Monthly Archives: June 2012
The lovely author and blogger Janie Bill asked me over to share my thoughts. As I pondered what to write, my mind traveled back to a simpler place of fond memories I was quite fortunate to experience, before the rise and rule of electronic gadgets: a place where we children had to find other forms of entertainment and the world possessed something I hardly ever hear anymore: silence.
“Nestled behind my childhood home lay a wild wooded area we called ‘the lot.’ To the casual observer, it was no more than a tangle, serving as a screen between our house and the street, yet there was so much more to it than unkempt vegetation and rocks. The lot was my own private retreat—a region of enchantment that fed the imagination and initiated my first ideas of writing.
In the simmering heat of summertime, I would slip away into deep green foliage, and disappear from this world into another. Mysterious and quiet, foreign and impenetrable to adults, it sheltered and nurtured me. A well-hidden path I discovered (or created) once led me to a miniature enclosure made by a circle of skinny trees. This became my sanctuary. Here, with stubby pencil and notebook paper, I crafted stories woven from forest whispers, which is a green, amused, softly breezy language one forgets how to understand when grown. (There’s only one place I’ve found as an adult where I can still hear it.) I had not yet read Thoreau or Kipling, but my time in the lot resembled the simple, free existence of Walden or The Jungle Book. Eventually I taught myself how to step without sound through brittle undergrowth—to move against the breeze until I could surprise foraging sparrows. Rather than human intruder, I named myself a creature of this wood, belonging there as much as robins or squirrels.
Here, in this earthy, secret atmosphere, I first read C.S. Lewis’s Narnia Chronicles, and believed. While traversing forest paths, I was always searching for the doorway that would whisk me into that magical land. Charms tingled through my fingertips and Aslan’s golden breath kissed my cheeks.
Though the lot ultimately kept its portals to other worlds hidden, it proved generous in other ways. Once, I happened upon a gray wooden staff, four feet tall, as straight and round as a pole, with even, sanded ends. Worm-sign covered it like druid runes. Perhaps they were druid runes. Another time I unearthed a complete mouse skeleton, airy and fragile, from my enclosure’s moss and leaf-carpeted floor.
One of the lot’s most valuable, long-lasting gifts was a distinct appreciation of solitude. I learned to lie still, watching the changing cloud patterns through a frame of leaves and branches, for hours. Under this fertile canopy, stories crept through my mind like dreams, or voices perhaps, from other lives.
At times, so many years later, I still wonder what happened to my walking stick. The mouse bones crumbled, and my childish stories were tucked into nostalgia’s drawer. Yet the lot remains, after a fashion. When my parents moved, the new owners contained it behind a high cedar fence and chopped down most of the old trees. Landscaped and civilized, the once-wild area now lies obediently prim and suffocated under benches and flowerpots. I wish they had paused to listen first to the elegant, rustling wisdom those trees were so willing to offer. Would they still have wanted to lift the axe?
I wonder what our world would be like if every child had access to a wild, secret place of his or her own? My time in the lot didn’t prepare me for this life—rather it offered seclusion from it. Indeed, it hindered me from taking my place in the cold city forest. Though I became adult in body, the world’s constant blare and metallic essentials has always battered at my sensibilities. I have unconsciously constructed walls to shield myself from the assault. Nonetheless, I will always believe my small plot of land did cultivate something tangible. It wrapped me in a cocoon of poetry that tinges every word I write. Because of the lingering effect of those days, I suspect writers cannot be social beings in the same way other people can. They must thrive in solitude. They must discover how to listen to unseen things, and they must learn to trust what they hear. My voice came to me under a leafy awning, murmuring within the breast of Mother Gaia. The lot actually turned out to be far more supportive than my mortal parents; without it, I doubt I would have ever found my writer’s voice, or the courage to do much of anything.
What the lot gave me didn’t disappear, turn to dust, or molder in a drawer. Graciously it remained, an integral part of my writing and of me.
You know, maybe the lot did allow me through its invisible gateway after all. For now, even in stark adult reality, the fantasy and magic that first befriended me there, on a tiny scrap of wild, isolated land in Kansas, remains vivid and alive, a mere thought away.”
