’n Vraag oor fantasie en inspirasie vir die week

Voordat ek begin om allerhande stories te plaas, het ek dit goed gedink om met hiérdie inskrywing oor fantasie fiksie weg te spring.

’n Ruk gelede het ek ‘n vraag aan my mede Anomaliane gestel op Where the Map Ends. Dit lees as volg:

Hallo almal,
Ek wonder al ’n ruk hieroor en ek weet nooit regtig wat is die beste antwoord wat ek vir mense (Christen of nie) kan gee wanneer hulle vir my vrae het nie.
Sien, daar is nogal baie mense wat blykbaar glo dat, wanneer jy van fantasie (of wetenskapsfiksie) hou jy nie ’n Christen kan wees nie. Nou, ek weet óns almal weet dat dit net nie waar is nie, maar wat is die beste manier om dit aan mense te verduidelik?
Ek het ’n paar vriende wat slegs feëverhale of selfs net heksery en die bose sien en dink dat, omdat ek van fantasie hou, ek myself met daardie soort goed besig hou. 
Ek het al aan hulle gesê om van my goed te lees indien hulle bekommerd is – indien bose en heksery genoem word is dit die “slegte ouens” wat dit gebruik, nié die held nie. Baie van die stories in my wêrelde (soos Airthai) ontwikkel ook langs die lyne van goed en sleg en hoe om “slegte” mag te weerstaan. Vir my maak dit sin dat die held/-in teen groot struikelblokke te staan moet kom, want anders is dit nie die moeite werd nie.
Ek hoop dit maak sin! 
Marsh

Ek is seker ek is nie die enigste een wat al hiermee gesukkel het nie. Die Afrikaanse literatuur het ook nie veel fantasie of wetenskapsfiksie nie en alhoewel ander mitologieë (meestal Klassiek) soms in die letterkunde gebruik word, is daar geen hoë of epiese fantasie waarvan ek weet nie. Toe ek my Meestersgraad oor die invloed van Noorse mites op die Afrikaanse literatuur begin het, het ek gou gevind dat ek dit moet uitbrei om Nederlandse letterkunde ook in te sluit sodat ek genoeg tekste het om te studeer! En selfs net met hierdie studie het mense my al gevra of ek in daardie gode glo en wanneer ek weggedraai het van God af!

Dus, wanneer jy ’n Christelike fantasieskrywer is… en jy mites gebruik om ‘n punt te bewys of jou eie mites opmaak… wat sê jy aan hierdie mense?

Ek het hierdie wonderlike antwoord van Sean Rackley ontvang wat ek graag met ander wat dalk in dieselfde bootjie as ek sit wil deel:
Die manier waarop ek hierdie vraag hanteer is om dié wat ook aan die gesprek deelneem Jesus se vergelykings as spekulatiewe fiksie te sien. Dan is die sprong na fantasie en wetenskapsfiksie nie so groot nie. Jesus het die Waarheid aan ’n sterwende wêreld verkondig deur stories te gee waarby hulle kon aanklank vind (ek wonder soms of die stories nie waar is nie as mens kyk na wie die outeur is, maar ek dwaal nou van onderwerp af). Hy het byvoorbeeld ’n landbougemeenskap geleer deur meestal lanboustories te gebruik (soos byvoorbeeld ’n boer wat saad saai).
Ons gehoor is bekend met dinge ver verwyderd van landbou (dus kan die vergelyking van die saaier oorvertel word as ’n kolonialiserende gemeenskap wat veraardsing uitvoer met verskillende resultate op verskillende planete, of as ’n ridder wat sy ryk beskerm teen voëls wat saad steel, klippe en dorings wat per toeval drake, golems en donker elwe – met gepunte pyle is). Gooi ’n paar nodige storie elemente in om dit meer as ’n paar paragrawe lank te maak en voilà! – ’n storie is gebore.

Mense stem steeds nie altyd ooreen nie, maar op daardie tye herinner ek myself daaraan dat God my nie geroep het om te stry hoekom ek skryf nie, net om te skryf. Selfs indien ek die enigste persoon is wat nader aan God kom deur my fiksie en poësie het ek my werk gedoen.

Hierdie stuk het die eerste keer hiér by Hersenskim verskyn. 

Inspirasie vir die week
’n Bietjie musiek om die litte los te maak so op die Maandag – Bon Jovi se “It’s My Life”.

Worldbuilding Wednesday– A Dragon’s Freedom

Part 1: A backstory is needed and a hero steps forth

*Spoiler alert! If you haven’t read “A Dragon’s Freedom” you can click here for the free download (in Issue 5).*

The actual reason for writing “A Dragon’s Freedom” was to write about the life of the dragon Skáhag who plays such a vital role in the later years of the Midlands of Airthai. His death was actually the first thing I wrote about him (poor thing!) as part of the story of both the forming of Naeddre and the love story between Ameragh and Síldu. At that time I was writing a novel about the Midlands (no, it will never see the light of day in its current form – it was practice, or so I tell myself now) and I had built up the people of Naeddre’s mythology of Skáhag. But I needed to know where the dragon came from – and what it was doing in the Midlands in the first place.

Seat-of-Pants Worldbuilding

So, while this story was the first published, it was set in a world I already knew quite well. But, this was all written before the creation story of the world and the story of the sundering. I had just made up the Dragon Guardians on the southern coast and already had a vague story about a ‘not-very-nice’king of the Midlands who gathered dragon tears for riches. Now it was just a matter of putting the two together.

I wanted the dragons to be simply animals in the world (albeit talking animals). So, like any animal, it would be ‘good’ until treated in such a way that it lashed out. Skáhag had been mistreated during his life, and bound by magic to a master, so that his fight was as much against humans as the darkness created within him. When Ameragh sings to him a song that releases its bonds, his death at the hand of his master is bittersweet as he is at last freed.

By this time the (somewhat) secret language used by the Dragon Guardians and dragons was already present in Ameragh’s song (Here’s the song). I then decided that, because it was so powerful, that it was only known by a select few – the Dragon Guardians, the dragons and the Seafolk’s elders, although they knew it to a much lesser extent. This language was gifted to the Guardians and the dragons in much the same way the Tellerassar was given their own language. Therefore, if the king stole a dragon egg, he would need someone who could communicate with the dragon. Enter Nasja...

