Happy Valentine’s Day! In celebration, I thought to share with you the first chapter of Tremors. Believe me, I feel like celebrating. As a friend recently mentioned, this book has been a labor (a true labor) of love.
Scottish Highlands, 1351
Friðr. Sith. Peace.
Loch Nis looked anything but peaceful as Lachlann turned towards home. Shrouded in mist, it loomed dark and foreboding in the distance. He pulled the packhorse along swiftly, anxious to be home before nightfall. He hoped that both Allasan and Iain were feeling better than they had been a week ago. Even now, he could hardly believe that he’d left them both ill. Certainly, he wouldn’t have if he hadn’t been married to the most stubborn Gael alive. Despite fever, nausea, and a sick three-year-old to care for, she’d almost pushed him out the door.
“You have to go,” she’d urged, her brown eyes unnaturally bright. “You’ll only be in my way here! I want that dye and you’ll find it in Inhbir Nis. You promised. I didn’t work day and night all summer to be disappointed because of a paltry ailment. I have my family and yours all around me if I need anything.”
Lachlann reluctantly grinned at the memory. They had their differences, but if there was one thing about Allasan, she knew what she wanted.
She’d be satisfied to know, if unsurprised, that she’d been right. The Lùnastal festival in Inhbir Nis was much larger than their local fairs and there was a far wider variety of merchants. With a bountiful harvest and the cloth Allasan wove so skillfully, he’d had plenty with which to barter. He’d been able to obtain everything on her short but extravagant list and then some: purple dye, a serving dish, wax candles. He’d chosen a few gifts: silk ribbons, iron gall ink for the bard, and vegetable seeds for himself. He’d been especially pleased to find mustard and horseradish seeds, Norse favorites, as well as a different sort of kale.
But what he was most pleased with, the most important items as far as he was concerned, were the wee leather ball and wooden figurine of a horse that he’d chosen for Iain. He patted his sporan, where he’d tucked them for safekeeping. He could hardly wait to see his son’s face when he gave him the toys.
What was wrong with the mule? He tugged lightly on the rope. The beast stalled, its ears flattening slightly. He tugged harder, then smelled it, a foul stench of smoke.
“Come on,” he urged the animal. “Someone’s just burning something.”
But burning what? As he drew closer to the village, black smoke billowed from the mountain. Lachlann’s gut clenched. Something was wrong. He moved faster.
The packhorse resisted.
Damn it! He had to get home. When the beast continued to resist, he tied it to a tree and ran.
By the time he reached the outskirts of his village, his eyes were burning. Smoke was beginning to choke him. Iain. He ran faster.
Someone grasped his arms, swinging him to a halt.
“You’re going the wrong way! You need to get out of here!”
Gaelic, but the accent was odd. Dimly, through the smoke, he saw a stranger standing before him, his face shrouded by a hood.
“I’m going to my family!”
“They’re gone. You need to turn around and head back to Inbhir Nis.”
“What do you mean, they’re gone?”
They must have moved away from the fire. He pushed forward. He’d be able to help.
The stranger stopped him again.
“You’re the farmer, aren’t you? The Norseman they call ‘Ox’?”
“I’m sorry, Friend. Your family is gone. Your entire village was wiped out!”
“Explain yourself!” roared Lachlann, his heart pounding in his ears.
“They’re all dead. The plague. . . It took your whole village in less than a week. They’ve been burning everything – bodies, houses, clothing, bedding. There’s nothing left.”
Lachlann began to run.
“Turn around!” the stranger shouted after him. “Save yourself!”
He ran as fast as he could, the stinking smoke filling his nostrils, burning his eyes and throat. He rushed through the village without pause, not stopping until he reached his longhouse. He paused then, gasping, his heart beating in his ears. The thatch roof was gone, the stone blackened with soot.
“Allasan! Iain!” Racing inside, he found only ashes. He stared. Ashes. Their iron kettle nestled on the floor of the hearth, blackened, smoldering. On shaking legs, he walked the short length of his house. Not a sign, not a hint. Where were they?
