Deby Fredericks's Blog, page 85

Dragon Encounters 24

[image error]This is a bottle my husband brought home from a visit to a local wine and beer shop.

I’m not such a beer fan, but I’m told it was quite good. One friend said it was so rich it should be called a “dessert beer.”

 

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Taniwha, Part 2

I mentioned on Wednesday that the taniwha of New Zealand were guardians to their own, but could be dangerous to outsiders. In fact, taniwha could be man-eaters as much as any other dragon. Many tales relate attacks by taniwha against humans they weren’t connected to. Luckily, there were warriors with enough spiritual prowess to defeat a rogue spirit, whether by use of wits or force of arms.

One taniwha, Nagarara Haurau, had devoured several villagers before capturing a young woman as his bride. He lived with her in a cave near the sea. The villagers pretended to accept him as their neighbor, and prepared a feast to honor him. During the festivities they ambushed and killed him. It’s said that Nagarara’s severed tail flew off and landed in a lake or stream. Prominent waterfalls in various locations are thought to have been created by the impact of Nagarara’s tail.

Another taniwha, named Kaiwhare, was preying on the people of Manukau. No one could stop him. There was a warrior named Tamure who lived in Hauraki and owned a magical club with power to defeat taniwha. The people of Manukau pleaded for help and Tamure came to them. Kaiwhare readily attacked, for Tamure was a stranger. They wrestled on the shore until Tamure bashed the taniwha over the head with his club. Kaiwhare was not killed, but he did become tame. This taniwha is still believed to live in the waters near Manukau. His diet now consists of octopus and crab.

Near Kaipara, three sisters were out gathering berries one day. As they returned, a taniwha fell upon them. He captured each in turn, finally selecting the loveliest one as his bride. (The fate of the other girls is unspoken. Perhaps he ate them.) The taniwha took the lucky (?) girl to his cave. As time passed, she bore him six sons. Three were taniwha, like their father, and three were human, like their mother. In secret, the captive mother taught her human sons to be warriors. The human sons eventually killed their taniwha brothers, and later their father. They then returned to their mother’s home with her.

Like their distant cousins, the mo’o of Hawai’ian tradition, taniwha could sometimes blur the line with humans. Tales tell of a “woman from the sea” named Pania, who married a human man. Their child was a taniwha. A priest named Te Tahi-o-te-rangi had served as a spirit medium for taniwha. He transformed into one of them after his death.

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Taniwha

Taniwha are nature spirits in the folklore of New Zealand’s Maori culture. They can appear as large sharks, whales, crocodiles — or dragons! According to legend, these spirits traveled alongside the canoes that carried Maori ancestors over the sea from their original islands. After the Maori established their new homes, the taniwha remained to watch over them. Even in modern times, many tribes and local communities can name a specific taniwha who is their guardian.

It was believed that taniwha granted visions to priests, warning of natural disasters or that enemies were nearby. However, taniwha could be both friendly or deadly. They made their homes in deep rivers, caves, and ocean shores prone to dangerous currents or sneaker waves. Friends of the taniwha might be guided away or rescued from drowning. In return, taniwha expected to be treated with respect. They received offerings of the first fruit each season. Even friendly tribesmen passing near a taniwha’s home would make offerings to please these spirits.

In addition to spiritual guardianship, taniwha were enforcers of tapu (commonly Anglicized as taboo), the social code governing Maori life. Violations of tapu would be met by swift retribution. So would any intrusion into the taniwha’s domain. Though they protected their own people, outsiders were fair game. Strangers might be dragged into the water or attacked and devoured. Women might be captured as brides.

Respect for the taniwha has remained strong even into modern times. Several news reports from the early 2000s related that construction projects had been moved or redesigned to avoid disturbing areas where taniwha were believed to dwell.

Check back on Saturday for a few taniwha legends.

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Appreciate A Dragon Day

Coming up on January 16, it’s Appreciate A Dragon Day! In celebration, here’s a reblog from 2016.

Appreciate A Dragon Day

Appreciate A Dragon Day was created by Christian children’s writer Donita K. Paul in 2004 to commemorate the publication of her novel, Dragonspell. This was the first in her award-winning Dragonkeeper series.

