River

This is an excerpt from ‘A Suitcase in Berlin’ the novel I’m currently working on.

 

Dark clouds of night still imprisoned the sky over the river and a quarter moon floated in a ring of mist. Leaves rustled in the wind as dawn gradually lightened the sky. The three women in the car, windows open, watched water foaming over the weir, white on cold silver. The clouds thinned to grey and bats darted between trees. Two pelicans coasted low over the water and landed near the row of others still asleep on a small sandbar.

(As they talk, one of the women starts telling a tale.)

“Once upon a time,” Anna interrupted, “three women sat by the river of life. One was a weaver, another a teller of tales and the third, a creator of magical symbols.”

            “That’s not strictly accurate,” Hanne protested.

            “Their lives,” Anna continued loudly, “over a matter of years, had become intertwined like the currents of the river. They shared stories, understood one another’s metaphors and each woman recorded the progress of the river in her own way. Some of the people who walked by the river noticed three odd-shaped rocks that they called the three sisters. Others claimed that late at night they had seen three women sitting under a tree and spinning.”

            At that moment the sun broke free of the horizon and a patch of the river reflected gold.

            “Still others said that on misty summer morning they had heard the sweet harmony of three voices floating over the river.”

            “She’s working everything in,” Hanne said.

            “Shh,” Phoebe whispered. “Look.”

            A dark shadow slipped from the bank of the river into the water with barely a ripple.”

            “Alberich, right on cue,” Anna said.

            “You’re naming beavers now?” Phoebe asked.

            “Poor Alberich,” Hanne said. “He was ugly, awkward, and obnoxious.”

            “It wasn’t all his fault,” insisted Anna. “If the Rhine maidens hadn’t been so nasty to him, and stupid, he probably would never have stolen their gold.”

“And Wagner wouldn’t have had a story.”

Walls

 This month (November 9) it’s 34 years since the Berlin wall opened to free movement. The day after that ordinary citizens began dismantling the wall.

Various Americans have talked about building a wall between them and Mexico, between them and Canada.

Parts of the Great Wall of China were built as long ago as the 7^th century BC to stop nomadic groups from invading.

Hadrian’s wall began to be built by the Romans in 122 AD.

Robert Frost has a poem called ‘Mending Wall’ and here’s a quote from that:

Before I built a wall I’d ask to know

What I was walling in or walling out,

And to whom I was like to give offense.

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,

That wants it down.

We build walls around ourselves in many ways, shutting out others whom we fear.

I believe that we need to respect boundaries e.g. I don’t want people to enter my house without permission, I don’t want to push for answers to personal questions if someone isn’t willing to talk about them.

However, I also think that we need to do all we can to break down artificial walls between individuals and countries – stereotypes, biases, hate and fear.

There are plenty of examples of people working to change attitudes and situations.

Because I’ve been working for a long time on a novel about Germany and have done a lot of research into recent history (e.g., WWI and WWII as well as the years after) I’m well aware of things such as the Marshall Plan, and the Berlin Airlift, which were both either initiated or greatly supported by the USA. Cynics may say that Americans benefited by creating markets for their goods, creating reliable trading partners, supporting the development of stable democratic governments and spreading their influence, but they also assisted European countries, including Germany, to recover more quickly from WWII. In a speech Secretary of State George Marshall said in part, “The truth of the matter is that Europe’s requirements for the next 3 or 4 years of foreign food and other essential products – principally from America – are so much greater than her present ability to pay that she must have substantial additional help, or face economic, social, and political deterioration of a very grave character.”

I know that foreign aid can be a complex and loaded policy, but if carefully done, it can  be a way to break down walls and turn enemies into friends.

Here is a short excerpt from the novel I’m working on, which is a fictional account of some of the events I’ve experienced:

My parents are shaking their heads; my throat holds a lump, tears perilously close. I think all three of us are waiting for guns and bullets, but none of that happens. We’ve lived in Canada for more than thirty-five years and even here the wall has significance. Not only for us and others of German descent, but also for countless people who have seen it in reality, and for those who have known it only through photos and movies.

          “Not in my lifetime,” my father mumbles. “I never thought I’d see this.”