A boy called Nasja

The first scene of the story which popped into my head was the dragon’s nest and a boy stealing one of the eggs. At first this was supposed to have been done because of greed on his part (and he was older). But that didn’t sit well with what I had in mind for the rest of the story. For me it was a lot more striking to have him do something which is taboo for Dragon Guardians in order to save his family than simply do it for payment.

The next scene I wrote was of Nasja in the king’s palace. Although I needed a reason for him not to be able to escape, he probably would not have had a banged-up leg if it wasn’t that my own bad knee (the right one, not the left – see, it’s complete different…) was extremely painful that day![1]

At this point, I planned and wrote the rest of the story in a rough draft. When I had finished it, however, I realised that I had had Nasja basically act alone and didn’t really give him cause as to why he would suddenly, after a good ten to twelve years, decide to free the dragons and go home. I left the story to stew, pottering around every now and then and then turned my thoughts to some other short fiction and worldbuilding while I figured it out.

Next week: Worldbuilding shape-shifters and magicians

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[1] Mine is banged-up from ballet, though, and not being kidnapped and dragged over a desert... Cold weather, however, doesn’t really care how you ended up hurting yourself. 

Worldbuilding Wednesday – Cities of promises and riches

Worldbuilding Wednesday & Behind the Story

In the next part of The Price of Freedom (to be posted next Monday), I return to one of the parts of Airthai I have only written one short piece about (that has seen the light of the blog). One of the flash pieces I wrote for NaShoStoMo earlier in the year, entitled “The City of Promise”, was set on route to one of the larger and richer cities of the Southern Lands – Marglóthborg.

City of Promise

While this piece started out with the quite cliché ‘young-man-with-father’s-sword-setting-out-to-big-city’, I wanted it specifically not to be epic or have the young man’s life influence a whole kingdom. He wasn’t going to overthrow an evil empire, dark lord or even gather great riches. He was simply a young man with an heirloom setting out to find work in a large city so that he could send money home to his family. I doubt there are many families on the whole of the earth that doesn’t have this story in some form or another in their family. His choice to become a guard for one of the rich families did mean, however, that he was able to send more money home than he would have if he had gone to work in the mines. I specifically wanted to write a fantasy piece where the hero of the story is simply a hero to his family because he could help care for them. Yet, he also makes a choice to go against his father’s wishes and becomes someone who earns his living with a sword.

Worldbuilding the Dry Bay – Marglóthborg and Black Harbour

Northwest of the lands of the Seafolk, after the Dragon Cliffs and Dhôr Mountains, lies a large, semi-desert bay area called Dry Bay. The land here is rich in minerals and metals and are known for its various kinds of mines as well as the extravagant lifestyle of the cities’ rich.

There are different kinds of mines in the parts situated around the Dry Bay. There are salt mines – some of the richest in Airthai and the salt of which is said to have health properties as well and are very costly and traded throughout the Continent. The most important mines, however, are those where dragon tears are mined – one of only two places in the whole of Airthai where this is done. The second is in Naeddre, where the tears of Skáhag is mined on a much smaller scale[1] and traded with the Northern Lands (the only time dragon tears have been mined where the name of the dragon is known). The dragon tears of Marglóthborg, however, have been laid down by generations of dragons before and right after the Great Sundering.

Black Harbour is named after the black rocks and sand found in the area – a reference of which is also made in “The City of Promise”. This is the most southerly part of the western coast of Airthai where this black ground and rocks are found and the harbour here is also the most southerly one from where ships can sail in relative safety around the Dragon Cliffs (accompanied by one of the southern dragons) to the harbour at Diuzisborg.

To read “The City of Promise”, click here.

A Map of Part of the Southern Lands

The Lands of Airthai after the Great Sundering

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[1] No pun intended.

Worldbuilding Wednesday: Good vs. Evil – Part 1

“We fight against the Lewjan's Shadow and turn to the Light. We guard ourselves and one another. And when a brother or a sister falls to the Shadow, we cry and mourn and beat our chests in anger because of the rebels and betrayers. And still we fight even when our strength lessens. And we use our Talents for the good of all the nations. Even the Lost Nations, though they know it not. Or perhaps they cannot comprehend it until they have been freed from the Shadow.”

The “baddies” of Airthai, Part 1: The Betrayers – The Lewjan:

Click here for the handy chart…

The Lewjan (lit. “Betrayers”) are those who have shunned the Light and have turned to the Dark. They have a hierarchy of lords and servants and each group takes their own name. The High Wíkla and the Lewjan Lords can bind some of the fallen dragons to them through blood and dark arts – they do not use the Dragon Tongue as the Dragon Guardians do.

It is said that the first Lewjan Lord has never been seen in the Lands of Airthai, but sends his servants to do his bidding. These Lewjan servants have been seen to fight against the Airus in various battles throughout the ages.

There are others who are also called Servants of the Dark, like the Fáll, but their story pertains to that of the fall of the Kingdom of Guldargan, and will be discussed on their own. The Scría (S’crí-iar in the language of the Tellerassar) will also be discussed along with the Tellerassar.

The Airus are the opposite of the Lewjan and they and the Ahma will be the focus of next week’s Worldbuilding Wednesday.

So, what is everyone else working on?

Á Agrai tellarias or s'agrélar silássa!

Fiction Monday - The Great Sundering, Part 1

Welcome to the first Fiction Monday on Hersenskim. This week starts with part one of The Great Sundering, the tale of how the lands and continents of Airthai became as they are today. An earlier post talked broadly about the Creation, the Sundering and the Diminishing, but in the following weeks I hope to post the new and much improved version.

The Great Sundering – Part 1

The Great Sundering of the Lands took place many centuries after the world of Airthai was first created. At this time the lands of Airthai was still united on one great continent that stretched from the far north to far in the south. During that time, the Betrayers; those called the Lewjan, had built a vast kingdom for themselves on the most Southern Coast of the Continent, and the Lord of the Lewjan was sending his armies and minions north to get more land and power - and in order to overthrow the Khallahna.