Excerpt from The Thinara King:
A blanketing mist rolled in from the sea; the caress of water against sand gave off a hushed, tranquil susurration. Themiste’s voice faded away beneath the heightened sound of Aridela’s breathing. It filled her ears, punctuated by the steady thrum of her heartbeat.
Menoetius’s gaze shifted from Chrysaleon to her. As they stared at each other, shocked surprise replaced the frown on his face.
She had never felt so strange, so separated from what was real. Her mind seemed to soar into the mist. She saw Menoetius as he used to be, his youthful beauty restored—Carmanor as she remembered him.
Through some divine visionary gift, Aridela was allowed to see through Menoetius’s eyes everything that happened the morning he carried her out of the shrine, bleeding, near death. She felt his desperate need to save her, the tenderness with which he held her, the kiss he placed on her forehead. She startled along with him when the doves in their cages began their terrified fluttering and the dim torches abruptly blazed. She felt her soul slip away as he raced up the steps, shouting, and saw the beautiful, shining handmaid, smiling at her.
Her eyes stung with tears.
At that moment a voice broke into the memory. Gentle and melodious, it merged with the whisper of the sea. She couldn’t distinguish if it was male or female.
I have lived many lives since the beginning, and so shalt thou. I have been given many names and many faces. So shalt thou, and thou wilt follow me from reverence and worship into obscurity. In an unbroken line wilt thou return, my daughter. Thou shalt be called Eamhair of the sea, who brings them closer, and Shashi, sacrificed to deify man. Thy names are Caparina, Lilith and the sorrowful Morrigan, who drives them far apart. Thou wilt step upon the earth seven times, far into the veiled future. Seven labyrinths shalt thou wander, lost, and thou too wilt forget me. Suffering and despair shall be thy nourishment. Misery shall poison thy blood. Thou wilt breathe the air of slavery for as long as thou art blinded. For thou art the earth, blessed and eternal, yet thou shalt be pierced, defiled, broken and wounded, even as I have been. Thou wilt generate inexhaustible adoration and contempt. Until these opposites are united, all will strangle within the void.
Aridela couldn’t move. She couldn’t even blink. As she stared at Menoetius, he disintegrated and remolded into his blood brother, with Chrysaleon’s green eyes and honeyed hair, but the cruel expression worn by this phantasm immersed her in dread and anguish.
The voice spoke again.
I have split one into two. Mortal men have burned my shrines and pulled down my statues. Their arrogance has upended the holy ways. I decree that men wilt resurrect me or the earth will die.
Albert Einstein said, “Imagination is more important than knowledge.” I couldn’t agree more.
The island in the Mediterranean nowadays called Santorini has had many names throughout the centuries. One of the oldest known names, and the one I use, is Callisti. In ancient Greek, it means “The Most Beautiful,” and is alternately spelled Kalliste.
Strongyle, another of Santorini’s ancient names, meant, “The Round One.”
Thera, yet another name long used for this volcanic island, can be translated as “Fear,” which, as it turns out, was rather prophetic, as is the name of the central mountain, rumored by some to be Alcmene, meaning “Wrath of the Moon.”
For many years, until “super” volcanoes were more clearly understood, this eruption was considered the worst in human history. It was so enormous, so destructive, (categorized as a Plinian type event) that it made the eruption of Tambora look like a tiny belch in the earth. It would have made the Mt. Saint Helen’s eruption seem like nothing more than a brief, sleeping baby’s gasp.
