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| I am a novelist, poet, interviewer and lover of story. Welcome to my blog. |
Kate Sheppard, who led the campaign for the vote
What she said: that woman was all kinds of awesome.
Plus, if you don’t like the government you’ve got, or how any government operates, don’t treat citizenship and democracy like spectator sports: they ain’t.
Hokay, said my piece–time to get off my bench and onto the field of play.
The Wall of Night Series map; design by Peter Fitzpatrick
The A Geography of Haarth post series is exploring the full range of locales and places from The Wall of Night world of Haarth. Each entry is accompanied by a quote from the books in which the place appears, currently either The Heir Of Night or The Gathering Of The Lost, or both.
This week we have one more locale in “V” to check out.
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Vertward: one of the six wards of the dukedom of Emer, Vertward lies to the southwest of the capital, Caer Argent
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“In the end, they rode for nearly three hours before the road finally ran out of Maraval wood into blazing sunshine, on the crest of the Vertward down country. The landscape ahead was a patchwork of wheat and barley fields, interspersed with orchards, hop gardens, and neat rows of vines. The late morning air was languid, almost sleepy with heat, and dust rose in a long plume above the road to the south.”
~ from © The Gathering Of The Lost, The Wall of Night Book Two: Chapter 33 — Maraval
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Suffrage Memorial, Christchurch
This week, I’ve been celebrating my characters—all part of also celebrating NZ Women’s Suffrage week and the 121st anniversary of women getting the vote on 19 September, 1893.
On Monday, I looked at women characters from The Heir Of Night (The Wall Of Night Book One), and yesterday it was Thornspell’s turn—including my favourite villain, the Margravine zu Malvolin. 😉
Today, it’s time to meet the fabulous, feisty, female cast from The Gathering Of The Lost (The Wall Of Night Book Two).
So again, in honor of Suffrage Week and 19 September 1893:
UK/AUS/NZ
Malian is the lead character in The Wall Of Night series, so although you got to meet her on Monday, she’s also very much part of The Gathering Of The Lost (Gathering). I chose an adventurous introduction for Malian on Monday, so thought I might continue that theme today. 🙂
“…Malian sprang to catch up, feeling a rush of exhilaration, so darkly fierce it was almost joy, as they cleared the first narrow street, cobbles flashing beneath them. To fall would be to die—but they were not going to fall. Her blood sang as they ran on, keeping to the narrow lanes and close-packed houses of the poorer quarters where there were plenty of sharp angles and deep shadows to hide in.
Soon they were running as one, each knowing intuitively how the other would move, racing up roof slopes without hesitation and plunging down the far side, floating effortlessly across the gaps between buildings until Malian felt as though she were flying above Caer Argent. The pale gold moon kept pace alongside, so close it seemed she might touch it … if only she stretched out her hand at the right moment.
…it was a long time after that when she noticed the stars growing pale, a reminder that the midsummer dawn came early. She knew they must have crossed half the city and by rights she should feel tired, but instead she felt wonderfully and gloriously alive.”
You also met the herald, Jehane Mor, on Monday, but she plays an even more important part in Gathering than she did in The Heir Of Night (Heir).
“…Jehane Mor had taken her first step into deeper shadow, away from the circle of light cast by the nearest gate lantern. Cautiously, she moved along the street, staying out of the light and keeping her psychic shield up, but nothing disturbed its outer edge. She stopped in another pool of shadow ten paces from the Guild House gate, which gaped at her, silent as an unanswered question.
The minutes lengthened, but Jehane Mor remained motionless…The moment she broke cover, slipping out of the shadows and toward the unlit entrance, she caught movement from the corner of her eye. Her head whipped around as a dense inky blot, with long tendrils trailing beneath it, detached from an eave diagonally opposite the gate. The tendrils exploded toward her in a jet of black matter and she sprang back, gathering her power to counterattack—only to drop to the ground for the second time that night as an arrow sang.”
Yes, you also met the Honor Captain, Asantir, on Monday—and although her role in Gathering is not so extensive, it is pivotal.
“Asantir was still watching Torlun… [whose]…stance remained assured as he met Asantir’s gaze, but the line of his mouth had tightened. He frowned sideways at his second-in-command. “Boras, this is taking too long.” …
“Fool!” The old woman spoke with asperity despite her cut and bruised mouth. “She’s carrying black blades—that’s how she defeated the siren worm five years ago. That’s where all your power is going now, too, unless I much mistake the matter.”
“Black blades—fables for children!” Boras said, but Garan noticed they had all taken a step back.