The Khallahna called all the Ahma together and they decided that they should ask the Creator to step in for them and save them from the Dark Forces amassing in the south. They not only wanted to save the integrity of the lands of the Khallahna and the Ahma, but also wanted to save the people north of the Khallahna's tower (for then there were only one tower in existence, not three as there is now).

All the Khallahna, the Ahma, and most of the peoples begged the Creator to save them from the terror coming from the south. Some people fled north in the hopes of getting far enough from the Lewjan and build new fortresses. The Creator hearkened to their prayers and with his mighty hand, broke the Continent into two where the great river of Eyreidja flowed.

Great mountains grew between the two continents and the sea boiled about them. The boats that were used on the Eyreidja River were of no use and soon purple-pink monsters awakened from the bottom of the ocean were also spotted in the new sea that was formed between the continents. Passage between the two continents seemed impossible.

 The northern continent was nearly void of all Lewjan, Werlea and other Servants of the Dark. The southern continent was filled with those serving the Lewjan Lord. But, just as some evil people remained on the northern continent, so some good people remained on the southern continent. The southern continent became known as the Sundered Lands or the Damned Lands.

 Those people faithful to the Light on the southern continent, asked for a land where they could be safe from the Lewjan, as they did not know how to build ships and could not get away. The Creator sent some of the Airus and led them to a secluded, fruitful valley called Ealdasah-elir and hid them from the Wíkla's sight by high rocky outcrops and mist that would blind any that did manage to find the tunnels to the Hidden People. These people are known as the Ealda.

Next Monday: The Great Sundering, Part 2: The Flight of the Seafolk.

A Father’s Choice

Some Airthai fiction


Here’s a piece I have been working on as background to a bigger piece (perhaps a novel, hint-hint) set in the Southern Lands of Airthai. It takes place about thirteen centuries after the Sundering of the Lands and about two centuries after “A Dragon’s Freedom”. Where the Eastern and Midlands have the Keepers, the Southern Lands had the Khallahna, who split into the Khalné and Khalvér after the Khallahna War. At first the Khallahna all followed the Creator, but the Khalvér followed the Werlea after the war, while the Khalné followed the Ahma (the Werlea’s antithesis).

A Father’s Choice

“Sir? Your son is here to see you. May I send him in? As you wish, Sir. After you, Young Master, your father will see you now.”

Elgar smiled at the retainer and pulled at his shirt and light cloak before stepping into the large office. He knew his red eyes still bespoke of much sorrow, but he would look his father in the eye, looking for the same pain there.

“Father,” he greeted the man behind the desk. His father looked much older than he remembered, as if he had aged fifteen years in the five he had been absent from home. “I came as soon as I could.”

His father kept on writing, not even looking up as he dipped the quill in ink, not saying a word to the young man he hadn’t seen in five years. But Elgar knew better than to speak again. That much he could remember. After nearly ten minutes of silence his father placed the quill aside and looked up at his son. Elgar took after his mother, his hair an indistinct shade between red and brown, his eyes a striking blue offset by his fair, freckled skin. A strange look indeed. And now, a hateful one.

“You came to pay your last respects?”

“Aye, sir. I only got the news three days ago and came directly from the tower with all speed.”

His father steepled his fingers under his chin, looking him up and down. Elgar at first stood proud and tall in the cream and gold cloak of the Khalné, but then realised that the look in his father’s eyes were one of disdain – and of fear.

“Damn you, child!” he shouted and Elgar took a step back. “You went and chose the bloody Khalné?”

Elgar frowned. To him the Khalvér had never been an option. The Né served the Light with their Talent; the Vér served the darkness with magic and spells and turned the Talent into a deadly weapon. He swallowed and tried to speak to the raving man in front of him.

“Sir, if you will – Father! What did you expect of me? To choose the Vér? You know what Mother thought of-“

“You will not befoul her name or memory, you spoiled little brat! I sent you to the tower because I had to, not because I wanted to. You know the Khalné are treated not much better than the Ahma? But the Khalvér and Werlea – people look up to them!

“People fear them, Father. I will not be feared because of my Talent.”

His father sat back down and poured a dark liquid into a glass. He took a swig and stared at his son. “Who knows you are here?”

“Father?”

“Answer!”

“My Né brothers. I came straight here and did not tarry –“

“Good. And now you will leave for the Western Tower with all haste and never return to this house again.”

“Father? But-“

“You are no longer my son.”

The words hit him like a blow to the stomach that left him without any breath.

“Please leave.” His voice was softer this time. “I’ll give you money, my fastest horse, but you have to leave here. Now.”

“I don’t understand, I –“

“You’re not meant to, Elgar.” He took another swig of the liquid. “And there is no time to explain everything.”

“Please, Father –“

“I… I… I promised you to them, Elgar.” He lifted tear-filled eyes to his son.

“To whom?”

“The Vér.” His voice was just a whisper.

Elgar looked at him in disgust, finding no words now.

“You were ill, just after you were born, you see? They said, they said they can heal you, that they know of a potion –“

“And in return for their witchcraft you offered me?”

“I gave you life!”

“You betrayed the house! You betrayed me!” He bowed mockingly. “Goodbye, Father.” He left the room.

He took another swig of the dark fluid. There had been another promise as well. He had become a Nightwatcher, spending his nights tracking people with the Talent that stood against the Khalvér. He didn’t do the killing himself, not usually. But the work still took its toll. It was never what he had wanted. But he had given his word and would never be free from them. Never. But they had saved his son. They gave Elgar back his life and now he was healthy. He didn’t have a choice. Not then, not now. He sent Elgar away again to save him. Only the Né could keep him from harm now.

The Wizard and the Shadows – Flash Fiction

Here’s a flash piece I wrote for SFFWorld under the theme “Fantasy cliché”. I just had to make the “ancient language” the youngest Germanic language…


Next week I'll have a new flash piece and worldbuilding from Airthai's Southern Lands and a new map.

The Wizard and Shadows

One will come who will not carry a shadow. One will come that will walk always in the sun. One will come to free the north.