As scientists become more adept at studying the effects of volcanoes, (and it’s impressive how much they’ve learned about the Santorini volcano, even though it happened so very long ago), they have conjectured that the repercussions of this event went clear around the world, and probably affected the earth’s climate for many years. From the depth of the ash on the sea floor, they have determined that the worst damage done to Crete, a mere seventy miles away, was on the east side. With improved methods and the study of more recent eruptions, there are now conjectures that the pyroclastic flow (the most dangerous, murderous part of an eruption) could very well have traveled on top of the water clear to Crete. The idea that such a thing could happen is amazing, and is merely theory, not proven. But that’s how huge this eruption was. Tsunamis of course came along after, and devastated the entire coast; there are theories that the tsunami which struck the northern coast managed to flow clear into the city of Knossos. Charles Pellegrino, in his book Unearthing Atlantis, says: “Within hours of the Theran upheaval of 1628 BC., death rolled into southern Turkey on the tongue of a tsunami. Two peninsulas jutting into the Aegean Sea confined the wave as if between the prongs of a mighty tuning fork, building it higher and higher and ultimately funneling it thirty miles inland. To penetrate so far, it had to be eight hundred feet tall when it hit the shore.” (Pellegrino, C. Unearthing Atlantis. New York: Avon, 1991)
One small bit of positive news: recent theories state that most of the populace on Santorini actually managed to escape the island before it blew into the heavens, leaving nothing but a sliver (part of which is again beginning to send out ominous messages). The volcano gave them warning, and they apparently heeded this warning. Since Callisti is considered by many to be an outpost of Crete, it’s no leap of logic to assume most of the refugees would go there, and that’s what happens in my book.
As awful as this eruption was, it did not end Cretan society. I have no doubt many died of the aftereffects, like starvation, ash suffocation, etc. But the Cretan civilization did eventually recover. Yes, these intrepid, hardy people managed to survive and even thrive again after this indescribable event. But at some point, later, the wondrous Bronze Age society of Crete (or Kaphtor) did disappear. This segment of my series offers one possible reason why, sets the starting point for the later books, and initiates a more familiar history—one that might never have occurred had Crete survived, retaining its original power and influence.
From everything Plato said about Atlantis, there is no doubt in my mind Thera is that fabled place.
Here is an excerpt from deep within The Thinara King.
Twilight fell. Chrysaleon made a fire from dead olive branches. The last glow of the sun transformed grey clouds to scarlet and lavender, with hints of green and yellow. Beneath this magnificence he constructed a pyramid of stones and shot an unwary hawk from the sky. He burned its thighs in offering and knelt beside his cairn, clenching the necklace in his fist.
“Poseidon,” he said. “Walk with me. Lead me to Aridela. Make our bond unbreakable. Help me slay Harpalycus and bring an end to the king-sacrifice.” He peered into the heavens. “Make me this great-year-king, Horse Tamer, and I will present you with the rich island of Crete. I will cover this land with temples and fill each one with your image.”
A sudden gust of wind sent a fan of sparks into the indigo sky.
Taking it for the answer he wanted, he wrapped himself in the cloak Neoma had given him. “Bring Aridela home,” she had begged, clutching his arm. “I miss her. I don’t think she even knows I’m alive.” The stone that struck her during the worst of the Destruction had left a noticeable depression in her forehead, like a large, out-of-place dimple, and ongoing headaches forced her to spend time in darkened seclusion nearly every day.
He stared at his fire, thinking of Aridela, longing for her. A memory crept before him, one he’d forgotten, from his time near death in the cell at Labyrinthos.
In his starved, thirsty mind, he’d experienced a vision of Menoetius transforming into a black bull, the enormous bad-tempered kind Cretans used in their ring. The beast gored him and as he lay gasping, his lifeblood seeping away, Aridela came to stand beside the bull, resting her hand on his neck in an intimate manner. She had looked down upon Chrysaleon without any emotion.
“No,” he’d whispered, and he did so again now, fury raging through his blood as he gazed into the cold night sky. “Menoetius won’t defeat me.”
He fell asleep at last, but during the night’s blackest point, he was awakened by the earth shuddering. Small creatures scurried; rocks lurched and tumbled. His horse shied and nickered. Farther away, he heard ominous, eerie echoes as an avalanche of boulders crashed into one of Crete’s many precipitous gorges.
He stared into the night towards the mountains, aching to be among them.
I’m coming, Aridela. I will find you.
The Year-god’s Daughter: Book One of The Child of the Erinyes
The Thinara King: Book Two of The Child of the Erinyes
In the Moon of Asterion: The conclusion of the Bronze Age trilogy
Amazon Rebecca Lochlann page: http://tinyurl.com/73u82kg