Ah, my three ubiquitous companions. These devices have the singular ability to be able to accompany me ANYWHERE, something my dogs cannot do but would if they could.
And they also take me anywhere in time and location. So while I may be head down weeding furiously around blooming perennials, my mind thinks I am in 1918 London solving mysteries alongside Maisie Dobbs, or inside the mind of Sherlock Holmes as ‘he’ is portrayed by Sherry Thomas in late-Victorian society. The power of story never fails to amaze me.
I have always loved reading aloud, I’ve done it for years to my dogs on hot afternoons or late evenings to settle us all down. The stories leap off the pages into the fore of my mind, becoming more real the more I speak. I’m not sure if that is the case for everyone, but I would almost be sad if it were not. I wasn’t sure if listening would provide the same experience for me and I am thrilled that it has. Hours weeding in the hot sun in messy gardens fly by, while the dogs’ walks become calmer too. I am able to fall into the story almost as if I were holding the book myself.
Recently, I began listening to the Maisie Dobbs series by Jacqueline Winspear. I was unsure about the time period, pre- and post-WWI London, but library availability was scarce, so I took the chance. When the book was done, I returned it and looked for the second in the series (I think there are fifteen so far) immediately.
The second book, however, changed narrators, and I was a bit crushed. Now I understood about readers following narrators.
The first narrator undertook the tale in a pleasant, hopeful voice easily associated with a younger female. The male parts she infused with a warm and caring tone befitting of Maisie’s father and mentor. I was attentive to the dialogue especially, learning for future reference.
The second book, Birds of a Feather, features a crisp, more sophisticated and controlled narrator that took several chapters to get used to. I actually considered stopping listening because I was so unsettled. However, I continued, as I was well into the story by then, and I’m glad I did.
By the end, I thought it actually a brilliant decision on the producer’s part to change narrators (if that was the case), for Maisie’s character had undergone many changes as well, thanks to the war duty she saw. The Maisie who emerged from medical duty in France was harder, leaner, and inquisitive in a more pointed way than before. The new narrator had nailed this sentiment, I felt, with her clipped speech patterns and deeper tones.
And yes, I do have the third book on hold to listen to when it becomes available 🙂. From looking ahead though, I will hear a third narrator and I hope she is as insightful as the other two have been.
I’ve picked up many pointers just listening to the different narrators in my short time consuming audio stories. All food for thought as I continue to practice reading and differentiating characters to my dogs on these lazy summer days. I’m priming for the best performances I can give!~
Do you evaluate the narrators of the audiobooks you listen to? What things do you notice and what will make you stop listening? I’d love to know while I’m learning this craft, leave me a comment below!
Hi Everyone! Hope you are all well as we pass the midpoint of June. Wow, time does fly. One fun fact about Ereth and Huphaea is that we share the same sun. The day length, therefore, is still the same for Elahna, but it is divided up into more ‘erdurs’ than twenty-four. How many more? Stay tuned for that, she will find out in an upcoming episode (which I need to write! Gah! Time!).
When we left Elahna last week, she was still with the Bluebirds, but they were heading to Rosewood Manor for a performance that evening. Shall we find out what happens next?
Rosewood Manor loomed in front of me, grown over and through by enormous trees that denied the sun once you entered under their canopy. Inside, the walls, arches, and columns of the cavernous corridor were a mixture of gray and tan stone embedded in trunks and limbs. Staircases were hewn from multiple leaders and branches wound into railings. Complex lattices of leaves and branchlets formed doors and window shutters. The Seat pulsed with energy and felt warm and alive to the touch.
Because of course, it was.
It was the most amazing structure I had ever seen. I gaped. I couldn’t help myself.
I wish I could draw it for you. Yes, there were lights and hot water, but I don’t think they were electric. Probably vitae powered. It was such an incredible place, especially for a plant lover like me.