--Prophecy of the Sage Sha’alga’ar, the year 1985 (Translation into the common tongue completed in 3042)

Refugees had started arriving in the valley even before Winter began. They came from the north, fleeing to the southern plains and valleys to get away from the war between the Elves and Dwarfs that consumed the lands north of the Firewater Mountains. The Môrevallei Valley had always been a quiet place, keeping its own to its own, wary of travellers and even more wary of the strangers that arrived daily and even sometimes slept in the muddy streets.

She’ne’ar, wizard of the seventh order, arrived in town on the first Wednesday of the fifth month. He was following a small band of ragged people. His own scarlet robe was tattered. His dark, pointy hat had long since lost its shape in the daily rainstorms that plagued these lowlands. But he still had his staff of magical goldwood – and that counted for a lot in the world of wizards. He strode to the inn’s common room where room was at once made for him by the fire. He sat down and lit his pipe while he waited for his tankard of spiced ale to arrive. Though he stared into the fire, his ears did not miss one word of the conversations around him. It was not only humans that fled the war in the north. Talk among the locals and refugees were of people dying strangely in the night. Not the doing of nature, the poor folk seemed to have fought some kind of demon that only they could see. Something wrought by the Dark Lord of old, no doubt, sent south to place the free peoples in bondage. She’ne’ar sighed. He knew the beings’ true nature. He had found the shadows.

To lighten the mood one of the less sober gents began a rendition of Bring me another partridge or I’ll drink all your beer. It was after the fourth chorus that the wizard slipped away to the dark streets. It was nearing twelve o’clock. He took a small object from one of the pockets sown into his robe. One could call it a compass, though it did not show direction, but where the shadows lay. He wiped a strand of grey hair from his eyes and brushed against the burn scar he had sustained after his first clash with a skadu’sding – a shadow being.

The roads were dimly lit by moonlight and everywhere he could see figures moving stealthily or lying in a bundle under an eave. Here and there a fire had been lit and the faces crowding around the flames looked out at the dark with fear. Most seemed to scared to sleep. This had to be the village. The shadow beings were close; he could feel their taint. The Dark Lord had found a way to make them, and used them as agents in his armies. He never counted on being utterly defeated by the armies of his enemies. Those that had fought him never counted on his twisted creations still attacking them from the dark three hundred years later.

“Wys julself!” he said under his breath in the old tongue, hoping to lure them forth. But they must have found their prey. He felt a pulling sensation to his left and his old wound throbbed. He followed his heightened senses, making his way through the silver-lit dirt streets to the shanty houses of the poor. His aged hand clenched and unclenched around his goldwood staff. “Kom uit en wys julself!” he repeated and waited for their presence to call to him. To try and lure him to their darkness. He came to a small shack of a house.

The pain in his head flared and then died down as the skadu’sdinge found their target. More and more came to the house, leaving any other unwary person they had found to torture. They moved soundlessly, swiftly and no wall could keep them from entering where they had found prey. The wizard took up his staff and rent the old wooden door asunder. Splinters of wood billowed in a cloud of grey dust that covered the wizard in a thin film of dust.

He didn’t need to be able to see the creatures to see the dark magic reflections of the skadu’sdinge hovering above a golden haired boy barely fifteen years old. The boy was thrashing on the floor, his mouth opened to a scream that could not leave his throat. The rest of the family were left paralysed by the beings. Unable to move, barely able to breathe. All they could do was watch helplessly. The wizard strode into the room and stretched out his hands, his staff glowing in the darkness.

“Wyk! Wyk!” he shouted and light flared around him in a halo. “Ek beveel julle om te gaan van hierdie huis en hierdie seun! Gaan nou!” The skadu’sdinge stopped and turned to the wizard. Their leader took on the shape of a grey man and floated towards the wizard. He seemed to grin. At the same moment the skadu’sding stretched out his hand the wizard sent out a blast of magic and even as he felt the life ebbing from him, he heard the dying screams of the shadow’s spawn.

She’ne’ar fell to the floor utterly spent. His staff was broken and his head was throbbing. He motioned for the boy to come to him. In the moonlight from the road he could see the boy’s strong face and the wisdom and kindness his eyes contained. He took the signet ring from his right hand. At last he had found the One. The one that would fulfil the prophecy. He smiled through the pain and repeated the old words of the prophecy: “Een sal kom wat nie ‘n skadu dra nie. Een sal kom wat altyd in die son sal loop. Een sal kom wat die noorde sal bevry.”

The boy frowned and asked him what he was saying. It was difficult to concentrate on the boy’s voice. The boy pressed a cold cloth against his brow and it numbed some of the pain.

“You’re the One,” he said and gasped for his next breath. The shadows had at last been too much even for a wizard as strong as him to fight. “You’re the one that’s going to save the north.”

How strange, She’ne’ar thought. The moonlight seemed to fade from his sight, but the boy’s face seemed lit by the sun as he looked down at him. He felt the boy’s hand on his brow and heard him saying: “Rus in vrede, my vriend. Hê rus op jou nuwe pad.” Then the darkness came for a moment before being replaced by a blinding white light. He had done what he set out to do so many years ago. And now, at last, he could rest.

http://artmotive.com/dl-wizard-sketch.jpg

The Fall of the Erewhar

A thousand years or more before the dark day of the Battle of the Black Field a stranger came to the south west of the Southern Lands. No one knew where he came from. No one knew where he was going. He was dressed in brown, threadbare clothes and a formless felt hat hung over his half blind eyes. In his right hand he carried a black staff and in the left a leather bag with books which he sometimes swung onto his bowed back.

The people of the town of Hêrgereh, which in that time was a city with its own House of Learning, welcomed the man when they saw that he had books with him which they didn’t know of.

He also showed them wonderful works, which he seemed to do with his Talent, like curing the city ruler’s son from a sudden illness that affected his brain and mind. What the people didn’t know was that he was one of the Lewjan that came to them in human form to seduce them and lead them away from the Allwaldan. He let them copy the books and helped them to translate the books into the Erewhar’s language from a strange language which they didn’t know. Through this, they learned of a new power. They gave this knowledge to those among them who was not learned until every Erewhar in Hêrgereh used the new power and not their given Talent.