Torlun looked openly doubtful now, his eyes shifting to the sword hilts beneath Asantir’s hands. Slowly, he took another step back. “You know this isn’t over.”
“No?” said Asantir, “I think that it is. Quite over.”
I hope you may be starting to get a feeling for why one reader renamed her “Kick-As(s)antir.” 😉
Incidentally, you also just met the Old Lady, a senior priestess from the Derai House of Morning.
And The New…But besides these old friends, there’s also a host of new women characters for you to meet. As with the other days, I shall try to introduce them in the order they appear in the story, as they first appear…
“…but it was the woman who slipped into the tent in his shadow who caught and held all eyes. She was clad in a full, deep-red robe, her hair concealed by a coif of gold mesh worked with garnet and seed pearls. The face within the coif was quartered with crimson and charcoal paint, both eyelids and lips darkened to black. The effect was both rich and a little frightening, and Jehane Mor heard more than one indrawn breath, although no one spoke.
Demonhunter tricks, the herald thought… The Lady Sarifa’s painted lids were half lowered, but Jehane Mor knew that she would be sensing the room. The demonhunter looked young, although it was difficult to be sure behind the painted mask. She would undoubtedly be strong, having been sent so far from Ishnapur alone—”
“Aravenor nodded to the Patroler on his left. “This is Yris. She is one of our river pilots and will take you upriver from Farelle.”
Yris bowed, but did not speak. She wore the same long black tunic and visored helm as the riders, but the sword at her side was short and she had a quilted gambeson rather than a mail shirt. When she bowed, the light reflected off what looked like a stylized wave on her visor.”
“…one of them, Carick saw with surprise, was a young woman. Her helmet was tucked under one arm, revealing a dark braid wrapped around her head. She seemed shy, Carick thought, watching her stare at the ground while Audin spoke, nodding in response to his words.”
‘ “Aha, so you are awake at last!” said a voice so smooth and rich it made Carick think of cream. The door opened wider, admitting one of the largest women he had ever seen. She must have been at least six feet tall, with a mass of curling, dark brown hair piled up haphazardly and kept in place by combs. The body between shoulder and ankle billowed generously and was arrayed in layers of blouse, kirtle, and a lavishly embroidered cote that made her seem larger still. There were some, Carick knew, who would have called her blowsy, but he thought she was beautiful, with skin as creamy as her voice and the largest, merriest, velvet-brown eyes he had ever seen. It was only when she came to stand by the bed and smiled down at him that he saw the deeply etched crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes, and threads of silver in her dark hair. “Well, well,” the woman said, smiling still, “we were starting to think your sleep was going to last forty years, like the young man in the fable.” ‘
…and this
‘ “I’m still alive,” he whispered, feeling the wonder of it after his flight through the pass.
“Yes.” A grave voice spoke from beside the bed. “But your lip is bleeding again. You will have to remember not to bite it for the next few days.” The owner of the voice moved so he could see her more easily, holding back a heavy, russet curtain that fell from a wooden rail overhead. He blinked, trying to focus, and this time saw a young woman with a cloud of dark hair framing a delicate face. “Drink this,” she said, lifting a cup to his lips. “It will help you recover.”
The drink was as cool as her voice, but with an edge of bitterness, and Carick fell asleep again as soon as he had drunk it down.’
‘The instructor’s name, Carick learned, was Solaan, and she was as cool and businesslike as Raven, although considerably older. Her cropped hair was gray as iron, and there were deep tracks around both eyes and mouth in her weather-beaten face.
“The tattooing?” Carick murmured to Raven. “Is that usual here?”
“She is of the Hills,” Raven replied, as though that explained everything. “More importantly, she is a master of this weapon.” ‘
“The young women rode as lightly as the squires, most with long braids trailing from beneath caps of leather or steel. Only the central rider was bare headed, sitting straight and slender in the saddle while the bell of her red-gold hair lifted in the breeze.
“Ghiselaine, Countess of Ormond,” Raven murmured, although Carick had already guessed: she sat amongst the other riders like a queen among her knights. He also knew that the youthful countess was famous for her beauty—and this girl was undoubtedly beautiful, with clear, apricot-tinted skin, a perfect oval face, and fine gold-brown eyes beneath arched brows. Like a painting of beauty, Carick thought, as he sketched a bow.”
“The new arrivals formed themselves into two loose groups in the castle’s main hall: the first around a grizzled, powerful, middle-aged man standing beneath a white, horsetail banner; the second in a half circle about a weather-beaten woman of similar years, below a standard crowned with antlers …
The two chieftains inclined their heads, a gesture that was respectful yet without servility. “Our scouts,” said Hawk, “tell us that raider bands are gathering on the borders of our hunting runs. We fear they will strike soon and strike hard, and our numbers are few. So we invoke the bond sworn between us. Let the shade of Emer’s oak be cast over our hills, as was promised, against those who seek our destruction.”