They had to be all right. Just a week ago, Allasan had been cooking, weaving, arguing. Iain had been playing, laughing. They couldn’t be. . . They must have fled.
He would find them.
He stumbled out. Black smoke whirled around him like fingers of death.
He ran to his parents’ home. The stone structure still stood, blackened, roofless. Heat seemed to radiate from within. He stared at it, unable to move as dark flakes fell around him. Ashes! The house built by his grandfather’s grandfather, oldest and largest in their village, the home he’d grown up in, was reduced to a blackened pile of stones. A shuffling sound caught his attention. His heart leapt.
A hen fluttered from behind the house.
Lachlann turned away, tears burning down his cheeks as dread clamped coldly around his heart.
Where was everyone? He glanced wildly about him. They couldn’t all be gone, not the whole village.
A flash of insight lightened his dread. Castle Chisolm! They would have sought sanctuary at the castle. Allasan and Iain would be there. It had been Allasan’s home. He beat the trail up to the castle. The smoke was thinner as he approached the unfinished stone structure. The gates were closed, but he knew the guards.
“My family,” he said urgently. “I want to see my family!”
Brian, an old friend, stepped forward, grimacing.
“Lachlann. . .” He faltered.
“My family!” Lachlann repeated urgently.
The warrior shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
“Where are they?”
His friend’s hands grasped his shoulders.
“They’re not here, Lachlann. They died,” he said quietly.
“They can’t be dead. I just left them a week ago!”
“It happened quickly. Your whole village was struck.”
“My parents, my brothers. . .”
“To the best of my knowledge, you’re the only survivor.”
Lachlann’s knees buckled. Brian’s hands braced him, held him up.
Allasan, Iain, Mother, Father, Ivar, Vali, their wives and children – how could they all be dead? It wasn’t possible.
“Allasan’s parents?” he choked.
“I don’t know,” answered Brian. “I haven’t seen them, but they could be here.”
“Can I go look for them?”
Brian shook his head. “The chief forbids any of the Norse to enter, if there are any left besides you. The sickness started in your village, but we’ve already lost some of our own people.”
“Rònan and his family?”
“Last time I heard, the bard’s family was all right. I thought Rònan would be with you.”
“With me? Why would you think that?”
“He set off for Inbhir Nis on one of the chief’s horses to find you and tell you of your family.”
“Rònan went to Inbhir Nis?” He could hardly fathom it. Rònan hated to ride.
“That’s where he said he was going. He left a few days ago.” The Gael held out a flask.
“Take this. I’m sorry, Lachlann, but you have to go.”
“Where are the bodies?” His own words sounded distant, as if someone else had spoken them.
Brian gazed at him, tears in his dark eyes. They’d shared many meals in each other’s childhood homes.
“I haven’t been to the village in days, but from what I’ve heard, all were burned.”
Lachlann’s stomach roiled.
“Did the chief order this?”
The warrior shook his head. “We bury our dead. But with a sickness like this. . .” He shuddered. “In the end, some of our people helped. The chief might order the same here to stop the disease from spreading. Lachlann, drink.”
Lachlann accepted the flask and tried to swallow. But his throat was clogged with smoke and tears. He gagged. Wordlessly, he handed the flask back to Brian and nodded a farewell.
He had to check all the houses. He would bury any bodies he found. His family, his people. . . He headed back to the village on legs he no longer felt. Only his mind worked.
Find your dead.
But where? The scant structures all looked the same, scorched and black with soot, and piles of ashes were everywhere, some still smoldering.
He wandered from house to house, looking, listening for signs of life. But there was none.
Silence taunted him, stark and pervasive, broken only by his own shallow breaths. What should he do? He couldn’t think. His mind felt numb.
“What are you doing here?”
Starting violently, Lachlann turned to see the hooded stranger striding towards him. A cloth covered his nose and mouth.
“Why are you here?” the man asked him.
“I seek my dead.”