Then they went to the other towns of the Erewhar and those from Hêrgereh gave them the knowledge of the Lewjan as well. Within two decades, all the Erewhar had turned away from their Talent and Allwaldan and now followed the Lewjan, even though many at the time did not realise this yet.

The Lewjan that went to the Erewhar took on his true, twisted form on the day that the last Erewhar turned away from the Creator and he laughed at them and their Houses of Learning. “Just look how quickly the pious Erewhar turns from their Creator! You will serve my master for the rest of Airthai’s existence!”

Then the Erewhar knew that it was a Lewjan in front of them and that they had lost the Talent that had been given to them. They had turned so far from Allwaldan, that they had even forgotten their own laws and blood ran in the streets of the Erewhar towns as each fought for more power.

One after the other the wonderful towns, city and Houses of Learning of the Erewhar fell in flames and ruins.

But the Creator will never leave his creations for the Lewjan and sent three Airus to one of the towns where some of the Erewhar had come to see that they had turned from their Creator and sought a way back somehow. At first they turned a cold shoulder to the Airus, thinking that they also wanted to lead them from the light, and did not want to listen to them. But in time they learned again their old ways and found that, when they broke through the Lewjan’s chains and chose the side of the Light that they received a new Talent – one with which to better fight the Lewjan.

Because they had been under the Lewjan for more than a generation by this time, they found that the Lewjan still had some kind of hold on them when they used their Talent. The Erewhar had the Talent to fight the Lewjan, just like the Ahma, but a deathly sin had been awakened in them and when they fought they did not want to only fight for their and other’s freedom, but also to gain power or exact revenge. That is why they took to saying that the shadow of the Lewjan always followed them. For many generations the Erewhar would still fight against the power of the Lewjan.

Then one of the women who lived on the outskirts of the Erewhar’s lands gave birth to a daughter. She was not only taught by her family, but also by the Ahma from Reiaghy that heard about the family’s goodness and that they wanted to shun the Lewjan completely. She was called Aleidys. When she was twenty years old Aleidys, along with others of her town that shunned the Lewjan, and the Ahma, went to the other towns and through their use of their Talent and their words convince the people to turn against the Lewjan.

The Erewhar freed themselves from the Lewjan’s chains slowly and came in revolt against the Lewjan and their minions. They drove away the old man and any other Lewjan they found in the towns.

On the last day of the hundredth year since the coming of the Lewjan to the Erewhar the soldiers of the Erewhar stood against the Lewjan. A fierce fight was fought on that day. The Lewjan attacked the Erewhar with fire, but not one hair on the heads of the Erewhar was singed. Some of the witnesses later said that they saw the Airus that fought on the field alongside the Erewhar and kept the fire from them. The Erewhar stood strong because they knew that this battle was not just for their freedom, but for their very souls.

Some of the Erewhar, however, were so drunk and blind with the power the Lewjan gave and promised them, that they still chose to go with the Lewjan even after the Erewhar had won and were taken away in a plume of smoke when the new day dawned. They were not seen again in their own human form, but were rumoured to dwell in the Death Plain seeking souls to twist as their own were twisted. They could take on any form that they wished, like the strongest of the Lewjan, and it is said that they often took the form of seductive women to seduce men with their looks and voices.

The Erewhar who stayed behind found the ground turned to ash where they stood and not one tree still stood on the burnt plain. Around them was nothing but ash and mud. And so they trekked south to seek help from the neighbouring countries. Aleidys led the group that would later become the Whargahn clan.

They made their new home in and around the woods of Reiaghor and that is where Eldarion Whargahn of the Whargahn clan stood against the Khalvér.

Trelagor

The paper, upon which the declaration was written, was much like any other. It was cheaper than most, letting some of the ink on it run, but as far as paper went, it did its work well. Hundreds of the same letter had been printed in the last few months since the outbreak of disease and countless riots engulfed the largest cities in the country. Only a few ports remained open, and anyone with a ship these days could make a fortune taking people away across the sea to foreign lands where they could start anew and claim a new life away from the squalor of the falling empires.


“Next!” the barely literate captain called and the queue of people shuffled along another step. The one in front placed a handful of coins on the table, picked up the quill, dipped it with an unsteady hand into the ink pot and drew a cross on the page held out to him, relieving him of his citizenship. Citizenship of his own country where his people had lived for centuries. The page was handed to an official-looking man and the command of ‘next’ was shouted again.

Another shuffle.

Mary took a slight step to the side and counted the people in front of her. Ten. She prayed that there would still be eleven places open on the ship. She drew her shawl closer about her shoulders and tightened one hand on her luggage. In the other she clutched, like the rest of the bedraggled people, a couple of coins that would pay her way onto the ship and to freedom.

Shuffle.

She had more knowledge than most of what it was like in the other land. It was new, mostly untilled with rich soil and lots of work. She had heard of the treasures brought back; of beasts and birds that now lived on the grounds of the great palace. The air was pure, not clogged with smog from factories and burning buildings from the riots. But it was always difficult to start over. Utopia was nowhere, especially not here.

Shuffle.

In the new lands a new life could be built and the shackles of the old could be thrown off. There, you could be anything you want to be.

Shuffle.

From the ship came angry shouts and Mary dared to look at the great wooden ship on the water. A few men were escorting another dressed in rags from the ship, dragging him along the gangplanks. As they passed her, she could make out the dirty guard uniforms, their once bright colours darkened with soot. The man’s wrists and ankles were encased in iron, so that he stumbled again and again. One of the guards glared at the captain sitting behind the desk.

“He’s one of them, Captain, one of them Trelagor. Heretics and witches. Vermin all of them.” Then he turned to the crowd gathered before the captain.

“I say again to you, people of Elganorë. His Majesty the King forbids all that are classified as Trelagor to leave the country, on pain of death. Those that are of mixed blood are classified as Trelagor, and they are also forbidden to leave the country. Only the pure of Elganorë may travel.” He glared at the crowd, but, being satisfied with his speech, leaves.

Mary turns her eyes to the ground as he passes her, clutching the bag tighter in her hand.

Shuffle... Shuffle...

One less man means one more space on the ship. One more space may be all she needs.

Shuffle...