“A second figure came walking out of the wood and up the hill, long robes trailing and the hood pushed back to reveal a pale, high-boned face and shadowed eyes. The newcomer’s head was completely shaven except for one long hank of hair that was plaited from the crown and curved down the right side of the face.
A woman, Carick thought, although he could not have said why, since the bones of the face, the body beneath the long robes, and the hissing voice were all androgynous …
The pale face contorted, then smoothed out as the mist crept around the woman and her shape began to fade. “…But the next time you thwart our work we will bring you down.”
“The priestess-queen, Malian thought… She wore no crown; needed none, in fact, although a narrow gold fillet circled her brow. A border of goldwork edged the pale mantle, and the broad, linked belt around the queen’s waist was also gold. …her crimson gown was slit for ease of riding, so that everyone could see the tanned legs extending into boots of honey leather, rolled to above the knee. Malian could sense the men around her, all trying not to stare. She would have smiled openly except for the proud lift of that wheat-gold head and the austere young stare—although the queen’s eyes, the shadowed gray of dawn skies, were fixed on the Duke.”
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So there you are: a suitable selection, I hope, of women characters to make a fitting celebration of suffrage week. 😉
And of course, the big S for Suffrage Day, 19 September, is tomorrow—although I’ve gotten in a little ahead of the game with my celebratory posts because tomorrow is A Geography Of Haarth day. (Although there may be an ‘Easter Egg’—watch this space!)
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To check out the cast of leading women from The Heir Of Night, click on:
And Thornspell is here:
To read more about September 19 and NZ women’s suffrage, try:
Christchurch City Libraries: Votes For Women — 19 September 1893
Te Ara, The Encyclopedia of New Zealand: Voting Rights
Suffrage Memorial, Christchurch
On Monday, I posted to celebrate NZ Women’s Suffrage week—celebrating the 121st anniversary, on 19 September, of NZ women gaining the vote (the first country in the world to do so.) I have tried to do so in a personal way by celebrating the women characters in my novels: heroes, villains, and a few less prominent characters for good measure.
Again on Monday, I began with the cast of women characters in The Heir Of Night, The Wall Of Night Book One, in part because the lead character, Malian of Night, is female.
Today, I thought we’d look at Thornspell, where—since Thornspell is a retelling of Sleeping Beauty from the perspective of the prince—the lead character is male. But there is still a substantial representation of female characters. So in honor of Suffrage Week and 19 September 1893:
With one exception, I thought I’d introduce the Thornspell cast in the order they appear in the book, starting with…
Auld Hazel, in fact, defines the whole start of the book, when a very young prince (Sigismund) meets her on the edge of the enchanted wood.
“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…
Light and shadow flickered across the seamed face like sun through shifting leaves, and her laugh was a cackle, dry as her first words. … “Stay away from t’ wood though, ‘ee should.”
The Margravine
No Sleeping Beauty retelling would be complete without that arch-villain, the wicked fairy. In the Thornspell version, this is the Margravine zu Malvolin who—fittingly—appears almost as early as Auld Hazel.
“The lady’s face was hidden by her wide brimmed hat with its extravagant swirl of white plumes, but Sigismund could see the fall of golden hair across one shoulder. Her dress was of sapphire blue silk and her gloves were stitched with gold thread, and extended halfway up her arms. Sigismund thought, seeing her hair and her graceful step, that she must be young, but when she was close enough for him to see her face, he was not so sure. It was unlined that face, smiling and very fair, with eyes as blue as cornflowers, but he did not think she was young – not in the way that Annie, who dusted his room in the castle and giggled a lot, was young.
Sigismund swung down from saddle and bowed, lower than was required from a King’s son, and the lady’s smile deepened. She held out her gloved hand, touching his fingers through the gate.
“Hello, chance met stranger,” she said, and her voice was sweet and clear as a note struck on crystal. Sigismund blinked.
“I am the Margravine zu Malvolin,” the lady continued…”
And then, of course, there’s the good fairy—or faie, in this tale—who counteracted the Margravine’s death spell with the hundred years’ sleep…
“…a spray of overhanging green was lifted back and a woman in a white dress stepped out, onto the circle of bricks. It was the woman from his illness, Sigismund was sure of that, although she seemed younger, with dark curls piled on top of her head and falling in a cascade down her back. There was a pattern of leaves and flowers sprigged lightly across her white skirt, just as in the mosaic, but her expression was grave, her eyes dark … The lady’s smile had a great deal of sweetness in it, but the gravity returned swiftly. “I am called Syrica,” she said. “I wait and I watch – over those who dwell in this castle and the wood that is your neighbour. My purpose is to thwart the lady you met on the road.”