Aymur Arborea greeted us in the grand main foyer. He reminded me of a smaller version of Paul Bunyan. But not clad in plaid. The backs of his hands were rough and lined like beech bark and his eyes were a brilliant green.
“So this is the Passer?” That word again. “Elahna, is it?”
“Yes, sir. Pleased to meet you. Elements be.” I raised my hand, palm out, as I had seen others do.
“Elements be, well met. Fife has told me your story as he knows it. I admit, I am intrigued. I sent a bird to my kinswoman, the Queen, for advice on the matter. She replied to send you on to Irillo and perhaps the Scholars can help get you home. For tonight, though, be our welcome guest at my mother Daphne’s request and enjoy the Bluebird show. In the morning we will discuss travel.”
“Thank you, sir.” I nodded in respect.
Fife clapped a strong arm around my shoulders. “Ah, you’re in good hands now, fla, Madame Daphne’s a fine hostess. I wish you luck in getting home, and if you don’t, perhaps we’ll meet again.” He winked and raised his palm. “Elements be.”
“Thank you so much, Fife. For everything. Elements be.”
And just like that, I was an outsider again. I did want to see Fife and the Bluebirds again. I felt indebted to them for their acceptance and help. I could only hope if there was a next time, I would be in a position to repay them somehow. I had a feeling debts were part of the currency in Huphaea, or at least in Eflary.
The Arboreans made me welcome in every way possible, but they couldn’t hide the furtive glances. ‘Passer’ was tossed around behind hands or whispered into pointed ears. The unwanted attention increased through the meal, and I was glad to see the show start.
No, the people weren’t nasty or anything, but it was like being the new kid in school. Uncomfortable.
Oh yes, the show was magnificent. I was just as exhausted as the night before. My brain spun with new legends and song impressions. Haha! I only wish I could tell you some, I mostly remember images and sensations. I wouldn’t do them justice.
The hall emptied, Bluebirds heading back to their camp, and Seat residents seeking their quarters. I wandered down the corridor I had been shown when I passed a woman and a young boy. The boy shrank back from me, clutching his mother’s leg and hand as though I might steal him. “What if she tries to take you back to her home with her?” he wailed. “No, Mamam, you can’t go!”
“Hush, Lignan! Don’t be silly! Passers don’t steal people. I’ve been called to Forelore and so has she, it only makes sense that we travel together. It’s time for your visit with your pater anyway. He’ll be here tomorrow to get you. Stop your whining, you are too old to cry about such things.” She flicked a quick glance at me and marched him away.
I quickened my pace, counting the doors on the right to the fifth one. It was deep purple. I yanked it open and then closed in one motion. Locating the bed through my teary eyes, I flopped face down and let out my fear until I fell asleep.
It wasn’t my finest moment, for sure. I was just glad to be out of the whispers and didn’t want to think about what that boy meant. This is a good place to stop, and I promise the next day is much more upbeat!
Can you imagine how Elahna felt after hearing the boy’s outburst? She has had an amazing two days though! Leave a comment below and let me know what you’d be thinking at this point- would you want to go home, or stay?
Remember to subscribe to Collata, The Collection of Huphaea’s official newsletter! The next issue is coming out very soon, so keep an eye on your inbox if you are already a Nightingale. If not, hit the subscribe button below and join Eleanorah’s troupe!
Hello everyone! All the wishes to your health and sanity as we continue to cope with pandemic issues—stay strong! Can you believe we are about to enter June? We have had a taste of summer where I live, the sticky humid part of summer, after a looooonnnnng, very cool spring. It’s been quite a shock to the system, like Elahna going from insulated boots to summer sandals in one day. A hint of times to come, for sure.
So, when we last spoke, Elahna was just digesting the fact that there are dragons in this land. Raga, Poet, and Fife had a bit of a chuckle at her expense and she learned you do not have a dragon, ever. Dragons impart knowledge, but you should have a consarned good reason for speaking with one. Let’s continue on to Cragbend with the troupe, shall we?
closer to Cragbend…*
The homesteads on the nearer approach to Cragbend got a little smaller, but no less affluent.