Mary forces the thought of the man being hanged from her mind as she shuffled to the desk. The captain looked up at her.

“Do you declare that you are not Trelagor, but are of pure Elganorë?” he repeated the question for the umpteenth time that day.

“I do.”

“Do you declare that you are neither heretic, nor witch, nor have any contact with any such persons?”

“I do.”

“Then make your mark.” He caught her eyes and she froze, knowing that he would have seen the colour of her eyes and know her to be one of the Trelagor. Then he smiles slightly. “Make your mark, there’s many like you still waiting.”

With a trembling hand she picked up the quill and drew a cross on the page.

I wrote this piece a couple of years ago and dusted it off. It's still a favourite piece and a world I want to write more about in the future. Whether the story will follow Mary or stay behind and see what becomes of the Trelagor (and why they are hated so), or maybe even both, I will have to see.
 
I'm also polishing a world building piece on the Erewhar of Airthai. It seems they are intent on playing a much bigger part in "Price of Freedom" than I had anticipated!
 
Until next time, keep well and God bless!

Review: Hero, Second Class by Mitchell Bonds

The Hero Complex, Book I

“Don’t do it, White! You can never trust a Villain. They will stab you in the back at the first opportunity!”
“Funny, I hold the same to be true about Heroes,” Voshtyr said. “Except they stab you in the front.”

Welcome to a world where there are Heroes and Villains… and Arch-Villains… and a hero’s apprentice called Cyrus Solberg. Not to mention the fantastical creatures and a keep in the middle of a swamp. It is also a world where heroes have names like The Crimson Slash and the Purple Paladin and Villains must fill in Environmental Impact forms if they’re planning on Epic Destruction and are not allowed more that one solar eclipse per quarter. There are damsels in distress, dragons, zombies and a sultry “vampirine” who must be killed in the old-fashioned stake-and-holy-water manner.

“This world is governed by three forces, dear boy: the Elements, the Capital Letters, and the Arbitrary Numbers.”

On his way to becoming a hero, Cyrus must follow his master, The Crimson Slash on his various travels and quests. He also finds romance and love somewhere he could not have imagined. But while The Crimson Slash has no time for heroes who use magic, Cyrus soon finds out that he can do strange things like shoot fire from his hands if he wishes. And with Voshtyr Demonkin gathering an army and planning to build a P.L.O.T. device, the Heroes are in for the fight of their lives.

I loved this book! It is perfect reading after a hard day's work, a hard morning's work or school. I can neither say yea or nea to reading while working or while in class. Bonds weaves an extremely funny and rollicking adventure with Heroes and Villains which are a cross between fantasy and super heroes (or villains, for that matter). Magic and spells are used profusely; with especially useful spells like “Shut Up”, “Halt Time” and the “unsporting Slay Horse spell”. Bonds’ takes well-known plots, characters and clichés and turns them on their head while weaving this tale. Even when dealing with difficult subjects like race, faith and religion, Bonds stays true to the story, his created world and making it about the characters and doesn’t preach. I am a huge Pratchett and Discworld fan and must say that, if you like Pratchett, you’ll like Bonds.

Get this great fantasy adventure from Marcher Lord Press books – and look out for the next installment in the coming months! Woot!

Interview with the author: http://wherethemapends.com/Interviews/Mitchell_Bonds.htm
Another review: http://fantasyandfaith.com/2009/10/12/hero-second-class-by-mitchell-bonds/

Fantasy Review: The Book of Names: A Novel By D. Barkley Briggs

(Book I of Legends of Karac Tor)

“You have been chosen for a life of great purpose. Adventure awaits you in the Hidden Lands.”


Hadyn and Ewan Barlow are two brothers caught up in a painful new life after tragedy strikes their home – their mother passes away while they are only in their teens. They try to adjust to their new life and a new home when they not only find a runestone, or, more precisely, an arch inscribed with runes which have been hidden for countless years, but are also called to the Hidden Lands of Karac Tor.

Soon they not only have to learn to cope with the pain they carry, but help save a whole world from falling into darkness. They must also fight the darkness and despair within themselves. Love, friendship, loyalty and faith are challenged when the Book of Names is found to be blank and the young of Karac Tor are plunged into mindlessness and despair.

I must admit that it was the book’s cover and the Norse elements thereon which made me first pick it up. Briggs weaves a wonderful tale with elements from the Norse and Celtic mythology reinvented or reapplied to fit the world and legends of Karac Tor. It is quite believable that the legends that exist in Karac Tor have been changed in retellings to form the Norse mythology we know on Earth – but you do not need to know the mythology to enjoy this work.

What if sorrow was a doorway,
And memory, a gate?
What if we never passed through?
What worlds would go unfound?

On a personal note, this book has really meant a lot to me as I first read it about three months after my own mother passed away. The heart in the books, I am sure, also comes from the fact that Briggs at first wrote the book for his own children after the passing of their mother and his descriptions of the children’s and the father’s pain are truthful and deeply felt by the reader. But do not expect a somber tale bereft of comedy or a dark tale without hope or a renewed faith.

I completely agree with GP Taylor – “Magic and folklore at its very best – well worth a read.”

Look out for: Book II, Corus the Champion

Author Website: www.hiddenlands.net

Publisher of Book I: www.NavPress.com

Light and Darkness//Lig en Donkerte

(And a bit of rambling)


Some wise words from Becky Minor (http://callofthecreator.blogspot.com/); she of The Windrider Saga:

Both Science Fiction and Fantasy are great genres to explore the issues of darkness and light, of good and evil, of man's struggle with faith. I write fantasy. And through my fantasy, I show both the evil in the world and the evil inside our hearts and the struggle we have with it. I also show how God reaches down and heals us of the darkness that lives inside. I could show sin in a contemporary novel, but I can give a visual representation of sin, a picture that I hope will not leave my readers' minds for a very long time.

That's what I love about fantasy: I see God's truth in word pictures. And through the fantasy genre I am able to show those word pictures.

This is one of the great things I love about fantasy – it is a lot more than simply swords, gowns, strange races and adventure; most of the time morals and ethics also play a very big part. For example: what makes the character heroic? What choice did he make that either gave him (or her) the moral high ground? What makes you root for a character? What makes you detest another character?