“The Margravine zu Malvolin?” asked Sigismund. The name slipped from his tongue as easily as if he had never forgotten it, and this time he remembered her blue eyes smiling at him, and the tinkle of her laughter.
“Yes,” said Syrica. “She is my enemy, as she is yours. She will do you harm, if she can.”
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Meet Rue:Any prince on a quest, especially to undo a hundred-year-old spell, also needs allies—but may find them in unlikely places.
“He turned away, kicking through a deeper drift, and saw that there was a girl standing beneath the bare crown of an elder tree. A sparrow fluttered into the branches, followed by another, and then a third, until there was a small flock of them preening and fluttering their feathers above her head. Her chemise and skirt, brown as the sparrows, blended with the dreary colours in the garden, but Sigismund was still surprised that he hadn’t noticed her before.
She looked like a servant, he thought, a girl from the scullery or laundry, with the ragged hem of her skirt stopping a few inches clear of bare, brown ankles. Her feet were thrust into the wooden shoes worn by the lower servants, and her hands were scratched, her hair a snarl of brown curls. She had a leaf caught above one ear, and was looking at him sidelong beneath a tangle of dark lashes – a shy look, he decided after a moment, rather than sly …
“I wonder what your name is?” he asked, taking a step towards her.
Her smile was small and crooked, but it lifted the gravity of her expression and let a flash of mischief in. She lifted one finger, indicating herself, then pointed to the herb growing against the wall, and then back at herself again.
“Rue?” he asked, and she smiled…”
Meet the Sleeping PrincessWithout whom there would be no tale, in any of its numerous tellings and retellings.
“The room was choked with briars, some of them thick as his wrist and all armed with long, cruel thorns, but he could just make out a bed through the tangle. There was a young woman sleeping on it, with golden hair so long that it spilled across the bed and down, onto the leaf strewn floor. It was held back from her face by a delicate, jewelled coronet, and Sigismund stared, knowing this was the most beautiful face he would ever see.”
Do you remember Annie, who was young and giggled a lot? She may only play a small part, but she has her place in the story, nonetheless.
“…and then Annie came with his meal on a tray, swishing the curtains closed against the night and lighting the candles. She brought a bowl of lilac too, its scent filling the room as she lingered, chatting while he ate. She seemed cheerful, but did not giggle as much as Sigismund remembered; he supposed that was not surprising, given that they were both older now. Grown up, he thought, with a slight feeling of surprise.”
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Witches and faie, great ladies and servant girls, heroes and villains, guides and friends and lovers—they are all part of the Thornspell world’s complement of women and essential to the success of the story.
To check out the cast of leading women from The Heir Of Night, click on:
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To read more about September 19 and NZ women’s suffrage, check out:
Christchurch City Libraries: Votes For Women — 19 September 1893
Te Ara, The Encyclopedia of New Zealand: Voting Rights
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The location on the postmark
looks Aboriginal –
a smudged box number
provides no assistance.
I search for you in the gaps
between internet
and dog-eared telephone books,
the drift between continents,
listen to echoes,
bounce off satellites …
torn open,
your letter
lies unanswered.
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© Helen Lowe
Published in The International Literary Quarterly, Issue 14, February2011
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I thought it could be time for another Helen Lowe poem before I resume my re-feature series next week. 😉
Otherwise, you know the drill: to check out the featured poem on the Tuesday Poem Hub and other great poems from fellow Tuesday poets from around the world, click here or on the Quill icon in the sidebar.
Suffrage Memorial, Christchurch
This week is NZ women’s suffrage week, celebrating the day NZ became the first self-governing country in the world to give women the vote in parliamentary elections—in a bill passed on 19 September 1893.
An “epic” event by world standards: so as a NZ author and an author of epic stories to boot, I decided that a very personal way in which I could celebrate 121 years of women’s suffrage was by celebrating the women characters from my books—the heroes, the villains, and a few of the less prominent characters for good measure.