Paul called upon her readers and fans to recognize the significance of dragons in cultures all over the world. She urged participants to choose one special dragon character and re-create it for others, explaining why the dragon is your favorite. Her web site includes a number of suggestions, such as puppetry, classroom or library activities, and various art projects.

How can I resist? My favorite dragon is Mnementh, the first speaking dragon character in another first-of-series book, Anne McCaffrey’s Dragonflight. This, of course, was the first in her ground-breaking Pern series. I read it as a teen. Until then, I had heard and read only of evil, destructive dragons. The idea that dragons and riders could bond in a friendship that nothing could destroy was captivating.

Mnementh was a bronze dragon who stayed calm and carried on while all the humans were getting frantic. He set the standard for me, and I went on to write lots of Pern fan fiction in my twenties and thirties. Many friends I met during that time are still close today. My husband, for one!

So here’s a toast to Mnementh and his writer, Anne McCaffrey.

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On Wings of Dragons

It’s hard to believe that I’m heading into my seventh year of blogging here at Wyrmflight. Way back in 2012, I was looking for ways to publicize a podcast of my middle-grade novel, Masters of Air & Fire. The book is focused on a family of kid dragons, and I thought a blog might be a good way to begin.

I figured I would go with the topic until I ran out of ideas. At the time, I was most familiar with the European idea of a dragon, though also aware that there were Asian dragons, too. Six years later, I haven’t run out of ideas yet.

Sure, there are legendary dragons like Fafnir, Typhon and Tiamat. There are literary dragons like Morkeleb, Smaug and Kalessin. But who knew there were trees named after dragons? Or flowers? Or fish? Who knew dragons could be ghosts? Or rivers? Or cosmic guardians? Who knew a dragon could rule the underworld?

So here’s to all the dragons, from ages long past and from contemporary minds. And here’s to you, my readers, whether you’ve been following for all six years or just found me. Long may we fly on the wings of dragons!

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Dragon Encounters 23

[image error]Here’s the latest addition to my personal dragon menagerie. It was a Christmas gift, of course. My family knows me well.

Say a prayer and ring the bell!

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Dragon Encounters 22

[image error]

Wine-holding dragon. Photo by Deby Fredericks, December 2017.

Here’s a friendly and helpful dragon, seen on a store shelf at Christmas time. It even guards your wine bottle for you!

 

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Welcome, 2018

Don’t Let the Door Hit You, 2017

Last year was turbulent for many of us. The political climate in the U.S…. Need I say more? And the daily trials like large, unexpected bills. Plus I was intensely involved with SpoCon, my local science fiction convention. That appropriated a lot of my creative energy this year.

I’ve felt very much off my pace in 2017. My goal was to write 4 short stories and 15 chapters (60,000 words) of a new novel. I managed to write 2 short stories, neither of which have sold yet, and the novel I started last January stalled. I’m up to 10,000 words on a different novel now.

I’ve also been waiting for my publisher to set a release date on my next novel, Trials of the Eighth Order. I hasn’t come. That leaves me with no new, traditional publications in 2017. Of course, I did self-publish my two novellas, so I’m not completely skunked.

Coming Up in 2018

My next project will be a short story collection of my work for adult audiences. Tentatively known as Aunt Anne’s Archive, it should appear sometime in the spring. Aunt Anne’s Archive will contrast with Aunt Ursula’s Atlas which represents my children’s work as Lucy D. Ford.

There is also a good possibility I’ll go through my five+ years of blogging here on Wyrmflight to select the most interesting and popular posts for a collection. Dragon legends and Real-Life Dragons are probably the best categories for this project. I’d love to get feedback on which topics you readers might want to see.

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The Winter Wish, Part 2

Here is part two of my short story, “The Winter Wish.” Those who have read my collection, Aunt Ursula’s Atlas, will recognize this as an indirect sequel to my lyrical fantasy, “Dandelion.” Think of it as my holiday gift to you. Enjoy!

THE WINTER WISH, Part 2

by Lucy D. Ford

“How I wish I could see the winter’s snow,” sighed the grimchild.

He gazed up, between the dismal towers. Stinging ashpall made eyes dull and hopeless. Only when he looked down… What was that?

On the ledge beneath the window, just at the corner, a stubborn plant clung to a miserly crack. Soot grimed its saw-tooth leaves, yet still it held a single stem aloft. A soft ball balanced atop this stem, pale as true dawn under a layer of smudge. The grimchild held back a cry of joy, for he feared what Nanny would do to such a delicate thing.

