A Story that Grows in the Telling

Everything that happens, if it involves more than one person, will have two or more opinions about what actually happened.  The truth, if there is such a thing, will be somewhere among the opinions.  I think a legend at its base is a story that grows in the telling, resonating more and more with the audience, while it grows less and less true to its origin. 

A legend, to a storyteller, is too good to pass up.  In fact it is opportunity after opportunity to tell it plain, but instead, the bard, or skald, or elder decides to tell it so they see eyes grow wide, eyes that are rivetted on the storyteller. 

Fables provide lessons (and often talking animals), Myths explain gods and their interactions with people, Epics follow a series of critical events.  Epic Fable?  Mythological Epic?  Lore applies to the collected stories of a people, perhaps it is their stories that make them a people.  All these names for stories are words to describe stories of different flavors, but all of them, in someway, provide cultural cohesion.  Don’t you think?

J. R. R. Tolkien set out to provide what he felt his people lacked, a mythos for the British people.  It was Epic, it was Mythical, it spoke to me and continues to, as a reader, I hated to see it end.  Really, I hated the end, it seemed to me that Grey Havens was one of the sadest personal tragedies that I’ve endured.  Fine for Frodo and Bilbo, I’m sure Merry and Pippin and of course Sam all got on fine, but for me that world just ended.  There is a hole.

The nearest thing to the feeling of exploration and discovery that I got with LOTR is the discovery of Irish Mythology.  It is not in a neat package like LOTR.  It doesn’t have just one imaginer.  But it is an exciting and involving subject.  The hole is partly filled.

But I want more.  Sometimes you have to supply your own needs, like almost all the time you do so, I am in the process of writing several novels, but on the way to that I offer these thoughts, insights, resources, and diversions of interest to me and, I hope, to you.  Here I hope to gather legends and lore, notes on antiquity, and present day reality.

For now, welcome and please tell me what you like or you don’t.  I value your insights; I value your eyes, riveted, grown wide.

A Story Told (and told and told)

I’m a man with a story.  Even my name, O’Neill, has tales attached to it (like this one of the Hand Gules that is prominent in our heraldry,) but don’t we all?  I love old tales, tales of heroes, tales of real people in strange times and strange people in real times.  I have wanted to write such tales and, prodded by my friend, Jeffery, I have. 

I’ve just completed the first draft of a short story.  In the end Concerning The Deer Riders wandered a bit farther than I had anticipated.  Legendary wanderings?  You can read Concerning the Deer Riders yourself and see what you think.

I’ve begun a novel.  I am offering my unedited first draft as I write it.  When Jeffery first convinced me to try this format I realized that the first job was to get some content up and quick.  As such, my first use has been something of an artist’s sketchbook, an author’s notepad.  I do believe there is value in this.  Eventually it may be of use to other struggling writers to see the story of my struggle and see process as positive or negative example or even to provide encouragement by comparison.

Dear reader, I am a new novelist and at present I believe that my best chance of developing is getting something out there.  If you disagree please tell me, perhaps I will progress on several tracks. putting out raw very rough drafts and going back through past stories to sharpen and polish them.  Here is the novel beginnings: Intro to and  Beginning of The Abbot and the Djinn. Follow my progress HERE.

Of late I feel that I’ve put quite a bit of ore on these pages.  It is probably time to refine, to polish, to hammer some of these tales into something better than they were.  So now, we begin the  “. . . and told and told and told” part of the writers craft.  Find my polished stones here.

Tir na Nua

I have imagined a world apart.  A land out of time.  Now, on Earth, there is little doubt about some things which have happened, have passed into history.  These things are written.  Before and between the stone of what is written are legends of things not written, but perhaps true none-the-less. 

Tir na Nua is neither and both.  Have you wished that there was a land where the Celtic world did not fall beneath the Roman?  Have you wondered what that world might have been?  Such things have happened in the new land and we have word of it, remembered by bards, lineage by rote, History in mind and on their lips.  I bring these stories.