“I told you, they burned everything! You will find no bodies.”
“Where did they burn them?”
The man stepped closer to place his hands on Lachlann’s arms.
“In their homes,” he replied quietly. “Mostly in their beds, where they died.”
Oh, God. He couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe. Trembling, Lachlann fell to his knees, gasping for air, gagging on it. His chest. . . He couldn’t. . .
The man pressed his shoulders, sounded long, even breaths.
“Breathe,” repeated the voice. “Steady.”
Lachlann tried to mimic the rhythmic breathing of the stranger crouched before him.
“That’s right. Keep going. Good.”
He didn’t know how long they knelt there as he struggled for control. But the pressure remained on his shoulders until he stopped shaking.
“There’s nothing left for you to do here.” The voice, with its strange accent, finally penetrated his consciousness. “You have to leave. You could still get sick.”
“Where will I go?” Lachlann asked hoarsely. “I should have helped my people.”
“There was nothing you could have done.”
“Then I should have died with them.”
“But you didn’t,” came the quiet response. “You’re obviously not meant to die yet.”
Lachlann swayed. The man shook him slightly.
“Go back to Inhbir Nis. Return in spring.”
Inhbir Nis. Rònan had gone to Inhbir Nis. He could find Rònan. Slowly, he rose. The man rose with him.
“Go,” he urged again.
Nodding, Lachlann turned away. When he reached the edge of the village, he glanced back. The stranger stood watching him, a lone, upright figure swathed in smoke, surrounded by ruin.
Lachlann began running, pausing only when he reached his fields. They were cloaked in the same deathly smoke that was choking him. He couldn’t tell if they’d been burned. There would be no reason, but they looked dark. Everything did.
He hurried on until he reached the loch. Collapsing to his knees, he howled, sounds of a tortured animal ripping from his chest.
How could they all be dead and he still live? He should have been here. He might have helped them.
He might have died with them. Death would have been preferable to this.
Gasping, he yanked at his tunic, ripping it away from his neck.
“Nei!” he bellowed.
He sobbed and raged until his throat was raw, until he could hardly breathe.
He was suffocating.
Up. He had to get up or he would die here in the ashes. He had to find Rònan.
He trudged onward, his legs shaking so hard that walking seemed impossible. But he didn’t stop. He forced himself to keep moving, one foot in front of the other, walking, stumbling.
Night fell. The smoke dissipated, then disappeared altogether. Stars twinkled in the dark, clear sky. Tears poured from his burning eyes, down his cheeks, as he pressed on.
His whole family? His whole village? He might have saved them, at least saved some of them. They’d all been suffering painful deaths whilst he bartered for vegetable seeds.
Please let him find Rònan alive and well.
The ground suddenly trembled. Lachlann glanced at the loch. The water was rippling, but there was no breeze. He.moved away from the water and kept walking. But this wasn’t the mild sort of tremor they usually had in the glen. The earth began shaking violently. Ahead of him, an enormous pine tree uprooted completely. Did he hear voices? Was someone shouting his name?
“Rònan!” he called out urgently.
In the moonlight, cracks appeared in the earth. He heard the ground breaking. All around him, it was breaking! Twisting, turning, Lachlann desperately tried to find safe ground. Suddenly, there sounded a roar, like a terrible rip or a giant bellowing in pain.
The crack running towards him opened into a chasm beneath his feet. He shouted, grasped desperately at the earth. It crumbled beneath his hands. He couldn’t stop himself from sliding, couldn’t climb out. He was falling.
“Lord, have mercy on my soul!”
Gibran Khalil Gibran, Lebanese-American poet, gave us achingly beautiful poetry. The following poem is from his book Tears and Laughter, first published 1947. It is soul-rending and utterly romantic. I implore you, sit with it a moment. Allow the poignancy, the longing, to fill you and wrap you in beauty.
A Lover’s Call
Where are you, my beloved? Are you in that little
Paradise, watering the flowers who look upon you
As infants look upon the breast of their mothers?