*
Many had painted or carved wooden signs hanging by the road with various items depicted- chairs, bowls, cabinets, casks, wagons.
*
Vegetables grew in meticulous gardens and conical hay stacks populated shorn fields.
*
My nervousness returned as we entered the rustic town, but was forgotten in the activity of making camp in the field beside the Cleft Barrel. I was assigned to the horse lines with a young musician named Tenor. He pounded stakes for pickets while I secured the horses and doled out the feed.
By the time we finished, a fire roared in a central, stacked stone pit. Children’s laughter gamboled through the air as they peeled vegetables for stew and hurled the scraps at each other or the chickens.
cooking in the Bluebirds’ camp…*
Numerous brightly colored tents and pavilions now dotted the field.
Troupe members scurried around like ants, each with their own tasks to attend to in the familiar dance of pitching camp. The hulking shapes of the wagons formed an arc on the right side, nearer the road, like protective sphinxes crouched on their haunches. Tenor explained how, in towns where there wasn’t a Seat or large pub to perform in, they could fasten the wagons together by a series of collapsible panels to form a large stage.
Several times I caught myself studying the exquisite workmanship of the conveyances. Each wagon had a domed, retractable bonnet dyed mostly in shades of blue with other colors dancing through the swirls of ocean and sky. Ornate carvings of bluebirds perching on branches, clinging to rushes, and singing streams of notes adorned the sidewalls and rear panels. The skillful use of fire had fashioned the bas relief murals, which were painted to life in greens, browns, gold, and myriad blues. The heavy wooden wheels and fluted running gear paired seamlessly. Thick metal pins secured the junctures, but also meant the wheels could be taken off with ease for repairs or stage construction. They were rolling works of marvelous, versatile art.
“Not only are they beautiful, but they are multi-functional? And I’ve never seen so many shades of blue.”
Tenor’s shy smile acknowledged the compliment before he spoke.
“They are all made here. In the morning, you’ll see a few men wandering around checking them over. They get maintained every time we are in Cragbend. Many of the other troupes get their coaches here too.” Tenor’s voice was rich and easy to listen to, I wondered why he played the lap harp instead of singing.
“How many other troupes are there?”
“Five others, each bearing a different color. Hence the predominance of blue with us, like Fife’s donjar torc.”
“Where is your home town? How long have you been on tour?”
“We are always home.” He waved at the wagons. “Our life is on tour. We may stay in one place for a bit if there is a festival, or bad weather, but only until a weather-worker restores the skies.”
I let out a deep breath, rolling my eyes to myself. Drinking was certainly in order tonight.
Of course, being from New England, the idea of a weather-worker was just too good to be true. People could control the weather? I’d have to see that to believe it, for sure. I had now lost count of all the crazy things that were commonplace here.
like the Cleft Barrel*
The Cleft Barrel was a large, two-story pub at the forkroad in the center of Cragbend. The first floor was large and comfortable for eating and social activity; the second floor held lodgings, judging by the many doors I glimpsed. This night, the center of the main floor had been cleared for the Bluebirds’ performance. The townsfolk filled tables and benches against the walls and children crowded the balcony that ringed the upper floor.
“Looks like they knew you were coming.”
“Of course. We sent a bird ahead when we left Irillo, to let the cartwrights know we would be here for maintenance for a couple days. They undoubtedly passed the word. It’s an event when the Madrigal troupes are in town,” Poet replied, putting Tango’s hand in mine. “Follow the young ones upstairs, you’ll have the best view from there.” She spun around and made for the convening Bluebirds before I could protest. Tango grinned up at me then pulled my arm out straight as he followed the rest of the troupe kids to the stairs.
They were right. We could see everything from our vantage, but the show included SO much more than visuals. I will never forget any of the Madrigal performances I saw.