Starting today with The Heir Of Night, The Wall Of Night Book One, since it was both the first novel I wrote (although not the first published—that honour goes to Thornspell) and not only the main character, Malian, but a swathe of other important characters, are women. (Shades of Sir Julius Vogel’s Anno Domini indeed ;-))
So here we go:
USA
Malian is the only child and Heir of the Earl of Night, the warrior House of that leads the alien Derai Alliance who have brought both their aeons-old war and their enemy, the Swarm of Dark, to the world of Haarth. When the Wall of Night story opens, Malian is thirteen years’ old and the Derai-Swarm conflict, which has been smoldering for centuries, is about to flare back into life. Here is the reader’s first introduction to Malian:
“…a slight figure swarmed up one of the massive stone pillars that marched along either side of the hall. There was an alarming creak as the climber swung up and over the balustrade of a wooden gallery, high above the hall floor—but the timbers held. The climber paused, looking around with satisfaction, and wiped dusty hands on the seat of her plain, black pants. A narrow, wooden staircase twisted up toward another, even higher gallery of sculpted stone, but the treads stopped just short of the top. She studied the gap, her eyes narrowed as they traced the leap she would need to make: from the top of the stair to the gargoyles beneath the stone balcony, and then up, by a series of precarious finger- and toe holds, onto the balcony itself.
The girl frowned, knowing that to miss that jump would mean plummeting to certain death, then shrugged and began to climb, testing each wooden tread before trusting her weight to it. She paused again on the topmost step, then sprang, her first hand slapping onto a corbel while the other grasped at a gargoyle’s half-spread wing. She hung for a moment, swinging, then knifed her feet up onto the gargoyle’s claws before scrambling over the high shoulder and into the gallery itself.”
A young woman with an adventurous spirit: what do you think?
Readers “hear” of Asantir, the captain of the Earl of Night’s personal guard, before she is first glimpsed across a crowded hall, but only meet her properly a little later in the story.
“Appalled, Nhairin sought out Asantir, finding her amidst the wreckage of the invaders’ last stand. The Honor Captain was surrounded by a tattered remnant of her guard and what seemed like a small army of the main keep garrison. One guard was binding up a bloody wound to the captain’s shoulder while a sergeant pored over plans spread out on the floor. Asantir leaned over his shoulder and nodded as his finger stabbed from one corridor to the next. The grim and weary troops surrounding them were either watching, too, or occupied with their own hurts and battered gear.
Nhairin hesitated as Asantir turned away from the plans to deal with fresh dispatches coming in…”
From that point on, Asantir remains central to the story.
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UK/AU/NZ mass market paperback
The Keep of Winds is the chief stronghold of the House of Night and readers meet Nhairin, the High Steward, early on:
‘ “Oldest, first, and greatest of all the Derai Houses on the Wall, in deeds and duty if not in numbers,” a new voice put in, as though reciting indisputable fact. A spare figure rose from an alcove seat and limped forward. She was as dark and reserved as the minstrel was golden and flamboyant, and her face was disfigured by the scar that slashed across it from temple to chin …
She had soldiered once for the Earl of Night, until the fight in which she gained both limp and scar, and she liked to say that she soldiered still in the Earl’s service, but as High Steward of the Keep of Winds, rather than with a sword.’
Rowan Birchmoon is one of the nomadic Winter People and the Earl of Night’s lover and consort. Like Nhairin, she first appears early in the story.
“Malian … was struck again by how alien her father’s consort, the Lady Rowan Birchmoon, looked amongst the Earl’s dark-clad, dark-visaged household. Her skin was almost as white as the snows of her own Winter Country, her eyes gray and clear beneath slim brows. Pale brown hair hung down her back in a long braid, with pieces of shell and small feathers plaited into it; her long tunic and leggings of supple white leather were embroidered with beasts and birds. There was usually a white hound running at her heels, or a spotted, tuft-eared hunting cat pressed against her legs. Tonight, Malian saw with a pang of envy, it was one of the feather-footed hounds.
She did not, however, envy the ripple of disquiet that followed Rowan Birchmoon down the length of the cheerful hall. … How many Derai, Malian wondered, still believe she is a witch and my father ensnared in her spells?”
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French cover
The priestess, Korriya, like Asantir, is first met properly a little later in the book.
“The watcher, swathed in a gray, hooded cloak, was concealed in the shadow of the gatehouse opposite, on its temple side. The cloak blended with the surrounding walls and the watcher stood so still that for a moment Nhairin thought the silent figure was stone. Her skin prickled, sensing a keen scrutiny from within the shadowing hood. “Who are you?” she demanded. “What are you doing here?”
“I might ask you the same questions,” the watcher replied, in a woman’s voice. “Except that I know the answers to both, Steward Nhairin.” As she spoke, the watcher lifted the hood back, revealing a face of indeterminate age. Deep lines tracked the corners of eyes and mouth, and like every face that morning, the watcher’s was etched with exhaustion.