At one time folk we identify now as Celtic dominated much of Europe. Except for ruins, and votive offerings, and the words of enemies, and a very few scratchings on stones we have nothing left of these people.  To imagine a Celtic world like insular Ireland one must imagine the real, because there is little enough to instruct us as to what that real, Earthly world was like.  Enter the legend maker, the storyteller, the bard. 

I have had an interest in the real Celts, Gauls, Britons, Welsh, all the diverse tribes of a people who shared a way of life and an asthetic sense and language if not blood.  I want to gather material, post what I find, and get your reactions to topics of Antiquity, Celts in general, Insular Ireland, and of course my stories.

Sometimes I wish I dwelled in Tir na Nua, but instead I live in a much less misty, more pedestrian, and I would say, far less noble world.  Some things that come to my attention must not pass without comment.  I will comment on current events. (sorry if this is a buzz kill, please feel free to ignore all political rants of the author and return to escapist literature.) 

Content

I am working to put some of my scratchings, secreted away in numerous notebooks, into a form more conducive to your perusal and consumption.  These first draft stories and bits of back story are available at blog topics.

Here is a bit of that ever expanding effort? work? uh, drekk? Hopefully fascinating fiction.

I have in mind to collect many things here, but I want to produce for you stories of places outside of your experience (or anyones) and yet true and recognizable. You are welcome to browse as it accretes (I think this may be another Steveism. I should really look for it in some authoritative Dictionary.*) I will update metatags and such to reflect the sites altered state. It will never be done…

I pray I have not taxed your resources too much. Enjoy! Comment! Dispute! Encourage! Correct! Guide! Request!

Welcome to this,

LSO

PS. * ac·crete (-krt)

2. To grow or increase gradually, as by addition.

source

A Story that Grows in the Telling

A legend, at its base, is a true story that has grown in the telling, resonating more and more with the audience, while it grows less and less true to its origin.  A legend, to a storyteller, is a tale too good to pass up.  In fact it is opportunity after opportunity to tell a story as you heard it, but instead, the bard, or skald, or elder decides to tell it so they see eyes grow wide, eyes that are rivetted on the storyteller. 

Fables are lessons often presented by talking animals, Myths report the deeds of gods and their interactions with people, Epics detail a series of critical events.  But can you really catagorize a story so easily? Epic Fable?  Mythological Epic?  Legendary Myth?  What are they?  What is it?

Could it be Lore?

One might say that the word Lore applies to the collected stories of a people, perhaps they are the stories that make them a people.  All these words for stories describe tales of different flavors, but all of these provide cultural cohesion.  They are a shared heritage.  And there is another word to add to our growing list, heritage.  Don’t you think?  

J. R. R. Tolkien set out to provide what he felt his people lacked, a mythos for the British people.  It was Epic, it was Mythical, it spoke to me and continues to speak.  As a reader, I hated to see it end, but it did.  There is a small enough corpus of polished Tolkien fiction.  I have to say that I have felt the lack, but then Tolkien himself is a legend. 

I think Dennis L. McKiernan expressed a similar sentiment.  I’m no JRR Tolkien and neither is Dennis.  Personally I much prefer Morgan Llywelyn to McKiernan,  or Parke Godwin or George Martin (George’s Website) or. . . almost anyone, (sorry Dennis, in fairness I need to read something more recent of yours because I think I read your first high fantasy book and felt it was derivative, but then you said right up front what I’ve always felt, that there needs to be more high fantasy like JRR’s and you tried to fill that massive void.  Good for you.)

And since Dennis has ventured forth into Heroic, Epic, High Fantasy I feel that I may too.  Perhaps I will meet with even less success.  But this is my wee bit flung into the void.  It is to that end, the filling of the void, that I have conceived of Tir na Nua.

Welcome to Tir na Nua

I am in the process of writing stories, short and long and several novels, but on the way to that I offer these thoughts, insights, resources, and diversions of interest to me and, I hope, to you. 