I figured out quickly that Madrigals all have magical abilities according to their roles. The two storytellers began the night with a tale for the children akin to Jack and the Beanstalk.
ladybugs!*
Before I knew what was happening, I was high in the air, clinging onto a giant vine. A breeze blew through my hair with the scent of honeysuckle. The giant ladybugs pursuing me were far too close for comfort, I could see their beady red eyes and hear their scuttling legs. I turned around to continue climbing when an enormous black and yellow spider bearing the hero of the story on its back stepped over me. The prickly hairs on its legs brushed my back. The crowd cheered and the children around me whooped and yelled as the ladybugs were vanquished.
*
Then I was back on the balcony with Tango dancing in my lap.
Yeah, it was astounding. I still don’t really have words to describe it. The shows were always mind-blowing.
Some of that night I spent in bloody battles fighting vampire armies (yup, they exist here too), courtesy of Fife, and endured captivity in a lone tower until the shape-shifting farm boy rescued me. The singers caroled a tour of the continent, highlighting the abilities of the Elemental Families. Poet’s lilting voice wove color and sensation into my drone-like flight above a life-size map. Sometimes a Family would be cheered by members in the crowd, others garnered faint gibes or snickers. All I could think was that the virtual reality games I knew were a joke.
No, God no. Movies don’t even remotely come close. Even 3D motion rides can’t compare to the power of Madrigal magic. It’s beyond this world.
Players, like Raga, turned amazing acrobatic routines, juggled far too many and dangerous objects (even people!) effortlessly, and took mime to a new level. Puppeteer Calliope enlivened her hand-crafted minions from afar, no strings necessary. Poet provided the vocals for the Punch-and-Judyesque shorts, her bawdy banter had the ale-stoked crowd’s full attention and eager participation.
The Madrigals created playgrounds for ALL the senses and satisfied everyone, 100% of the time.
By the end of the evening, I was exhausted. I could barely carry a sleeping Tango downstairs to join the troupe. Fife took one look at my face and laughed until he cried, thrusting a tankard of something at me. “Here you go, Fla, that’ll fix you. Did you enjoy the show?”
I nodded, smiling wearily, and sampled the drink. I had read about tavern ale so much in fantasy books that I wasn’t surprised, but it was STRONG. Like the strongest craft beer on steroids. Between the ale and the interactive show, I was gonna pay tomorrow…
books don’t do tavern ale justice…*
Oh, and don’t you know I certainly did! We can leave off here for this episode, stay safe and I’ll see you next time!~
The Madrigal shows sound amazing, don’t they? Like virtual reality without the silly glasses. I bet she never looks at ladybugs or garden spiders the same! Would you enjoy a performance like that? Drop a comment below and let me know!
Collata, the Collection of Huphaea newsletter has had it’s first issue! If you want to get in on exclusive anecdotes, out-takes, and graphics from Eleanorah’s journey once or twice a month, hit the subscribe button below. Become a Nightingale!
When we left off, Eleanorah had just stepped into the ancient monolith on that early spring day in Vermont. Check out episode #1 if you want to refresh your memory…
But then there was a tiny, framed window opposite me with the sun streaming in.
Wait, what? I turned a quick circle and saw lush, green moss covering the rocks in the doorway. There hadn’t been any moss by the door, it was too early for moss to be green in Vermont. And why is the doorway round now…
I stood frozen to the spot, only my eyes moved around the space I was in. This wasn’t the same chamber I had stepped into.
I dropped into a protective crouch, looking about wildly. Thankfully, I was alone in the tiny room. Then I started becoming aware of the environment. It smelled green and moist, like moss and deep leaf litter. The air was quite warm, far warmer than March in Vermont, and the colors I could see outside the door were more vibrant than I was used to, even in high summer. I heard a rushing noise also, perhaps water of some sort. My curiosity began to grow, but if I moved, would I be able to get back here?