Nhairin’s brows rose. “Korriya,” she said…”
Jehane Mor belongs to Haarth’s Guild of Heralds, one of a pair sent to the Wall of Night from the land known as The River.
‘ “Tarathan of Ar and Jehane Mor, heralds of the Guild,” one of Nhairin’s stewards roared out, above the hubbub. “From Terebanth, on the Great River.”
Absolute silence crashed down as every face turned toward the man and woman who stepped through the door. The man had multiple braids of chestnut hair flowing below his shoulders, while the woman was fair, with a single plait twisted around her head like a crown. They were both of middle height and clad alike in gray, their long cloaks cast back. A badge pinned each cloak on the left shoulder and a dagger was sheathed at their belts. Both their faces were drawn and weary, their clothes mired from the road, but they walked steadily through the watching, silent hall until they stood before the Earl’s chair. There they stopped as one and bowed, first to the Earl and then, slightly lower, to the woman at his side … The heralds straightened. “Hail, Earl of Night,” they said, their individual tones weaving together as if they had only the one voice between them. “Honor to you and to your House.” ‘
Dutch edition
Lira is a warrior, serving in the Earl of Night’s Honor Guard. Readers first meet her toward the middle of the book.
‘ “Was that the Golden Fire?” Lira, one of the honor guards standing with Sarus, was staring at the cone lamps. “Has it come back?” Her voice was full of hope.
“Perhaps,” said Asantir. “But it may simply have been some property of the lamps themselves. Do not hope too much, Lira. We need to be sure.” ‘
Eria is an initiate priestess from the Temple of Night. As with Lira, readers first meet her properly further into the story.
“The young priests had exchanged glances as the guards unpacked storm lanterns, then Eria had brought out palm-sized cone lights that were secured by a strap across wrist and hand. Silently, she had offered one to Asantir. The cones had caps that could be flicked off with a thumb, emitting a shielded beam that fell no more than a few feet ahead of the holder. “Useful,” was all Asantir said, but the look she had given Eria was very keen and the storm lanterns were packed away again.”
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German cover
Heirs and Honor Captains, senior clerics and high stewards, consorts and heralds, as well as rank-and-file warriors and acolytes: readers will find them sorts and conditions of epic women amongst the characters in The Heir of Night’s pages.
In that sense at least, it’s an equal opportunity world. 😉
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To read more about September 19 and NZ women’s suffrage, check out:
Christchurch City Libraries: Votes For Women — 19 September 1893
Te Ara, The Encyclopedia of New Zealand: Voting Rights
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The Wall of Night Series map; design by Peter Fitzpatrick
The A Geography of Haarth post series is exploring the full range of locales and places from The Wall of Night world of Haarth. Each entry is accompanied by a quote from the books in which the place appears, currently either The Heir Of Night or The Gathering Of The Lost, or both.
Last week we finally bade farewell to our traverse of territories beginning with “T” and have passed onto the final pass(age) of “V” before descending to the plains of “W” and the conclusion of our journey through the reams of Haarth.
But fear not, the sightseeing is not yet over: we still have a few places of interest to check out! 😉
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Vast: a town in Emer’s Wyvernmark (Wymark), bordering the Southern March
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“…Kalan’s opponent was Ser Alric of Vast, a tall, broad-shouldered man with receding hair and a discolored front tooth. An exponent of the swing-and-hew style of swordsmanship, Kalan thought, dodging the initial sweep of the Wymark knight’s broadsword, which if it had connected would have cut him in two. But he was quicker on his feet than the taller knight, and despite one rough buffet when his dodge was not quite quick enough, was able to deflect the initial whirlwind assault and counterattack.”
~ from © The Gathering Of The Lost, The Wall of Night Book Two: Chapter 36 — The Sword Ring
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Michelle Elvy
My fellow Tuesday Poet Michelle Elvy wears several hats, including as a blogger with Awkward Paper Cut, where she curates the “Writers On Writing” page. The topic for September is:
Way back in the euphoria of typing “the end” to the ms for WALL3, Michelle asked me to contribute specifically on “Finding Adventure in Fantasy” and (under the influence of said euphoria) I said “yes.” 😉
And in fact it was fun—and even more fun that Rebecca Fisher, who brings you Big Worlds On Small Screens (right here on “…Anything, Really”!) every second Wednesday, is also one of the featured writers and has posted on “Writing Imaginatively Under Constraint.”
Talking about adventurous Fantasy, as it happens!
