Here's another excerpt from my new publication "Wings in the Wind: The Reign of the Mawh'eyri."

Although he did not lack determination and persistence, Thunder-Wing found it far more difficult than he anticipated. The higher he flew, the thinner the air, and it became an intolerable burden to beat his wings.

In spite of the risks of awakening the demon-storm within the mountain, he rested on many crags on the way up. But each time he looked upward, his heart sank, for it seemed as though he was no nearer the summit than when he began.

Day after day, he doggedly strove upward, rested, then pushed upward again. At last, nightfall forced him to return to Resting Cave for the next day’s attempt. The designated supply of food was diminishing, but he ate little in any case so that he was not unduly weighed down.

One day he made it to the highest crag yet in all his attempts.
He rested a long while. His breath came in desperate gasps in the thinning air.
All of a sudden, he felt strange stirrings in the air. His mother had warned him about unfamiliar winds.
‘But I, ThunderWing Mawharhipi will outfly all strange winds!’ he panted defiantly.
Then he heard the unmistakable warning call of a Windlord from below.
‘Danger! Return to Resting Cave! Dark clouds come! Beware the tempests!’
He hesitated, for he could just see his goal, the Great Summit Mawharikhan, before it was wreathed in fast-moving clouds.
It was so close, he thought, almost within his grasp.
‘ThunderWing Mawharhipi will outfly any strange clouds!’ he declared defiantly.

Gathering all his courage, strength and skill, he leapt into the air once again, his eyes fixed on the great peak looming near. The air was so thin, he was breathing hard and fast, but he held on, unwavering.
So fixed was his gaze, he did not notice the huge, dark cave he was passing. It was like the menacing mouth of a great beast, with jagged teeth-like rocks at its entrance.

Suddenly, without warning, he was enveloped in howling darkness.
Mawharikhὺn had awakened!
It seemed as if the demon-wind had indeed watched for him, and waited for him within the mouth of his cave, as StrongFeather had warned him.

A thick black cloud in the shape of a gloating vulturine face turned towards him, crowned with whirlwind horns and eyes of balled lightning, glowing with hatred of all living things that defied him.
His monstrous, bat-like cloudy wings began to wrap around his prey.
ThunderWing knew he was doomed, for no eagle had ever out-flown the dreaded demon-lord of the peak and lived.
Huge black misty claws reached out to grasp the little eagle, and he cried out in fear.

Then he quickly remembered the maneuver that had saved him from attack by the warriors of the Wild Eagle raiders. (It had also given him the final advantage over NightFlyer in the race through
the valley.)
He quickly folded his wings and dropped like a stone, spreading wings again only to change course or add speed to his descent. The demon-wind, screaming in fury as he saw his prey slip through his fingers, turned and soared downward after him.

Desperately hoping to outrun the demon-storm and find shelter, ThunderWing dodged around boulders and crags, toward the mountain pass.
He had already expended too much strength that day to use his wings effectively, but he managed to avoid capture purely through his manoeuvrability, for which he was famed among his
fellow-warriors.

Nonetheless, his enemy knew the mountains too well to be outwitted for long.
Zooming around the opposite direction of one rocky outcrop, he almost had him as they collided on the other side.
A split second swerve only just saved ThunderWing from the enemy’s clutches.
But Mawharikhὺn was also a master of winds. He blew at his quarry with all his strength, loosening rocks and stirring up the air all around them.
A sudden updraft from this made ThunderWing lose balance. A sharp fragment of loosened stone flew at him, glancing him on the shoulder.
The pain of it caused him to cry out. But his courage rose whenever an impossibility challenged his resolve. He was, after all, the son of Windlord HighSoarer.
‘May the White Warriors take you, accursed demon! Slay me if you can!’

One wing was now almost useless. He dropped again. His enemy pursued, his dark breath preceding him. Another gust struck him like a body blow from a monstrous fist and threw him against the far cliff face of the mountain.
Feathers scattered as ThunderWing, dazed, plummeted toward a familiar valley where he saw Resting Cave. He had just enough feathers to break his fall, although the break in his left wing hurt terribly.