I stood up and stepped one foot in a circle around the spot I had landed on, trying to trigger a return trip, but nothing worked.
Omg, where was I?
With that thought, curiosity won and I left the chamber. Greens in shades out of a painter’s color book assaulted my eyes and they started to burn with the intensity. I wished I had brought my sunglasses, yes, it was that vivid.
A fallen tree that had succumbed to the moss carpet pointed in the direction of the water noise, so I headed that way. The stream I found rambled through a rocky bed. I couldn’t resist touching the water, it was so crystal clear. Each time I dipped my hands in, for suddenly I was quite thirsty, I got pricked, as if by a thorn or a needle, though I couldn’t see anything there to touch. It was very strange. But the water was cool and sweet, so I had my fill and crossed the stream on a few rocks and headed down a hill.
I wondered what direction I was heading in and reached for my phone for the compass app.
But there was no phone. No Fitbit on my wrist either.
It was starting to feel like some of the fantasy stories I love to read. Portals to another land, technology can’t make the trip.
What was going to be next? Elves? Forest spirits? Dragons? (Actually, I did learn later it was water sprites who had pricked me in the stream, I must have offended them somehow, but how was I to know? I couldn’t see them.)
I kept walking through the forest since it was the only thing I could do. Most of the tree species looked familiar, but at one point I entered a clearing with a huge, silvery-white barked tree in the center. It was magnificent, taller and with a canopy broader than any of the grand beech trees I knew. The trunk width rivaled a redwood (and yes, I have seen the giant redwoods). The canopy traced a perfect circle and the rest of the forest began just at its edge, almost forming an enclosed, round room.
I could only imagine it was some kind of sacred tree and place, so I didn’t linger long. Scenarios of being killed for treading on sacred ground started playing in my mind and I decided it was best to go.
Eventually I came to a road, a wide dirt road, that is. I decided to go left. The road was well-used with evidence of horses everywhere. The colors of the land still astounded me-rich, multi-layered browns, stark grays, and those vibrant greens. Everything thrummed with energy and vitality, even the air. And I was still under cover of the forest, I hadn’t seen the actual sun yet, though I could feel it.
I don’t know how long I walked for, but by the time the end of the forest came into view, it appeared evening was falling. I thought it best to make some sort of camp not far from the road, and was scouting for something shelter-like when I heard hoofbeats and wooden wagon wheels approaching from behind me. A group of riders trotted past, followed by several large wagons with brightly colored canvas tops.
I had stopped and moved off the road a bit, but I kind of wanted to be seen to try to determine where I was. Would I even be able to communicate with people here?
“Woaaah there, Strider. Hallo.” A man in a deep blue shirt slowed his horse and drifted toward me. “Are you here alone?”
Oh thank God, he spoke English! “Um, yes. Where is here, exactly?”
“You don’t know where you are? Oh, that must have been a consarned good night then!” He slapped his thigh as he laughed at me. “Well how did you get here? It’s a good distance to Cragbend, should have sobered you up just walkin’, never mind whatever else you did!”
“Cragbend?”
Who are these strangers, and what awaits in Cragbend? Stay tuned for the next post to find out! Let me know what you think happens next in the comments below. Elements be ! ✋~
If you would like to follow the tale of Eleanorah’s adventure as soon as it comes out, and get some bonus content about Ereth and Huphaea, subscribe to Collata, The Collection of Huphaea Newsletter here:
I recently listened to an episode on The Rebel Author podcast with Scottish playwright and author Jules Horne, the author of this particular blog post. I find her ideas and insights into including dramatic techniques in your writing extremely helpful and thought you might too. Follow this link to read her whole article.
