael and Keir their ostensible destination, but an accident intervenes before they can observe it.

The residential southern court of the Glorious Citadel is more intimate and welcoming in style. It features numerous courtyards and gardens.

Walkways rim the gardens, giving access to suites of rooms occupied by palace functionaries and pavilions inhabited by favored nobles.

Gael and Keir meet someone very important to their quest in a wilderness garden featuring a waterfall.

Following this fateful meeting, they are escorted to the guest quarters reserved for them.

I hope that whets your appetite for the novel! 😀

* * *

Caught Between Two Armies

Posted on November 1, 2019 by J.M. Ney-Grimm

Before I embarked on writing “The Kite Climber,” I possessed only the haziest of ideas for the story I wanted to tell.

It involved kites and civil war.

That was all I had.

I knew very little about man-lifting kites. I knew they existed historically. I knew they’d been used in times of war for signaling and observation. I had this vision in my head of a gigantic diamond-shaped kite with a man lashed to its cross bracing. That’s actually not what man-lifting kites look like, but I didn’t know that then.

Nor did I go seeking such information.

I felt like I needed the emotional heart of my story more than I needed technical details.

I trawled through my memories of my backlist books in hope of finding inspiration, and find it I did in a passage from Troll-magic.

Lorelin . . . embarked on the story of Emoirie’s great grandmere, the remarkable lady who’d saved her village when it was caught between opposing battalions in the Wars of the Tree Wands; and then for an encore went on to boss around the most influential Giralliyan Paucitor of her times. All before the age of twenty years, when she returned by choice to her humble origins and lived happily to become matriarch over innumerable grandchildren.

I loved the possibility of telling the story of Emoirie’s great grandmother.

There was only one problem with that, but it was a serious one. Emoirie lives in the Steam Age of my North-lands. Her great grandmother would have lived in the Age of Sail.

The story I wanted to tell took place long before then, at the end of classical antiquity when much of Giralliya was war-torn and falling into the barbarism of the Dark Ages.

I teetered on the edge of dismissing my feeling of inspiration, and then decided I’d be bold and uphold my inner artist. Surely Emoirie’s great grandmother wasn’t the only woman who’d been faced with saving her home when it stood between opposing armies.

I would tell the story of a girl confronted with exactly that circumstance, but living in the violent period of history that I wished to chronicle.

I was so excited by my decision, that I dove right in!

No research, no hesitation, just a quick sweep for names (people and places), and then I began.

I’d imagined starting with the girl who’d been stolen to climb the kite tethers, carrying reports from the man aloft in the kite to the forces on the ground. Instead, I delved into the source of the armed conflict. Only after I’d recounted the story of the three hostile ducal brothers did I turn to Andraia, my heroine.

But it was going well, and I was loving it.

I never did check into the man-lifting kites—not until after I finished the story.

The fighting brothers were all mages—powerful troll-mages. They were more than capable of using magery to give their colossal diamond-shaped kites a boost, if the technical aspects really required more lift than a diamond-shaped kite could provide.