 Change can happen, the world situation can improve.

Along with many others, I continue to hope.

Exploring Diverse Worlds

I generally try to write a blog every month but sometimes for one reason or another I miss a month. That happened this September so I’m choosing to write a blog on the first of October – a rainy day in Saskatoon.

My grandson has been studying music for a number of years and is an accomplished musician. Recently he talked about the modes of music – Ionian, Dorian, Phrygian, Lydian, Mixolydian, Aeolian, etc. We talked about these as well as the sitar, and I said that this kind of knowledge opens the mind, and hopefully makes us think about things we don’t know or understand and try to see the diversity and broadness of the world.

In regard to this, one of my favourite books is ‘Hellspark’ by Janet Kagan. I’ve mentioned it before on my blog. It was published in 1988 and later republished. It’s still available to read or purchase if you check the web. Kagan unfortunately died in 2008 so we won’t see any more books by her.

‘Hellspark’ which can be pronounced “hells park” or “hell spark” is an SF novel that takes place in a universe of many cultures and languages. Other worlds exploratory teams are generally made up of a diverse crew so they have some training in getting along with diversity. This of course, should also stand them in good stead when exploring new places and possibly new cultures. They also have byworld judges who deal with cases when cultures meet and clash (wouldn’t it be great if we could have some of those?). Within this universe are the “hell sparks” who are traders and also multilingual in not only words but ‘the silent language’ as Edward T. Hall terms it. That is the language of stance and motion, proxemics, in other words nonverbal communications.

Even here on earth people differ in whether they make eye contact or not, whether they like to sit face to face or not, how far apart they prefer to stand. Some of these differences are cultural, and Edward T. Hall wrote a number of books on these subjects: The Silent Language, Beyond Culture, The Dance of Life, The Hidden Dimension, etc.

Kagan took some of Hall’s ideas and used them in her novel. The problem of the story is that a group of explorers has reached a planet with life but most of the team don’t believe that it is sapient life as opposed to sentient life. But at least one of the team is not convinced and has sent for additional help. I won’t spoil the story, but the Hell Spark trader protagonist of the story ends up on the planet. Throw in a talking, learning computer, a culturally mixed team, more than one possible villain, great writing, and you have a totally absorbing novel in my mind.

I will end with a couple of quotes from the novel to give you a taste:

The ceiling in the captain’s quarters had been lowered to conform to Sheveschkem standards – no doubt to the extreme discomfort of most members of the survey team … Generations of sailing had left their mark … Nothing better sustained balance below deck in stormy seas than a flattened palm against a ceiling. … she automatically followed his lead and “danced” Sheveschkem, despite the fact that he spoke GalLing’ and she replied in kind.

and

I’m saying that they may be so different that we don’t recognize one of their artifacts when we get our noses rubbed in it…I’m saying that even Homo Sapiens within historical time have had difficulty proving their humanity to other Homo Sapiens. I’m asking that you all consider the circumstances in which you would be hard put to prove your sapience, especially if you were unaware that you were being tested.

Happy reading, and I hope you explore all the diverse worlds you can find.

 

Surviving Starship Earth

 A few years ago, my son took me to a lecture by George Takei in Edmonton. For those who don’t know, he played Lieutenant Sulu in the original Star Trek television series. I can’t remember the title of his lecture, but much of it was about his experiences as an Asian person and actor in America. I remember thinking that although his talk was interesting, his title was rather dull, and he should have called it ‘Surviving Starship Earth.’

Takei was born in 1937 in Los Angeles, and when he was 5 years old his family was uprooted, as were so many others of Japanese origin in the U.S. and Canada, to be taken to internment camps. In Takai’s case these were in Arkansas and northern California.

Later he studied architecture at Berkley, and while there he answered an ad for voiceover work in the English version of a Japanese film called ‘Rodan.’ He got the job and this led to other opportunities, and eventually to Star Trek and work in other television programs and movies.

In his lecture, Takai talked about racism and bias in the world he had to navigate from childhood. As he grew older, he became a leading voice in fights for social justice, as well as for LGBTQ rights and marriage equality.