Here’s a lead-in to my post, “Finding Adventure in Fantasy”:
“My writing style is primarily intuitive, with stories springing from an initial ‘flash’ of an idea, before evolving. So in terms of ‘finding’ adventure (or any other element) in Fantasy, I agree with Ursula Le Guin that: “The world’s full of stories, you just reach out” (Steering The Craft). But I believe we also reach out for the kind of stories that ‘speak’ to us most profoundly. In my case this will probably always include adventurous stories, because I love them.
…”
Rebecca Fisher
And here’s Rebecca’s intro on “Writing Imaginatively Under Constraint”:
“It’s an odd contradiction when you think about it: that writers for television have the luxury of more time than the average film to tell their stories (anything from ten to twenty-two episodes per season) but also less, what with the requirements of the weekly forty-five minute time-frame. Yet writers have long-since learnt to take advantage of television programming’s unique format. In melding the visual flair of films with the episodic structure of chapters in a book, television can offer complex plots that demand close attention and regular attendance from viewers.
…”
So what are you waiting for, go check out:
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~ by Rebecca Fisher
Oh, Firefly. One of the shortest and yet most mourned sci-fi shows of all time, Firefly stands as a monument to how an interfering network can completely destroy a show.
After Joss Whedon’s pitch for a sci-fi drama about a renegade crew on the losing side of a war was green-lit by Fox executives, the network went on to sabotage the show every chance it got: insisting on a different pilot that focused on action rather than character, airing the episodes out of order, and eventually pulling the show before it had even finished its first season. It makes you wonder why they commissioned it in the first place.
But then something fairly miraculous occurred: the DVD box set sold so well and garnered so much attention that Joss Whedon was given the opportunity to wrap up his story in a feature film. It was a rather bittersweet success, as though Serenity managed to bring the characters and plot some sense of closure, you could tell that the material would have worked much better if spread out over the course of several episodes.
But the whole thing sharpened into focus a recent phenomenon: that supportive fans could have an impact on the future of a franchise. If fans could generate enough money and publicity over a particular project, then network executives were willing to give it a second shot (as is the case in shows ranging from Family Guy to Ripper Street). It’s hard not to lament the fact that in today’s world of social media, Firefly would have had a much higher chance at being brought back for a second season.
Sometimes the premise of a show is ingenious because of how simple it is. The appeal of Firefly lies in the fact that it’s a fusion of the Western with science-fiction, using “it’s a whole new frontier” as its tagline. That’s brilliant.
Five hundred years into the future, the human race has left Earth-That-Was and colonized a number of terraformed planets. Some planets have access to supplies and technology, others live on the fringes of civilization with very little in the way of basic amenities. This division can be traced to the winning and losing sides of the War of Unification, in which the government body known as the Alliance defeated those that fought for Independence.
The defeat at Serenity Valley
This defeat led one such “browncoat” to abandon both his faith and his military position in order to buy a ship and fly it well out of Alliance control. Captain Malcolm Reynolds now makes a living as a smuggler on board his firefly-class ship Serenity (named after the definitive battle that lost the war) and surrounded by a loyal – for the most part – crew: fellow soldier Zoe Alleyne, her husband and pilot Hoban “Wash” Washburne, mercenary Jayne Cobb and mechanic Kaylee Frye. Renting out the ship’s shuttle is Inara Serre, a beautiful Companion (that being the polite word for a high-class escort) who conducts business both on and off the ship.
Occasionally they take passengers on board, and that’s when the story really starts. Simon Tam is a young doctor desperately trying to smuggle his sister River away from Alliance agents, having learnt that she was experimented on due to her hyperintelligence and psychic abilities. Simon is well aware that he needs to keep her a secret, and Mal (despite River’s unpredictability) quite likes the idea of keeping the Alliance’s prize hidden from them…
Captain Reynolds finds River in his cargo hold
The beauty of Firefly is that its premise allows for a wide range of storylines, from the crew partaking in heists and smuggling operations, to trying to avoid the ever-growing reach of the Alliance, to the life-or-death consequences of the ship breaking down. And I haven’t even mentioned Shepherd Book or the Reavers yet!
But perhaps the best part of watching Firefly is the exhilaration of being flung into a brave new world that never slows down for the viewer. The characters are fully immersed in the reality of their lives, and there’s very little exposition to help the viewer get a handle on how things work. Instead it’s a headlong journey into the distant future, where food is a rare commodity (instead people eat bland nutrition bars) and casual dialogue is sprinkled with Chinese slang.
The good ship Serenity, firefly class
And somewhere “in the black” are the terrifying Reavers, generally considered an “urban legend” to most people, but real enough to anyone who runs into them. Savage cannibals that attack almost anything that crosses their path, what they do to their victims is probably something that Helen wouldn’t want me to describe in any great detail on her blog! Of course, there’s a story behind the Reavers, but you’ll have to track down Serenity in order to find out what.