He lay in a dazed heap, but his ordeal was not over yet.
He heard a rumbling sound above him, so he struggled to his feet, expecting to feel cold, black fingers take him and crush the life out of him.

Although he heard howling and thundering above him, the final blow did not come.
Once again, the strange breezes he had ignored before blew around him.
Whirling white clouds gathered above. It grew darker still.
Thunder and lightning echoed around the valley and a torrent of rain came down, causing the cave entrance to teem with running water.

Screams, howls and roars filled the air. It seemed as if war was unleashed among the mountain peaks. It had often been said among the Eyri of the Central Mountains that the Wild Tempests would rage
against each other as they fought like wild beats for supremacy in the mountain passes.
Mawharikhὺn had always prevailed over the rest, being stronger and far too cunning.
ThunderWing had heard of the battles between the Wild Tempests in the mountains, but he had lived too far away to be concerned about them.
Perhaps the demon-storm would be too occupied to continue the chase. Perhaps he was safe at last.

Then he heard the rumbling again, but not the sound of moving air this time.
He looked up to see a large torrent of snow and rocks rapidly descending upon him, down the slope.
As a malicious parting blow, the demon-storm had unleashed an avalanche upon him.

Desperately, ThunderWing half flew and half staggered toward the entrance nearby. He only just made it inside as moments later, the cave filled with white snow-mist before the light faded completely.

He was safe for the moment, but that now meant nothing to him.
He gave a cry of despair.
‘I have lost all! My honour, my wing, my hope! Oh, if I had only been slain by black Mawharikhὺn!’

The roar of the tumult outside was now less than the roaring tumult inside his head, his labouring lungs, the hopelessness in his heart and the throbbing pain of his left wing.
He finally lost consciousness.

Watch this space for another episode of "Wings in the Wind."
Or get your FREE copy of the Kindle EBook by attending the Official Book Launch.

Excerpt from "Wings in the Wind: The Reign of the Mawh'eyri." from Chapter 1: Mawharhikan

.....
It was not merely the height that daunted most eagles, but it was spoken in Windlords’ lore that the lord of all demon-storms, Mawharikhὺn slept within the mountain peak.
Prouder than the proudest eagle, he ruled the lands with fear. He rarely ventured forth in those days, partly for fear of the mighty servant-winds of the Great Spirit Wind, who hunted for him.
However, he hated the proud wingfolk of the mountains who would not acknowledge his lordship. It was said that High-Soarer, ThunderWing’s father, had fallen to his death after being struck by Mawharikhὺn in one of his rampages. ThunderWing still bore the grief from the day that the Windlord messenger brought the news of his death.

‘I defy you, evil Mawharikhὺn!’ he called fiercely as he watched a dark cloud sweep across the great peak. ‘You shall be humbled, though I fall in the attempt.’

His challenging call, similar to that of eagles about to do battle, echoed across the valley. As if in answer, a distant rumble emanated from within the great peak itself.

This distracted the Windlord Council, and they glanced in his direction.
The eldest of them spread his wings and flew across to his perch.
ThunderWing knew the old eagle well. He had a few bald patches and scars. His remaining feathers were rough, but he still flew strongly and held his head proudly. They bowed to each other and Thunder-Wing’s beak touched the rock before his senior in deep respect, for he stood before none other than StrongFeather, Father-of-Many, Lord of the Western Crags.
Not the least of his children was SilverSong the Fair.

‘Hail, ThunderWing Mawharhipi, son of HighSoarer! Your father was my greatest wingfellow, and we grieve at his fall.’

‘Hail, Windlord StrongFeather, Father-of-Many! You honour us in that you remember our father in great kindness. Do your eyries prosper? Do all your eaglets fly high and strong?’