Drawn by instinct, he pushed the window open and cautiously leaned out. Fingertips stretched toward the ledge. Almost he could touch it. Almost… Then his feet lifted from the floor and his weight tipped forward. Common sense made him jerk back, though not without a low cry of sorrow.

With the merest brush of his breath, the dandelion loosed its seed. Each tiny pilgrim hung by its own gossamer sail. The harsh wind snatched them and they spun high and low. Each was a dream escaping the gloomy prison of the Withertines.

The grimchild watched until he saw no more. His feet were back under him, sensible and safe, but the cold, hard floor held a dragging weight. He wondered if he would ever escape the Withertines.

As for the dandelion seeds, the dirty breeze sailed them over the Shearwire Fence and out across the Chokedust Plain. Spirits flagged above the Crackstone Wash, and they might have fallen there, except a little Windkin flitted by. It played a while, swirling and dancing and spreading them wide.

At last a gossamer seed was left, just one. Within that one trembled the whisper of a wish. The windkin heard that cry. It spun about and sent the tiny messenger floating toward pine-clad mountains. The silken puff drifted higher and ever higher. It whisked above the pines and up the cliffs until it came to rest on the very tip of the Cloudtorn Peak.

There it found another crack, no larger than its cranny on the window ledge. The seed nestled into the dark with its precious dream.

Soon tiny roots began to spread. They reached into the crevice, digging steadily, and those roots made the crack grow. Bits of rock flaked loose, clearing patches of raw, bright stone. An arc formed, and with a trembling snap a great eye flicked open. More cracks spread, faster and faster. A second eye took shape. A pair of sharp ears twitched free of the rock. Nostrils flared. A longer slit took on the shape of a jagged mouth.

Change was racing now, sketching shapes that had always been hidden in the stony spire. The Cloudtorn Peak shook and crumbled. A great horny head slowly lifted toward the sky. Mighty shoulders heaved free, unfurling crystal wings. Then a scaly back, hips, long tail edged with icicle daggers.

The snow dragon gazed out, seeking the root of its wish. A far, dull glow caught its eye. Below the lofty peak, beyond the Chokedust plain, the Withertines glowered its light through the noisome ashpall. The dragon snorted jets of frost. The great maw opened and a roar turned the air to icy fog. Beneath its wings, bits of freezing fluff drifted down upon the stately pines.

Stretching, the snow dragon shook loose the last shard of stone that imprisoned its talons. Vast wings beat and chill air whistled through frozen feathers as it soared aloft. Downy puffs fell thick behind. High over the barren gravel of the Chokedust Plain it glided, across the Shearwire Fence, until it circled the metal spires and smoke stacks of the Withertines.

All night the snow dragon circled. Snow mingled with the ashpall, gathering soot as it fell between concrete towers. Snow settled on the filthy rooftops and the bitter asphalt. It washed at least the outermost layer of grime from smeary windows.

Inside their factories, grimkin shivered and dared not look up. They feared this was the end of all Industry, and they were determined to wring every last bit of wealth from it.

The grimchild knew nothing of this, for Nanny had drawn the drapes again and their rooms were always chilly. Only, in the morning, her shriek tore the grimchild from sleep.

Racing to the window, he gasped at the vista of gentle white flakes settling endlessly upon the town. Screeches echoed up from below as motorcars skidded. There was crashing and cursing, too.

“What is this?” cried Nanny.

The grimchild knew the answer, but he did not say it for fear she would shut the drapes again. Shivering with delight, he watched as winter visited the Withertines for the first time beyond memory. Just once he caught a glimpse of the gleaming white dragon who soared above the ashpall.

“Of all the things,” Nanny complained, trembling. “And shut that window! You’re letting the heat out.”

Obediently, the grimchild slid the glass down. He looked around their barren chamber, the plain slat furniture and the hard bed where he slept.

“Of all the things,” he murmured.

Nanny said the Withertines was all the world and there was nowhere else to live. Now he knew she was wrong. There was a world outside the Withertines, where lovely things could still be found. One day, he wanted to see them all.

So while Nanny tutted and fussed at the falling show, the little grimchild picked up his book and began to make a plan.

The End…?