Or are you in your chamber where the shrine of
Virtue has been placed in your honor, and upon
Which you offer my heart and soul as sacrifice?
Or amongst the books, seeking human knowledge,
While you are replete with heavenly wisdom?
Oh companion of my soul, where are you? Are you
Praying in the temple? Or calling Nature in the
Field, haven of your dreams?
Are you in the huts of the poor, consoling the
Broken-hearted with the sweetness of your soul, and
Filling their hands with your bounty?
You are God's spirit everywhere;
You are stronger than the ages.
Do you have memory of the day we met, when the halo of
You spirit surrounded us, and the Angels of Love
Floated about, singing the praise of the soul's deed?
Do you recollect our sitting in the shade of the
Branches, sheltering ourselves from Humanity, as the ribs
Protect the divine secret of the heart from injury?
Remember you the trails and forest we walked, with hands
Joined, and our heads leaning against each other, as if
We were hiding ourselves within ourselves?
Recall you the hour I bade you farewell,
And the Maritime kiss you placed on my lips?
That kiss taught me that joining of lips in Love
Reveals heavenly secrets which the tongue cannot utter!
That kiss was introduction to a great sigh,
Like the Almighty's breath that turned earth into man.
That sigh led my way into the spiritual world,
Announcing the glory of my soul; and there
It shall perpetuate until again we meet.
I remember when you kissed me and kissed me,
With tears coursing your cheeks, and you said,
"Earthly bodies must often separate for earthly purpose,
And must live apart impelled by worldly intent.
"But the spirit remains joined safely in the hands of
Love, until death arrives and takes joined souls to God.
"Go, my beloved; Love has chosen you her delegate;
Over her, for she is Beauty who offers to her follower
The cup of the sweetness of life.
As for my own empty arms, your love shall remain my
Comforting groom; you memory, my Eternal wedding."
Where are you now, my other self? Are you awake in
The silence of the night? Let the clean breeze convey
To you my heart's every beat and affection.
Are you fondling my face in your memory? That image
Is no longer my own, for Sorrow has dropped his
Shadow on my happy countenance of the past.
Sobs have withered my eyes which reflected your beauty
And dried my lips which you sweetened with kisses.
Where are you, my beloved? Do you hear my weeping
From beyond the ocean? Do you understand my need?
Do you know the greatness of my patience?
Is there any spirit in the air capable of conveying
To you the breath of this dying youth? Is there any
Secret communication between angels that will carry to
You my complaint?
Where are you, my beautiful star? The obscurity of life
Has cast me upon its bosom; sorrow has conquered me.
Sail your smile into the air; it will reach and enliven me!
Breathe your fragrance into the air; it will sustain me!
Where are you, me beloved?
Oh, how great is Love!
And how little am I!
Gibran Khalil Gibran
Happy Valentine’s Week! Yes, week! Why not? This poem is a good example of my feelings about Valentine’s Day. It’s probably one of the most beautiful, romantic poems ever written; it certainly is so as far as the English language goes. But to me, it’s not limited to the romantic. It brings to my mind good, sweet people I know and love. I hope it does the same for you.
She Walks in Beauty
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies.
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less
Had half-impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o’er her face
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling place.
And on that cheek and o’er that brow
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow
And tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent.
George Gordon, Lord Byron
Song of Songs 8:6-7
Set me as a seal upon your heart,
As a seal upon your arm;
For Love is strong as Death,
Longing is fierce as Sheol.
Its arrows are arrows of fire,
Flames of the divine.
Deep waters cannot quench love,
Nor rivers sweep it away.
Were one to offer all the wealth of his house for love,
He would be utterly despised.
Today’s poem is from Johann Wolfgang von Goethe (1749-1832). It’s not one of his most spectacular works. It’s not even supremely romantic. But I think it’s a sweet and hopeful expression of two souls meeting. There has been no lack of torrid love poems and songs through the ages. Simple yearning is just as deeply felt.