Of course, as a Christian, my morals may very well be different from someone who is not a Christian – but not always. Hey, being a Christian also doesn’t mean you’re perfect or that you always make the right choice – but you should at least try to. Holding on to your morals could be as simple as not going to certain parties. It may also mean that you need to set free a bunch of dragons; because that’s the right thing to do. See how easy it went from reality to fantasy?

Basically, living a good life means fighting against the darkness within you (come on, you know it’s lurking there somewhere, otherwise why would we need saving?) and not just that outside of you. And yes, on one level I do mean something like depression as well. Now, before you ask me ‘How can you say a thing like that!’ and ‘How would you know?’ I’ll admit it - I suffer from Depression. It’s not a pretty thing and, yes, I also believe God gave us medicine for a good reason. But the thing with Depression is that it makes it much easier to fall deeper and deeper into a pool of despair until you can’t even remember how it started in the first place. Despair like this can also be handled a lot easier and more creatively when used figuratively or in a speculative setting. Most of the fantasy I read (and like) is also about that glimmer of hope and overcoming despair and darkness in order to get (to) a better world.

Just as other writers’ worldviews influences their work, so do Christian writers’ worldviews. So, while Christian fantasy may not quote directly from the Bible (although Polivka’s Trophy Chase novels do this very well), it does not mean that it isn’t Christian or that important questioned aren’t dealt with. It just means you may need to read a little deeper…


(En ‘n bietjie gorrel)


‘n Paar wyse woorde van Becky Minor (http://callofthecreator.blogspot.com/); sy van The Windrider Saga:


Beide wetenskapsfiksie en fantasie is wonderlike genres waarin die kwessies van donkerte en lig, van goed en sleg en van die mens se worsteling met geloof ondersoek kan word. Ek skryf fantasie. En deur my fantasie wys ek beide die boosheid in die wêreld en die boosheid in ons harte en die worsteling wat ons daarmee het. Ek wys ook hoe God uitreik en ons gesond maak van die donkerte wat in ons leef. Ek kan sonde wys in ‘n kontemporêre roman, maar ek kan ‘n visuele voorstelling van sonde gee, ‘n prentjie wat ek hoop vir lank nie my lesers se geheue sal verlaat nie.



Dit is hoekom ek so lief is vir fantasie: ek sien God se waarheid in woordprentjies. En dit is deur fantasie wat ek hierdie woordprentjies kan wys.


Hierdie is een van die wonderlike aspekte van fantasie waarvoor ek so lief is – dit is meer as net swaarde, rokke, vreemde rasse en avontuur; meestal speel waardes en etiek ook ‘n groot deel. Byvoorbeeld: mat maak ‘n karakter heroïes? Watter keuse het hy (of sy) gemaak wat hom (of haar) moreel goed maak? Wat laat jou ‘n karakter ondersteun? Wat maak dat jy sterk afkeur het van ‘n ander karakter?


Natuurlik, as ‘n Christen, kan my waardes en optrede baie anders wees as iemand wat nie ‘n Christen is nie – maar nie altyd nie. Hei, om ‘n Christen te wees beteken nie jy is perfek of dat jy altyd die regte keuse maak nie – maar jy moet ten minste dit probeer doen. Om aan jou waardes vas te hou kan so maklik wees soos om nie na sekere partytjies toe te gaan nie. Dit mag ook beteken dat jy ‘n klomp drake moet vrylaat, omdat dit die regte ding is om te doen. Sien hoe maklik beweeg mens van realiteit na fantasie?


Basies moet jy, om ‘n goeie lewe te lei, baklei teen die donkerte binne-in jou (komaan, jy weet dit is daar iewers binne-in jou, anders hoekom moet ons gered word?) en nie net buite jou nie. En ja, op ‘n vlak bedoel ek ook iets soos Depressie. Nou, voordat jy my vra ‘Hoe kan jy so iets sê?’ en “Hoe sal jy weet?’ sal ek dit erken - ek ly aan Depressie. Dis glad nie ‘n mooi ding nie en, ja, ek glo ook God het ons medisyne gegee vir ‘n goeie rede. Maar die ding met Depressie is dat dit dit baie makliker maak om dieper en dieper in wanhoop te verval totdat jy self nie kan onthou hoe dit begin het nie. Wanhoop soos hierdie kan ook baie makliker en kreatiewer hanteer word in ‘n figuurlike en spekulatiewe omgewing. Meeste van die fantasie wat ek lees (en van hou) is ook oor daardie spikkeltjie hoop en die oorwinning van wanhoop en donkerte om sodoende ‘n beter wêreld te kry (of heen te gaan).


Net soos wat ander skrywers se wêreldbeskouings hul werk beïnvloed, so beïnvloed Christelike skrywers se wêreldbeskouings ook hulle werk. Dus, terwyl Christelike fantasie dalk nie direk uit die Bybel aanhaal nie (alhoewel Polivka se Trophy Chase-romans dit baie goed doen), beteken nie dat dit nie Christelik is of dat belangrike vrae nie gevra word nie. Dit beteken net dat jy ‘n bietjie dieper moet gaan lees...

A Question About Fantasy - ‘n Vraag oor fantasie

(Afrikaanse teks volg)

A while ago I placed a question to my fellow Anomalians over at Where the Map Ends. It read as follows:


Hi everyone,

I've been wondering about this for quite some time, and don't really know of the best answer that I can give to people (Christian or not) when they have questions for me.

See, there's quite a lot of people that seem to believe if you like fantasy (or sci-fi, for that matter) that you can't be a Christian. Now, I know that we all know that this just isn't true, but what is the best way to explain this to people?

I have a few friends that just see fairy tales or even just witchcraft and the dark arts and think that, because I like fantasy, that I dabble in those things.

I've told them to read some of my stuff if they're worried - if dark arts are mentioned it's the "baddies" that use it, not the hero. A lot of the stories in my worlds (like Airthai) evolve along the lines of power and good and evil and how to resist "bad" power. For me it makes sense that the hero/in has to be up against big odds, otherwise it's not worth it.


I hope this makes sense!