The elder eagle gave a laughing hiss.
‘You are courteous! But in truth you ask only for the health and dwelling place of SilverSong, my daughter—this I know well. She thrives, but she presently sojourns upon the Northern Mountains where the singers-of-the-wind gather until the storm season comes. She teaches my eaglets in the ways of the Great Spirit-Wind’s song. But she often remembers you with kindness.’

ThunderWing hung his head in embarrassment for a moment, but then lifted it proudly.
‘It is true that I desire SilverSong the Fair as my nest-mate, Windlord StrongFeather. I seek to conquer the peak and so to win the right to choose her.’

StrongFeather shook out his neck feathers and settled back to stare piercingly for a moment at the younger one before him.
‘I hope that you have her favour in this, for I see the spirit of your father is in you. I would gladly give my daughter to such a one.’

The young eagle hung his head again, overcome with gratitude and gratification. But was this not his due, as a son of Windlord HighSoarer?
He lifted his head proudly, only to hear not so good news.

‘NightFlyer, son of SwiftSlayer came yestersun on the same errand,’ continued StrongFeather, still watching him closely. ‘But he contemned the traditions of the Mawh’eyri and spoke his desire before the Council were ready to hear him. He demanded his right for the trial of the peak. He was sent away until the changing of the moon as penalty for his disrespect.’

‘Then I have come not a moment too soon, Windlord!’

‘Yes, he rivals you in many things, and never forgave you for defeating him at the Mawharhipi trials. But still, he is one hunting season your senior. Are you not too young to attempt the Summit? The season of tempests draws near also.’

‘I am the Swiftest in the Mountains, Windlord,’ answered Thunder-Wing in barely-restrained impatience. ‘Does that not show I am ready for the attempts? By the wings of the moon, I swear that I will conquer the peak before the coming of the storms!’

StrongFeather tilted his head a little in doubt, but said, ‘Very well. Windlord Council has allowed for one attempt, and you are the last of this season to do so. NightFlyer must await the passing of the tempest season. Do you need guidance?’

‘I need no guidance, Windlord.’
ThunderWing was too impatient and too proud to delay the process any longer.

The elder eagle shook all his feathers and sighed.
‘You indeed follow the same flight as your father. All must rise or fall by their own wing-beat, it seems. Go then! I will warn you of this only: Beware of the black cave of the southern face. Do not rest upon the crags thereof, for it is manifest that Mawharikhὺn is stirring again, and comes
forth at night to terrify the eyrie-folk of these mountains at times. Fear and terror is as his meat and drink. Yet he hides again in his caves here for fear of the good White Wind Warriors, Servants of the Great Spirit-Wind. Be vigilant, for that demon-storm may be on the watch for us.
You must return before sun’s rest, or you are easy prey to night-eyes of the evil one. It is not as easy to attempt the peak as it was in the days of my youth. There has not been any Reigning Windlord for many hunting seasons.’

He paused, waiting for a response. But since these warnings also did not seem to daunt the young eagle, the Windlord turned to more everyday practicalities.
‘There is fresh-killed prey and a water stream at need within Resting Cave, near the mountain’s pass. A Windlord shall watch from afar to judge your progress and witness your success, if indeed you do
succeed.’
He lifted up his voice in a Windlord’s song to the great Spirit-Wind.
‘Go, young warrior! May the great Wind-Spirit bear you upward!’

ThunderWing bowed again and leapt off the ledge, his wings spread wide, his eyrie’s war-cry on his tongue.

To read more of this story, visit the product page on Amazon.com 
Comments and queries welcome.

"Wings in the Wind: The Reign of the Mawh'eyri."

Now available on Amazon!

Printed version also available on request.

My Tribute to Jean Denehy

It's very difficult to keep to topic with these posts, especially when a sad event occurs, like the passing of Jean Denehy -- a most loved soul.
I was asked to do a tribute at her funeral, which I did in the form of verse.
Her daughter gave me permission to publish it.

My Tribute to Jean Denehy

Jean Biss, she came across the sea, a sweet and virtuous young KiWee,

To see the world, adventure seek, wild oats sowing, so to speak.
She suddenly came face to face to a dashing world war ace.
The rest, they say is history but left an awesome legacy.