Eyes, tell me, tell me, what you tell me
Telling something all too sweet,
Making music out of beauty,
With a question hidden deep.
Still I think I know your meaning,
There behind your pupils’ brightness,
Love and truth are your heart’s lightness,
That, instead of its own gleaming,
Would so truly like to greet
In a world of dullness, blindness,
One true look of human kindness,
Where two kindred spirits meet.
As I continue with my posts of love poems until Valentine's Day, I can't resist posting this one.
Sonnets from the Portuguese are a collection of love letters or poems written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning to her husband Robert Browning while they were courting, in 1845.
Theirs is a fairly spectacular love story. She was 39 when they met, six years his senior, and she had a history of poor health. Both families opposed the marriage. His, because she was a sickly spinster, and hers, because her father deemed him a fortune hunter. But their love could not be denied and, in 1846, they wed in secret. A week later, they left together for Italy. They lived there happily for fifteen years, raised a son, and both continued writing. Elizabeth died in Robert’s arms in 1861.
Following is what most would agree is Elizabeth’s most famous and certainly her most oft-quoted poem. Enjoy!
Sonnets from the Portuguese XLII
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a loved I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! And, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Well, what a day. It was one of those when the world seemed to be just a little bit off balance. And that’s okay. I can hold my own balance. But that doesn’t mean I’m not tired.
So, I’d like to share not a poem, precisely, but a passage that flows like one. It’s about love; and for me, this passage is much like a shirt, a breastplate I put on every morning. Sometimes, I might forget I am wearing it, but not for long. It always brings me back to myself.
If I speak in human or angelic tongues, but do not have love,
I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal.
And if I have the gift of prophecy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge,
If I have faith so as to move mountains,
But do not have love, I am nothing.
If I give away everything I own,
And if I hand over my body so that I may boast,
But do not have love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind.
It is not jealous, it is not pompous,
It is not inflated, it is not rude,
It does not seek its own interests,
It is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury,
It does not rejoice in wrongdoing,
But rejoices with the truth.
It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never fails.
If there are prophecies, they will be brought to nothing.
If tongues, they will cease.
If knowledge, it will be brought to nothing.
For we know partially and we prophesy partially,
But when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away.
When I was a child, I used to talk as a child, think as a child, reason as a child.
When I became a man, I put aside all childish things.
For now, we see indistinctly, as in a mirror.
But then, face to face.
For now, I know partially,
Then I shall know fully, as I am fully known.
So faith, hope, and love remain, these three:
But the greatest of these is love.
1 Corinthians 13
Happy February! I love this month for many reasons. For the moment, I'll focus on the romance of it. From now until Valentine’s Day, I’ll post a classic love poem every day. And on Valentine’s Day, I’ll post the first chapter of Tremors, my newest romance. It’s taken me longer than I had hoped to finish it, but I’m happy to report that it’s almost there.
In the meantime, I hope that you enjoy this poem from the early 1800’s by Willian Wordsworth. He wrote it for his wife. It’s hardly modern, but I find it a little unusual and very sweet.
She was a Phantom of Delight
She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight,
A lovely apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament,
Her eyes as stars of twilight fair,
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair,
But all things else about her drawn,
From May-time and the cheerful dawn,
A dancing shape, an image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and waylay.
I saw her upon nearer view,
A spirit, yet a woman, too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin-liberty,
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet,
A creature not too bright or good
For human nature’s daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine,
A being breathing thoughtful breath,
A traveler between life and death,
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill,
A perfect woman, nobly planned,
To warn, to comfort, and command,
And yet a spirit still, and bright,
With something of an angel-light.
Lycanthropy: lykos – wolf, anthropos – man.