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The Winter Wish, Part 1

As a reminder, I made a blog visit to Entertaining Stories last Thursday. Lisa Burton Radio interviewed my character, Dan Forster, from The Gellboar. It’s a great interview and getting lots of comment. Go ahead a check it out if you missed it the first time.

And now, I have a short story to share. Those who have read my collection, Aunt Ursula’s Atlas, will recognize this as an indirect sequel to my lyrical fantasy, “Dandelion.” Think of it as my holiday gift to you. Enjoy!

THE WINTER WISH

by Lucy D. Ford

The Withertines, home to the grimkin folk, knew neither night nor day. Ashpall clotted the gaps between its metal towers, so thick that it blocked true daylight, while arclights glared from its factories and shops to banish real darkness. Like a nest of ants, the grimkin passed their lives in a churning seethe of Industry. Only commerce mattered: the squeezing and stocking of wealth. None felt joy in his labors, nor had they for many an age.

Yet even in such a place, there sometimes were children. A grimchild might sometimes be loved, in a passing manner. Most were merely looked after until they were old enough to heed the inescapable call of Industry. And most of them grew up just so. Not content, precisely, for the grimkin could never know happiness, but secure in their driven purpose.

Yet there once was a grimchild born cursed with curiosity and a joyous heart. He dwelt in the frugal company of a stranger who regarded him as naught but her job. She shushed him sternly when he laughed, and never smiled herself. Not even when a bowl tipped and the peas rolled over to drop on the floor, one by one, and it was really quite funny.

“Don’t waste food!” Nanny scolded. “Do you know what that cost?”

And when he tripped and landed on his knee and it hurt so badly, she paid no need to his crying.

“Stop running around, and that won’t happen,” Nanny lectured. “You should be sitting down, learning to read and reckon your sums. Those are what every grimkin needs.”

Alas for the grimchild, he was forever thinking of new questions. Gazing out the narrow window, where the ashpall drifted among towers of glass and steel, he asked, “What is in the clouds?”

“Breathe deeply,” said Nanny. “The smoke will make you strong.”

The Grimchild opened the window, breathed deeply, and coughed. He did not feel any stronger.

On another day, he turned his desk lamp on and off, off and on. “What is electricity made of?” he asked.

“Who cares, as long as the lights come on,” Nanny snapped.

Still another day found him at the window again. All was hustle and hurry beneath the endless grimy haze. A flight of ragged pigeons circled above the smoke stacks.

“Are the birds made here, in the Withertines,” he wondered, “or do they come from somewhere else?”

“Fool child, there is nowhere else!” cried the exasperated Nanny. She gave the grimchild a little swat before banging him down in a chair.

“No more windows,” she declared, hauling on the drapery cord. “Let me hear your multiplication tables, or you’ll have no supper, neither.”

Dreary weeks went by. Then the grimchild happened upon a book he hadn’t seen before. The book was about science, so perhaps Nanny wouldn’t mind him taking a look. He opened the cover, and blinked, and rubbed his eyes.

There was a wonderful picture, and everything in it was white. Spiky trees crowded a hillside. Behind them, magnificent cliffs stretched up and up to an impossible stony spire. All bore a heavy coat of some unfamiliar substance. It was purely white, yet sparkling.

The grimchild had never seen such a color. The arclights of the Withertines were tinted sallow gold. The paper he wrote his numbers on was nearly gray. What could this be?

Squinting, he picked out tiny letters: The Cloudtorn Peak in winter’s snow.

“Winter.” The grimchild dared to speak, tasting the strangeness of the words. “Snow.”

“What?” called Nanny from the next room. The grimchild quickly shut the book.

“Ten times nine is ninety,” he recited. “Ten times eight is eighty.”

“Quite right.” Nanny nodded, pleased that the boy was taking his studies more seriously.

“Ten times seven is seventy,” droned the grimchild, all the way down to “Ten times zero is zero.”

All the time, his eyes were full of that dazzling vision, The Cloudtorn Peak in winter’s snow. He soon slipped away to the window.

Beyond the smeary glass, the ashpall reigned. Dark, roiling vapors obscured the neon glare. Concrete chasms divided rank on rank of slate roofs. Not one single thing was white.

“How I wish I could see the winter’s snow,” sighed the grimchild.

Check back on Wednesday to read the conclusion!

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