Her tale with laughter and with tears I'll tell you now of bygone years.
The kindest Mum-­in-­Law was she, and Doug, too, did so much for me.
The greatest gift to give a man is a daughter like my Anne.

One thing that I admired so much was how she used the artist's touch
And style in ev'ry undertaking -- even things like compost-­making.
Her artist's studio cum cuisine displayed such wonders seldom seen.
Her canvas was the dinner plate where carv'd chooks tastef'lly met their fate.
Her pallet was the frying pan or pots of mashed spuds peeled by Anne.
She'd place precisely ev'ry bean -- 'twould make the great Picasso green!
With graceful Knife-­strokes she did slice Doug's buttered toast: ­­ a masterpiece!

Now greatness is a curious thing, a theme of which we often sing.
A source of great hilarity, this thing called popularity.
Celebrities would strut their stuff and then they'd go off in a huff.
Their fans have gone to next­-door's show that sing their hits from years ago.

But Jean found greatness in God's grace. That sweet smile never left her face.
Through hardships, trials she'd ne'er complain: "Just look to God!" was her refrain.
Her attitude put me to shame, inspiring me to do the same.
Her gentle heart, her constancy, her kindness and integrity,
Her patient labours seldom seen, her faithful prayers from morn to e'en,
Her open house, her open arms, her faith-­filled words --­­ the kind that calms.

For great names rise and often fall, but Jean was always loved by all.
In heaven all will hear her story -- the real one in it's shining glory;
And Him she loved the most will stand and take her proudly by the hand
Saying: "Of My Kingdom not the least. Well done, good handmaid, join my feast!"

New publication: "Wings in the Wind"

I've let my good habits slip, and I haven't posted for a while.
I'm also going to change my focus for the moment, and centre it around my publications.
I will include some excerpts and other sub-plots, off-shoots of the main story.

This is a short synopsis of my next publication called "Wings in the Wind: The Reign of the Mawh'eyri":

ThunderWing was a young warrior-eagle, a champion among the Great Eagles, the Mawh’eyri, who dwelt in the Mountains of the fair and ancient land of Mawha,.

His ambition was to fly over Mawharikhan, the almost-impossible peak of the Great Mountain, evading the great demon-storm that lived there, and thus win the title of WindLord. This would also give him the privilege of taking SilverSong, a beautiful eagle-maiden, as his nest-mate. He was impetuous and impatient, hoping to forestall his rival, NightFlyer, who had the same ambitions.

But the road to greatness is far more difficult and eventful than his proud heart anticipated. 

Does he succeed?
Watch this space.

Writing and our World View

In this series, I’m taking the bull by the horns here… stretching out my neck …. putting my life on the line… and if I survive all this and other dangerous metaphors, then I might take a bit of a risk. 

Let’s discuss how our World View affects our writing and reading.

For those who aren’t quite sure about what I’m talking about, World View (often shortened to WV – yeah! OK! Not the car!) is defined in TheFreeDictionary.com as follows:

n. In both senses also called Weltanschaung.
1. The overall perspective from which one sees and interprets the world.
2. A collection of beliefs about life and the universe held by an individual or a group.

It’s how we try and make sense of the universe that we live in. It’s what makes you tick, what makes you think the way you do, the underlying foundation of and motivation behind all your decisions and opinions.  It effects all our daily lives and collectively, it is the most powerful influence in businesses, churches, community groups, institutions and politics.

Let’s face it, no matter what you read, no matter what you write, no matter what you hear & see in the media, no matter what you think about, no matter what decisions are made, no matter where you turn it will always be there….
…that ghostly spectre in the background called Weltanschaung.  A bit like Poltergeist, but far more common and at times, almost as scary. But unless we want to sound erudite, let's just call it our WV.

In many people, it’s represented by their religion or their faith – whether theistic, atheistic or somewhere in-between. Sometimes we’re not aware that it’s there, and we assume that everyone else should think the same way that we do. It’s powerful and all-pervading.
It’s shaped by our upbringing (or our reaction to it) our schooling and any higher education, but especially by our life experiences.