Audio is also a topic that captures my attention of late, and Jules has another great interview on the ALLi site discussing how to write with audio in mind. I am trying to put these elements into practice with Eleanorah Starr’s storytelling, as I find that I hear this particular story when I am writing it. She makes many great points of how writing in this manner can strengthen your prose. You can find that link here, along with a similar interview on The Rebel Author podcast:
Let me know if you liked these interviews with Jules Horne, and if you found any tips in her words you plan to use yourself in the comments below. Write on!~
Wow, I can’t remember the last time I won something! What a fun feeling.
A fellow blogger, The Alchemist’s Studio, is a very talented potter and they host a monthly contest to name a creation that they have recently thrown.
I am a recent follower of theirs, but February’s piece spoke to me immediately when I saw it. The poem entitled Old Soul fell into my mind and I entered it into the comments box.
Then yesterday, when I read The Alchemist’sStudio newsletter, I found that I had won! You can see a photo of the vase and read my poem by following this link to The Alchemist’sStudio blog. While you are there, follow them too!
How cool! Thank you so much! The inspiration was from your unique work, keep creating, my friend 🙏👏.~
It can be easy to fall back onto what we already know and are comfortable with when worldbuilding for our stories. But why not push the limits and REALLY play god. Mrmiscreant over at Fifth Ring Press reminds us to let go and PLAY!
Wow, how time does fly between when I start a post and when I finish it… We have been graced with absolutely perfect early fall weather, allowing me to stay outside in summer mode almost the whole month, until today, really. 80 two days ago, 60 today. But that is New England, wait a minute or two, and it will change.
Despite the warmer temps though, it is certainly feeling like fall, both within and without. The Celtic holiday of Mabon and the Autumnal Equinox were last week, ushering in the harvest season and the time to sink our roots firmly in the ground for the coming winter. Fittingly enough, the same day was also my father’s birthday, and he is the most grounded person I know, from his devotion to our family farm and its yearly patterns, to stubbornly refusing to allow my brother and I to take on and decide more of what goes on here daily—he is truly enough to smother all of my airy ambitions. But strangely enough, his presence often can bring me back from my daydreamy aspirations onto the solid ground of “just get it done.” So here I am- gettin’ IT done.
Late August has perennially been a time of emotional unrest for me, one who is, by nature, not emotionally inclined. It may be harvest season, with pumpkin spice everything and mums and asters on every doorstep, but I get restless and start feeling stuck. The simplest way I can explain it is that school is starting for the younger set, and I feel like I should be starting something new too. I have felt for a long time (namely the 20+ years I have been out of college) that New Year’s Day should actually be where Labor Day is in the calendar. Everything new starts in the fall—school, college, football, basketball, and hockey seasons, television series, new car models are released, so many things. And yet I am just doing the same things as the month before. Yeah, it makes me crazy…
But I suppose the real way to look at this enigma is that I am the one keeping myself the same—so why don’t I do something about it? Well, in a roundabout way, I think I did, cause before I knew what was happening, I had two new projects to embark on, and my angst faded overnight. I had just decided early in September that I would use the harvest season energy toward finishing my business website and launching it, and start looking into preparation for NaNoWriMo in November (if I am brave enough to attempt it?). About a day or two later, I found myself with two new horticultural endeavors—one quicker re-design, and one very substantial grounds reclamation project that could go on indefinitely. Both of these types of projects still satisfy something deep inside me, so I accepted them and dove in headfirst. Problem solved, right?
Yes. I sort of think that the universe responded to that sort of restless energy I put out there and crafted me a solution, but only after I had decided to create my own. Most years I have continued to rail against the end of summer, giving in to those restless feelings and letting them make me agitated and cross when no avenue appears for them. But when I accepted that angst-filled energy and aimed to turn it into something positive, outlets materialized immediately. Suddenly I find myself with my fingers in way too many pies, with the opposite problem—not enough hours in the day to do all I want to. But hey, that is the problem to have, especially for the harvest season, that “just get it done” time of year. Cause the next season that comes is the dark one, when time feels interminable in the New England winter. So I’m gonna take it as it comes now, and do it while I can. All of it.~