“When I looked around for my companion, he had stripped himself and piled his clothes by the side of the road. My heart was in my mouth, and I sat there while he pissed a ring around them and was suddenly turned into a wolf! Now, don’t think I’m joking, I wouldn’t lie for any amount of money, but as I was saying, he commenced to howl after he was turned into a wolf and ran away into the forest. I didn’t know where I was for a minute or two, then I went to his clothes, to pick them up, and damned if they hadn’t turned to stone! Was ever anyone nearer dead from fright than me?” Gaius Petronius, Satyricon, First Century, AD
Happy Halloween and thank you, Petronius!
I used to be very uncomfortable with scary Halloween legends. Come to think of it, I still am. It’s just that some things aren’t as scary as they used to be.
Clearly, stories and legends of werewolves have been circulating for a very long time. There’s even a werewolf in the Epic of Gilgamesh, some four thousand years old. For centuries, millennia even, from the Middle East to Europe to the Americas, werewolves have been mostly (not entirely) depicted as vile, rabid maneaters. But in the past several years, the increasing popularity of shifter novels has given them a sort of renaissance. Not all werewolves are monsters, anymore. They’re handsome, sexy, heroes.
Not as scary as they used to be.
Three Delightful Werewolf Romances for Halloween:
A Werewolf in Manhattan by Vicki Lewis Thomason
A classic werewolf romance with just the right balance of humor and danger, this romantic comedy will warm your heart with its feel-good opposites attract appeal. The story features Emma Gavin, a paranormal author who quite naturally believes that werewolves are merely fiction. That is, until she meets Aiden Wallace and he starts sprouting fur. When the local Manhattan pack thinks that Emma’s stories are just a little too close to the truth, they are determined to find out her secret source. Emma never realized writing fiction could be so dangerous!
How to Flirt with a Naked Werewolf by Molly Harper
Harper’s brand of snarky humor is sure to delight in this wonderful romp through the snow as witty and wonderful Mo Wenstein, determined to get her life back on track in rural Alaska, discovers a naked werewolf—complete with a bear trap—on her porch. She hadn’t realized the wildlife around here was quite so wild!
Blackwing Wolf by TS Joyce
Widely known for her bear shifter stories, Joyce portrays this down on his luck werewolf with a balance of empathy and humor. Given an impossible task by an impossible-to-satisfy brother, things are already looking bad for our hero, Dustin. But then he's ordered to pair up with the lone human female on the crew with hysterical results. Apparently, no one ever taught this wolf shifter the proper way to compliment a lady. Book Two of the Kane Mountain series, complete with Dragons, and Bears and Wolves, oh my! This story will have you rooting for this adorably misguided wolf and his lovely lady with a secret.
In my next post, I’ll be interviewing author Elyce DeReefe, whose Rabbit River series is chalk full of delectable werewolves. The first book of the series, Moonrise, is out just in time for Halloween. It’s available on Amazon, only 99 cents for a limited time.
Gray. Grey. For some reason, the second spelling seems softer, gentler to me. It’s “dove grey” and “gray as cold, hard steel.” For the sake of consistency, I should probably choose one over the other. For the sake of this post, dove grey suits my thoughts just fine.
I love it. We don’t have a lot of cold, cloudy days in southeast Texas. We’re lucky that way. For me, the grey sky and gentle light of a winter day is very peaceful. Add a blast of cold air and it’s positively cozy indoors or even wrapped in protective outer-garments. It’s beautiful.
I comprehend that those who live in colder climes and experience long, dark winters get rather tired of the cold and grey. Similarly, those of us who have long, hot summers weary of the strong, relentless sun and heat that begin baking our brains at some point in July with another couple months of very hot weather ahead to endure.
But for today, it’s all softness, coziness, peace. In the serenity of it, I am able to recall how fortunate I am to be considering the weather at all. I look forward to sharing more with you in the New Year and wish you all the best.
Surely, the past, present, and future connect in this miraculous state we call life. In this light, history and all human experience are ever-present. Wouldn't it be nice, then, if we could enjoy each other, if we could appreciate and celebrate our differences? Let us love! Let us have fun. Let us toast each other and wish each other well. Now, in our awareness, is the time to be happy, to do our best, to live fully to our purest, highest standards.