Marsh

I am sure I’m not the only one to have struggled with this. The literature of my mother tongue (Afrikaans) also does not really have much fantasy or sci-fi to offer and although other mythologies (mostly Classical) are sometimes used in the literature, there is no high or epic fantasy that I know of at all. When starting my Master’s degree about the influence of Norse myths on Afrikaans literature, I soon found out that I needed to branch it out to include Dutch literature as well to have enough texts to study! Even just doing this study had people asking me whether I believe in those gods and when I turned away from Christ!

So, when you’re a Christian fantasy writer… And you use myths to prove a point or make up your own myths… What do you tell people?

I received this wonderful answer from Sean Rackley which I wanted to share with others who may be in the same boat as I am:
The way I handle this question is to encourage those in discussion with me to see Jesus' parables as spec-fic. Then, the leap to fantasy or sci-fi is not so huge. Jesus related Truth to a dying world through stories (I often wonder if they were true stories given their author, but I digress) that they can relate to. He taught an agricultural society using mostly agricultural stories (a farmer sowing seed, e.g.).
Our audience is familiar with things vastly different from agriculture (so, the parable of the sower could be told as a colonizing, terraforming society with different results on different planets or as a knight who actively defends his realm from the seed-stealing birds, rocks, and thorns that just happen to resemble dragons, golems, and dark elves--with pointy arrows). Throw in some necessary plot elements to make it more than a few paragraphs and viola!--a story is born.
People still don't always agree, but at those times I remind myself that God hasn't called me to argue why I write, just to write. Even if I'm the only person who comes closer to God through my fiction and poetry, then I've done my job.

***

‘n Ruk gelede het ek ‘n vraag aan my mede Anomaliane gestel op Where the Map Ends. Dit lees as volg:




Hallo almal,


Ek wonder al ‘n ruk hieroor en ek weet nooit regtig wat is die beste antwoord wat ek vir mense (Christen of nie) kan gee wanneer hulle vir my vrae het nie.

Sien, daar is nogal baie mense wat blykbaar glo dat, wanneer jy van fantasie (of wetenskapsfiksie) hou jy nie ‘n Christen kan wees nie. Nou, ek weet óns almal weet dat dit net nie waar is nie, maar wat is die beste manier om dit aan mense te verduidelik?

Ek het ‘n paar vriende wat slegs feëverhale of selfs net heksery en die bose sien en dink dat, omdat ek van fantasie hou, ek myself met daardie soort goed besig hou.

Ek het al aan hulle gesê om van my goed te lees indien hulle bekommerd is – indien bose en heksery genoem word is dit die “slegte ouens” wat dit gebruik, nié die held nie. Baie van die stories in my wêrelde (soos Airthai) ontwikkel ook langs die lyne van goed en sleg en hoe om “slegte” mag te weerstaan. Vir my maak dit sin dat die held/-in teen groot struikelblokke te staan moet kom, want anders is dit nie die moeite werd nie.


Ek hoop dit maak sin!


Marsh


Ek is seker ek is nie die enigste een wat al hiermee gesukkel het nie. Die literatuur van my moedertaal (Afrikaans) het ook nie veel fantasie of wetenskapsfiksie nie en alhoewel ander mitologieë (meestal Klassiek) soms in die letterkunde gebruik word, is daar geen hoë of epiese fantasie wat ek van weet nie. Toe ek my Meestersgraad oor die invloed van Noorse mites op die Afrikaanse literatuur begin het, het ek gou gevind dat ek dit moet uitbrei om Nederlandse letterkunde ook in te sluit sodat ek genoeg tekste het om te studeer! En selfs net met hierdie studie het mense my al gevra of ek in daardie gode glo en wanneer ek weggedraai het van Christus af!


Dus, wanneer jy ‘n Christelike fantasie-skrywer is… en jy mites gebruik om ‘n punt te bewys of jou eie mites opmaak… wat sê jy aan hierdie mense?


Ek het hierdie wonderlike antwoord van Sean Rackley ontvang wat ek graag met ander wat dalk in dieselfde bootjie as ek sit wil deel:


Die manier waarop ek hierdie vraag hanteer is om dié wat ook aan die gesprek deelneem Jesus se vergelykings as spekulatiewe fiksie te sien. Dan is die sprong na fantasie en wetenskapsfiksie nie so groot nie. Jesus het die Waarheid aan ‘n sterwende wêreld verkondig deur stories te gee waarby hulle kon aanklank vind (ek wonder soms of die stories nie waar is nie as mens kyk na wie die outeur is, maar ek dwaal nou van onderwerp af). Hy het byvoorbeeld ‘n landbougemeenskap geleer deur meestal lanboustories te gebruik (soos byvoorbeeld ‘n boer wat saad saai).
Die manier waarop ek hierdie vraag hanteer is om dié wat ook aan die gesprek deelneem Jesus se vergelykings as spekulatiewe fiksie te sien. Dan is die sprong na fantasie en wetenskapsfiksie nie so groot nie. Jesus het die Waarheid aan ‘n sterwende wêreld verkondig deur stories te gee waarby hulle kon aanklank vind (ek wonder soms of die stories nie waar is nie as mens kyk na wie die outeur is, maar ek dwaal nou van onderwerp af). Hy het byvoorbeeld ‘n landbougemeenskap geleer deur meestal lanboustories te gebruik (soos byvoorbeeld ‘n boer wat saad saai).
Ons gehoor is bekend met dinge ver verwyderd van landbou (dus kan die vergelyking van die saaier oorvertel word as ‘n kolonialiserende gemeenskap wat terraforming uitvoer met verskillende resultate op verskillende planete, of as ‘n ridder wat sy ryk beskerm teen voëls wat saad steel, klippe en dorings wat per toeval drake, golems en donker elwe – met gepunte pyle is). Gooi ‘n paar nodige storie elemente in om dit meer as ‘n paar paragrawe lank te maak en voila! – ‘n storie is gebore.
Mense stem steeds nie altyd ooreen nie, maar op daardie tye herinner ek myself daaraan dat God my nie geroep het om te stry hoekom ek skryf nie, net om te skryf. Selfs indien ek die enigste person is wat nader aan God deur my fiksie en poësie kom het ek my werk gedoen.