All things considered, it’s amazing how much this show managed to pack into fourteen episodes.
Being a Western requires a specific type of ensemble cast, with all the familiar stock characters: the grouchy sheriff, er – captain, his loyal lieutenant, the amoral mercenary, the classy doctor, the mysterious preacher, and the hooker with a heart of gold. But everything here is given a sci-fi twist; in the case of the hooker, she’s actually a member of Guild of Companions, all of whom are accorded a huge amount of respect and prestige (far more than the smugglers, obviously).
The entire cast from left: Jayne, Inara, Kaylee, Mal, Wash, Zoe, Simon, Shepherd Book and River
All of them encompass one of Joss Whedon’s favourite themes: that of a ragtag bunch of misfits who form a family despite their differences. Even though some individual character-arcs sadly go unresolved (we never learn Shepherd Book’s backstory, or learn what was in the syringe that Inara was carrying – at least not in the show itself), the nine core cast members have a united plot-thread that sees them become a cohesive and well-oiled team over the course of the one and only season.
Along with plenty of banter, a staple part of any Joss Whedon show.
To this day Nathan Fillion still makes jokes about how disappointed he is that Firefly was cancelled (his character on Castle often makes allusions to it). Though the feature film went a long way in giving fans the resolution they longed for, it’s still difficult to watch Firefly and not imagine what could have been if the story and character-arcs had been given the opportunity to unfold over a number of seasons. Let this show stand as a lesson to all interfering network executives: sometimes you just have to let the creative people tell their story – you never know what you’ll end up sabotaging if you don’t.
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Around this time last year I did a review of the animated Justice League. Now seems as good a time as any to backtrack on that particular franchise and take a closer look at the show that kick-started the popularity of DC comic heroes in cartoon form – Batman: The Animated Series.
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Rebecca Fisher is a graduate of the University of Canterbury with a Masters degree in English Literature, mainly, she claims, because she was able to get away with writing her thesis on C.S. Lewis and Philip Pullman. She is a reviewer for FantasyLiterature.com, a large website that specializes in fantasy and science-fiction novels, as well as posting reviews to Amazon.com and her They’re All Fictional blog.To read Rebecca’s detailed introduction of both herself and the series, as well as preceding reviews, click on:
July 1914
I
All month a smell of burning, of dry peat
smouldering in the bogs.
Even the birds have stopped singing,
the aspen does not tremble.
The god of wrath glares in the sky,
the fields have been parched since Easter.
A one-legged pilgrim stood in the yard
with his mouth full of prophecies:
“Beware of terrible times… the earth
opening for a crowd of corpses.
Expect famine, earthquakes, plagues,
and heavens darkened by eclipses.
“But our land will not be divided
by the enemy at his pleasure:
the Mother-of-God will spread
a white shroud over these great sorrows.”
…
an excerpt from July 1914 by Anna Akhmatova, 1889-1996
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This year being the centenary of the start of WW1, I have been looking at war poetry from the period and also trying to look beyond the UK poets I am most familiar with. One of the more impressive voices has to be Russian poet, Anna Akhmatova—not least because poems such as “July 1914” suggest she had a clear idea of what was coming. I have only posted an excerpt, but I definitely think searching out her poetry will repay your effort.
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Meanwhile, you know the drill: to check out the featured poem on the Tuesday Poem Hub and other great poems from fellow Tuesday poets from around the world, click here or on the Quill icon in the sidebar.
Jacket art by Greg Bridges
The Gathering of the Lost: USA Cover (Harper Voyager) - Read More Here!
"A richly told tale" -- Robin Hobb
"A vividly imagined world" -- Juliet Marillier
"This is an author with a gift for fantasy” -- Catherine Asaro
To read reviews, click Here.
Jacket art by Greg Bridges
The Heir of Night: USA Cover (Eos) - Read More Here!
The Heir of Night: UK/AU/NZ Cover (Orbit) - Read More Here!
HEIR won the international Gemmell Morningstar Award 2012 for Best Fantasy Debut.
"THE HEIR OF NIGHT by Helen Lowe is a richly told tale of strange magic, dark treachery and conflicting loyalties, set in a well realized world."--Robin Hobb
Jacket art by Antonio Javier Caparo
Thornspell is my first novel and is published by Knopf (Random House Children's Books, USA). It won the Sir Julius Vogel Award 2009 for Best Novel: Young Adult and was a Storylines Childrens' Literature Trust Notable Book 2009.