I hope to gather legends and lore, notes on antiquity, and present day reality. You see, a legend is changed by its times, a story is shaped by the telling.  Present reality makes an impression both on how a tale is told and how it is heard.   For now, welcome and please tell me what you like or you don’t.  I value your insights; I value your eyes, riveted, grown wide.

A Story Told (and told and told)

I’m a man with a story.  Even my name, O’Neill, has tales attached to it (like this one of the Hand Gules that is prominent in our heraldry,) but don’t we all?  I love old tales, tales of heroes, tales of real people in strange times and strange people in real times.  I have wanted to write such tales and, prodded by my friend, Jeffery, I have. 

I’ve just completed the first draft of a short story.  In the end Concerning The Deer Riders wandered a bit farther than I had anticipated.  Legendary wanderings?  You can read Concerning the Deer Riders yourself and see what you think.

I’ve also begun a novel.  At least that is my intent.  Considering changes to my schedule I think I may progress differently than I did for the Deer Riders.  I intend to get it done before my birthday.  A bit of a gift to me.  But we shall see.  As such, considering the time, with my available time, without a history of being able to work that quickly expect IF I DO that it will be very raw.  Dear reader, I am a new novelist and at present I believe that my best chance of developing is getting something out there.  If you disagree please tell me, perhaps I will progress on several tracks. putting out raw very rough drafts and going back through past stories to sharpen and polish them.  Here is the novel beginnings: Intro to and  Beginning of The Abbot and the Djinn. Follow my progress HERE.

Tir na Nua

I have imagined a world apart.  A land out of time.  Now, on Earth, there is little doubt about some things which have happened, have passed into history.  These things are written.  Before and between the stone of what is written are legends of things not written, but perhaps true none-the-less. 

Tir na Nua is neither and both.  Have you wished that there was a land where the Celtic world did not fall beneath the Roman?  Have you wondered what that world might have been?  Such things have happened in the new land and we have word of it, remembered by bards, lineage by rote, History in mind and on their lips.  I bring these stories.

At one time folk we identify now as Celtic dominated much of Europe. Except for ruins, and votive offerings, and the words of enemies, and a very few scratchings on stones we have nothing left of these people.  To imagine a Celtic world like insular Ireland one must imagine the real, because there is little enough to instruct us as to what that real, Earthly world was like.  Enter the legend maker, the storyteller, the bard. 

I have had an interest in the real Celts, Gauls, Britons, Welsh, all the diverse tribes of a people who shared a way of life and an asthetic sense and language if not blood.  I want to gather material, post what I find, and get your reactions to topics of Antiquity, Celts in general, Insular Ireland, and of course my stories.

Sometimes I wish I dwelled in Tir na Nua, but instead I live in a much less misty, more pedestrian, and I would say, far less noble world.  Some things that come to my attention must not pass without comment.  I will comment on current events. (sorry if this is a buzz kill, please feel free to ignore all political rants of the author and return to escapist literature.) 

Content

I am working to put some of my scratchings, secreted away in numerous notebooks, into a form more conducive to your perusal and consumption.

Here is a bit of that ever expanding effort? work? uh, drekk? Hopefully fascinating fiction.

I have in mind to collect many things here, but I want to produce for you stories of places outside of your experience (or anyones) and yet true and recognizable. You are welcome to browse as it accretes (I think this may be another Steveism. I should really look for it in some authoritative Dictionary.*) I will update metatags and such to reflect the sites altered state. It will never be done…

I pray I have not taxed your resources too much. Enjoy! Comment! Dispute! Encourage! Correct! Guide! Request!

Welcome to this,

LSO

PS. * ac·crete (-krt)

2. To grow or increase gradually, as by addition.

source

. . . The old skald, Barnen, was no friend, but Hunter couldn’t grudge the man his spot by the fire.  It had been a hard Winter, only recently did its icy grip show signs of loosening, and the days nearing Imbolc already.  Hunter had sung when asked despite the venomous glances of the wizened old teller.  The story of the Magic Lady had held them rapt a time or two as well, but folk in general and Rig himself pumped him for news of parts beyond their little sphere.  He embroidered the news of the lands he had travelled into a rich tapestry, but nothing caught their attention like the news of the burned out village.

