We’re into the fourth—and penultimate, great word!—week of “Fun with Thornspell”, which is this month’s feature on the blog! And I’ve really been enjoying the comments coming in, all of which have great short story potential.

It’s as Ursula Le Guin says in her book Steering the Craft (although I am paraphrasing rather than direct quoting)—the ideas are always there, you just have to be willing to reach into the creative air and grasp them! (And as Le Guin has been doing just that—quite wonderfully—for a lifetime now, I for one am very willing to listen to what she has to say. 😉 )

OK, back to “Fun With Thornspell!” Your part of the deal is that you comment and let me know which Thornspell character you would like a story written about—and why that character, in particular.

My part of the deal is that each week I post a bit about another aspect of writing Thornspell, which you may or may not have heard about before. So here’s my part for this week:

About Thornspell: Auld Hazel

Several commenters have indicated that Auld Hazel, the witch of the wood, is their preferred character for a Thornspell short story. And Nancy Siscoe, Thornspell’s editor at Knopf, said that it was when Sigismund first met Auld Hazel that she began to fall in love in with the story.

Needless to say, the character of Auld Hazel comes primarily from the realm of imagination, but as always there are a few elements where the realms of the real, and that of imagination, overlap. But to begin, I think we should take a look at that first meeting between the young Sigismund and Auld Hazel …

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.~ from Chapter 1, The Silent Wood

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“The old western gate into the castle was long since walled up, but there was still the remains of a road that must have run into the forest once.  It was little more than two rutted and stony wheel tracks now, but Sigismund had followed it one day, making his escape from the castle by means of a mossy channel that had once been the moat, and a culvert under the outer wall.  The road did not go far, petering out into a bridle path within a few hundred yards of the castle wall, and fading away altogether beneath the forest eave.

It had been very dark and quiet beneath the canopy: a heavy, listening silence.  There was no call of bird or insect, no whisper of a falling leaf – not even the wind stirred.  Sigismund had felt the fine hairs lifting along his forearms and up the back of his neck, and taken a step back.

“Wise boy.”  The voice that spoke was dry as one leaf skeleton settling on another.  Sigismund had whipped around, but saw nothing until there was a stirring between two, downbent hazel trees and a crone hobbled out.  She must have been gathering firewood along the forest fringe, for there was a load of bundled sticks on her back and she had to twist her head to look at him.  Her eyes were sharp and bright as a blackbird’s, but sunk into the weathered seams of her face.  Sigismund had thought she looked a little like an old tree herself, knotted and twisted with the years, although she moved more like the blackbird, coming close to him with a light, hopping step.

She was lame, he saw then, that was why she hopped.  He stared, half shocked, half delighted, when he saw that she was puffing on a small, flat bowled pipe.  A thread of smoke rose from it, curling into a question mark above the glow of orange embers.

“That load’s too heavy for you, Granny,” he said.  “Let me carry it back to the castle, and the stable master will find a donkey to take you both down to the village.”

Light and shadow flickered across the seamed face like sun through shifting leaves, and her laugh was a cackle, dry as her first words.  “Ye’ve a kind heart, lad,” she said, “for all yer lordly clothes, but don’t ‘ee worrit about auld ‘azel.  I’m used to burdens, born to ’em, ‘ee might say.”  She chewed on the pipe stem, studying him with her head on one side – exactly like a bird, Sigismund had thought, trying not to laugh.  “Stay away from t’ wood though, ‘ee should.”

“Why?” he asked.  “Why shouldn’t I come in here, if I want to?”

Her sidelong look was sly.  “Does ‘ee want?  Ye was goin’ backwards, last I looked.”

Sigismund had flushed then, a slow burn in the region of his ears.  “I was surprised,” he said, with dignity. “That was all.”

“Nay,” she contradicted him, around the pipe, “wise.  Forest’s dangerous t’ likes of ‘ee, root an’ branch alike.”  Her voice had changed then, making him think of earth and moss, and the leaves of years lying deep beneath the trees.  “E’en yer huntmaster takes his hounds east, or south or north a-ways – no’ westward, no’ into this wood.”

Sigismund had drawn a deep breath in, feeling his eyes grow wide.  “So what is in there?” he demanded.  “Is it dragons, like they say, or simply basilisks and trolls?”

The crone cackled again.  “Nowt simple about basilisks or trolls, lad, not if ‘ee meets ’em.  This wood’s no place for babes, so ‘ee get away back to yon cassle.  ‘Tis close enough t’ wood for ‘ee, for now.”

Afterward, Sigismund was never quite sure how he found himself half way back to the castle before he realised that he had even turned around.  He could feel the old woman’s blackbird eyes, but he did not look back.

…

So there you are–Auld Hazel. Or as she herself would say, “Auld ‘azel.” 😉

So what, you ask, are the touches of the real in this character of the imagination? The first element is the pipe:

” … he saw that she was puffing on a small, flat bowled pipe.  A thread of smoke rose from it, curling into a question mark above the glow of orange embers.”

There are several portraits, both painted and photographic, of Maori kuia (old women and/or women elders) from the nineteenth and early part of the twentieth centuries, that show them smoking pipes—and this visual image crept into my picture of Auld Hazel.

The second is the bent and twisted aspect of her appearance:

” …for there was a load of bundled sticks on her back and she had to twist her head to look at him … Sigismund …  thought she looked a little like an old tree herself, knotted and twisted with the years …”

When I was in Japan, some years ago now, I met several old women, mainly in rural areas, who were permanently bent almost double from a lifetime of carrying heavy burdens—doubtless combined with osteoporosis. I am sure my subconscious memory of those old women helped form my mental picture of Auld Hazel with her burden of sticks.

And her voice and speech and personality? I really think those characteristics may be all her own!

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“Fun With Thornspell”: The Full Story

• Somewhere in my holiday I got to thinking how cool it would be to have some short story fun with the Thornspell characters—and then I decided that it would be even more fun if you were to tell me the Thornspell character you would most like to have a standalone short story written for, or about—and why.

• So through until September 1, every Thursday will be Fun with Thornspell day here on the blog. I’ll talk about an aspect of the book from my perspective as the author and ask you to tell me the character you would like that story story written about.

• After September 1, I will ask our three judges, Beth, Fitz, and Sharon, to decide on the very best “why” put forward—and I will then write a story for that character and post it right here on the blog, with a personal dedication to the nominator. (And who knows—if there is enough interest there may be more than one story …)

Plus — any of the commenters who are school pupils and enter the name of their school in their comment, will go into a draw to win a copy of Thornspell for their school library. I have 3 hardcover copies to give away.

So there you have it: all you have to do is nominate your favourite character for short story fame and glory!