It undergirds our philosophy of life, which in turn is the material we build our lifestyle decisions on. 

I knocked together an illustration of this:

So now we all, hopefully, understand it and acknowledge its existence.
In my next post, I’ll discuss some of the implications this WV has for our reading and writing .

Stay tuned…..

Historical Fiction vs Historical Fact - Part 5

Links & Opinions

An interesting article: "Why Fiction is Good for You" by Jonathan Gottschall

(Dr Gottshall is an English professor at Washington and Jefferson College, writing for The Boston Globe.)

It underlines some of the things we've been discussing here.

One thing that worries me here, however. It's the impression that lying is a good thing.
Yes, appealing to the imagination can be a more powerful change agent than appealing to the intelligence. But we cross the line when it affects our major decisions and leads to disaster. An example of this is Hollywood's  glamorization of casual sex. Studies and reports from sex counselors have shown that the best sexual fulfillment is found (especially for women) in committed relationships. It's the consummation of a relationship, not the basis for it. Our family law courts are a tragic witness to this fact.
Yes, we have to grow up, and learn to know when to turn on the imagination, and when to turn it off so we can function properly in life.

A link to a series of audio interviews entitled "Writing Fiction vs Non-fiction"

The introduction says it all:

"When you read a piece of nonfiction, you naturally expect that  you’re reading the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  Right?  So how would you feel if you found out that the author of an essay you’re reading was taking certain liberties with the facts to make the piece more captivating?  Would you feel betrayed?  Or wouldn’t you care?  In this hour, we’ll examine the question of creativity in creative nonfiction.  How much is too much?"

I especially found the interview with Jonathan Lethem interesting. Here he talks about his role as a novelist, which he explores in his new book, "The Ecstasy of Influence: Nonfictions, etc."

The line between fact and fiction sometimes blurs, doesn't it!
Does this give us writers the licence to lie? After all, you have to get the reader to read the facts in the first place. If the bare facts are too boring to read, they should be ... well ... sexed up a little bit. Right?
What worries me here is that if we are "sprung" after ... you know ... using that little white lie to spice it up a bit ... just that bit of exaggeration ... if that's ever exposed, even just once, we lose our credibility.
Getting a reputation for absolute honesty is hard work, but it pays long term dividends. A really good writer can, in my view, present the story as it really happened, but in an engaging manner that doesn't compromise his/her integrity.
Writers must be up front about whether they're writing fact or fiction.

I particularly like this quote from a posting in a discussion at LibraryThing.com :

Leon Garfield said, 

"The historian, if honest, gives us a photograph; the storyteller gives us a painting."

The post then goes on to say:

Give me your opinion. The historian gives us the facts, but the storyteller gives us fictional characters with real life experiences of actual people and true events in history. I read this historical fiction novel all about how the people tried to survive during world war 2 and how it affected them. The author incorporated real experiences that he got through research. I was surprised how much I learned about how that war had gotten started and how Hitler deceived the people at the very beginning. It was an eye-opener to me.

An interesting comment here from editor A. J. Sobczak called "Fiction or Non-Fiction -- True or False?" 

Note how many of these articles and interviews recognise that what we always accept as "Fact" is, in fact, a different form of the absolute truth coloured by our perceptions, belief systems, prejudices and sometimes our private agendas.

In future postings, I intend to discuss the role of our World View in writing.

Finally, a blog post from author Kaye Dacus.

I took note when she said that she "doesn't read a lot of non-fiction by choice."
In fact her " fiction to nonfiction ratio (not counting research books, remember) is at least 100:1 (100 fiction books to every 1 nonfiction book)."

I guess there's no surprises there. It just highlights the influence that fiction has on the mind of millions of readers -- for good or for not-so-good.

That's all in this series for the moment. Maybe we'll get back to it if any worthwhile & relevant info comes up or you have a question that needs a longer answer than a mere comment.