Truth to tell, Hunter had avoided the subject for fear that this Rig had had a hand in it, but too many ales and familiarity had caused him to let down his guard.  On the topic of turmoil and war he had dropped the news as an aside, “You know what I mean. . .” He’d blathered, “like those poor folk on the other side of the mountain, all of them killed and their village burned to the ground.”

There was shocked silence, for indeed nobody but Hunter did know it.  Anger followed and women weeping.  The entire scene turned from eventide ease to pointed interrogation.

Barnen the Skald was the only one the least bit happy.  It seemed there was much back and forth and everyone related to someone over the mountain, but no more and Hunter Wilde had borne the news and told it too late.

There was nothing for it but to go with a scouting party, a fact finding effort, to see what had befallen their kin.  Hunter knew the way of these things, he was the outsider, in their fear and pain and the desire for revenge could easily fall on him.  so he went, trying to seem concerned and likemindedly all for revenge while ignoring the dirty looks and the sharpening of knives.

It was a long walk and Hunter made himself useful and free by ranging ahead and bringing down fresh meat for the party.  Slowly the questioning around the fire became less accusatory.  Hunter had known their folk, had planned to spend Winter with them, had taken care of them in death as best he could.  He could name many of them though he confessed he had tried not to remember names as he buried the dead who had not been treated kindly.

They drew some of these details from Hunter and anger flared again, but now it was not aimed at him.  that relief was soon overshadowed by their approach to the place full of so many nightmarish memories.

The village was nothing but blackened timbers sticking up through the snow, lonely and forlorn.  Hunter showed the place he’d laid the villagers.  Then the grim work of learning what had befallen the villagers began so that they might be avenged.

When he had come upon the tragedy, Hunter had worried first about burying the villagers to protect them from Winter scavengers.  He had come late to the massacre, snow already hiding some of the carnage so that as they tried to make sense of the horror they came upon bodies, bodies torn by scavengers at times, but at others frozen in icy snow, as they were, by the rictus of death.

Horrific wounds marked the folk.  Many seemed mauled as if by animals, but as they ranged out from the buildings they found weapons, sharp edged stones embedded in mauls, short stone tipped spears, bone hafted obsidian knives, and here and there something man made and innocent as a rusty kitchen knife turned into something vicious.  Many of the weapons had fetishes attached to them made of bone and human hair.

The mood at camp was somber and watchful.  Clearly a war party of some strength had fallen on the village.  They were savages, without the use of metal, but they were accomplished killers and well organized if the totality of slaughter was any indication.  The deaths in the village had been brutal, but relatively quick.  Not so those who seemed to have escaped or even fought back.  In the woods there were bodies of people who had suffered cruel and intentionally long deaths.

The night was long, but few could console themselves in sleep.  Everyone knew there would be more grizzly finds on the morrow.  The watch did not need to be reminded to keep themselves from dozing.  It was fairly clear that where their kin had been slaughtered was now enemy territory.

Finally the sun rose, blood red, tinging the world with anger as the men gathered themselves for another depressing day of finding the dead.

There was a foreboding, a sense of dread, as they approached a rocky gorge.  They were not surprised to find a body on the ice rimed rocks below.  It was a surprise that for once nobody was related to the corpse.  With ropes and much clamoring and hauling they brought the dead thing up.

The body was not human, at least not in the way any of them would recognise humanity.  It was obviously one of the raiders, they found brutal stone tipped weapons like those they found in the villagers.  The creature, though slightly shorter than the men of the party, was heavier, with a savage visage, powerfully muscled, and perhaps most alarming of all, it was female.

There was a clear trail along the top of the cliff.  Hunter felt the foreboding worst of all from that direction.  Now that they knew their enemy a bit better they all clinched their weapons tighter and looked around furtively, fearing ambush around every tree.

Hunter led them, step by step, into the dark foreboding wood.  There was no breeze to stir the Winter dead branches that clawed toward the sky.  “Do you smell it?” Hunter murmured as much to himself as those with him.  there was a stink in the still air, a stench of sulfur and corruption.

The land rose until they topped a rise, the stench smote them in the face.  Moss hung trees formed a dark tunnel down into the sheltered copse.

“I’ll not go there,” a man’s quavering voice suggested he might not stand either, and there were murmurs of agreement.

Hunter heard the old skald telling his stories to the children of the tec.  He had noticed that the man liked to test out new material on the young, sharpening it with a few trial tellings to those young ears before he presented it to the tec at large.

Hunter had decided that this was a wise practice and something good he would carry away from an otherwise frosty relationship with Barnen.  Hunter was happy about being back in the warmth of Winter-hold.  He’d gone a bit mad alone in the wild.  Things were good, for the most part, Hunter had one enemy however, and that was Barnen the Skald.

The old man was focused on his audience and didn’t notice Hunter, “OH, the man was fae, no doubt of that, and most likely mad, but he could sing like a bird, play harp even better, and I can confirm what you’ve heard, he talked to the elves.  The children’s eyes were as big as saucers.

“How did yo meet him?” a bold little boy in front asked.

“Oh that?” Why I was telling the Rig a tale in the great hall, it was the black of night and the wind was howling.  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! there was a fierce pounding on the door.

“More and more interesting,” thought Hunter, “he’s turning the children against me having failed with the adults.  Hunter Wilde slipped back into shadow.

Barnen was warming to his tale.  Each time he said boom the children jumped, “Boom, Boom, Boom went the door like a war drum, Old Lars fell off his chair getting to it before it got knocked in.  Lars throws open the portal, Who knocks at portal of Murchadh, says he? The door swings wide and there stands a man, it seemed, twice the size of Bran the champion and white as snow!”

“Hunter Wilde ain’t even as big as Bran” said the boldest child.

“You’re right there, not half as big, but that snow giant in the doorway stepped once, and again, and fell flat on his face! By that time, Lars was back with the axe he’d forgot in his hurry to open the door. But by then there was nothing but a big pile of snow on floor so Lars shrugs and shuts the door.”

There was a buzz among the children, Barnen drew there attention back with a flourish. “It was warm in the Tec, a fire roaring to keep out the chill, so it wasn’t long until the snow melted away and there on the floor. . .”

“Hunter Wilde?” the children chorused.

“Who knew?  There was just a heap of rags.  It was strange, a rag bag walking about, but strange things do happen.  So a couple of slaves were going to pick through it when one thinks he sees a wee animal amongst the sodden rags.  He reaches in and pulls on a tail, but instead of a fox, out comes Hunter Wilde!”

“Was that his beard?” the children laughed.

“No no,” said Barnen, “Hunter Wilde is most likely part elf himself and he can’t grow a proper beard at all, that’s why he wears a fox tail for a moustache.”

“And why he talks to elves?” a big eyed little girl asked.

“Oh no, that’s not why.  Hunter is a strange one sure enough, but he serves a purpose.  He’s too small for a warrior, he’s not so very smart either, but one thing he does do is he takes bad girls and boys with him and he gives them to the elves to teach them manners.  So you better get off to bed or you’ll be liven in the trees and eating flowers and moss.”

“Come on Barnen, tell us more. . .”

Hunter stepped out of the shadows behind the Skald letting his last two footfalls thump hard on the floor, “Who’s hungry for flowers and moss!” he shouted.  The children shrieked and ran for their beds.”

Barnen, the old skald laughed, glancing back at Hunter he said, ”I never liked you Hunter Wilde, I’m glad you’re going, but I expect we’ll be old friends when you’re gone.”