Some of you may remember the band ‘Jefferson Airplane’ which later changed its name to ‘Jefferson Starship.’ Songs like ‘Surrealistic Pillow’ and ‘White Rabbit’ defined a period of psychedelic rock, though the band changed with different members and music through the years.

I became curious as to who might have originated the term ‘Starship Earth.’ Turns out the architect, systems theorist, designer and inventor, Buckminster Fuller ‘coined the phrase "Spaceship Earth" to describe our planet. He felt that all human beings were passengers on Spaceship Earth, and, like the crew of a large ship, people had to work together in order to keep the planet functioning properly.’ From the website What is Spaceship Earth? | R. Buckminster Fuller Collection - Spotlight at Stanford

You may remember Fuller for his geodesic domes, which design had a huge following for many years. According to the above website, ‘Throughout his career, Bucky traveled around the world to lecture about the importance of using design science to improve the quality of life for all people on planet Earth. Thus, he inspired many people to think about humanity on a global scale, and to think about what they might do as individuals to solve global problems.’

Where am I going with all this, you may ask?

Well, it ties in with what I believe as a person and writer. For humanity and the earth to survive we need diversity and tolerance of that diversity. For the present, this is the only home we have. Most people would not burn down or wreck the place they live in on purpose. However, if we look at ourselves realistically, that’s exactly what we’ve been doing with this planet.  I’ve written before about the many challenges we face and how some have come up with solutions. And even if we someday manage to build a starship to take us to other planets, we’ll still have to communicate with each  other, and work together.

Writers, whether they write fiction, nonfiction, poetry or prose, can do a great deal to open people’s minds and hearts to the diverse faces and lives of humanity. A lot has changed in how many of us see the world, how much more hidden history has been coming to the fore. We don’t all know everything, haven’t all had the same experiences. However, we can be sensitive in our writing and our actions to the diversity of human beings. It may not always be easy, but there are resources to help us if we are willing to listen, search, and learn.

Quite a while ago I had an email from Amanda responding to one of my posts and suggesting my posting a link to a website she found helpful. Her comments are below. Thanks Amanda!

I saw that you talk about writing on your site here serimuse.blogspot.com/2020/. I really liked what you shared. I found it really helpful.

Surfing the internet looking for more information on writing, I found this article that talks about sensitive writing and its importance: 

https://www.websiteplanet.com/blog/sensitive-writing-guide/

This guide really helped me understand how one can enhance interaction by creating a safe and inclusive environment for communication. When writers are mindful of the reader's emotions and experiences, they can establish a sense of trust and empathy. This can encourage readers to engage more deeply with the content and feel comfortable sharing their own thoughts and feelings.

Creative Thinking and Radical Solutions

Are there still climate change deniers? Indubitably. I’m not interested in them today, rather, I’m going to discuss creative ways to deal with a few of today’s massive challenges.

With a little research online, you can find many other examples.

Transportation. I read an article from 2021 about why we don’t have solar powered cars – a car can’t hold panels large enough to produce electricity for top speeds and distances. End of story. Wrong. I read a 2022 article that tells me companies like Sona Motors (Germany), Aptera Motors (California), Lightyear (Dutch) are building hybrid solar/electric vehicles that combine solar panels with traditional EV charging, providing an additional 15 to 45 miles (free of charge) on a clear day.

The Sono Sion, which is expected to begin production in Europe in mid-2023, is priced starting at just $25,000. Its battery has a 190-mile range, and while the car also has 465 integrated solar half-cells on its exterior, the boxy, five-seat hatchback appears unassuming and practical.

So this car gives you per year 5,700 miles free of charge, you know, free of any costs, because it comes from the sun. This is roughly 15 miles a day, which is perfect for commuters,” said Sono Motors co-CEO and co-founder Laurin Hahn. He said that when the Sion hits the U.S. market, it will make for an ideal second vehicle. How Sono, Aptera and Lightyear are making solar powered EVs a reality (cnbc.com)

You may have heard of the Hindenburg. It was an airship (zepplin) that used hydrogen and burned in 1937. Airships mostly went out of fashion after that, especially for passenger service, but they are having a renaissance.

Today’s airships use the safer helium gas. They produce 80 to 90 percent fewer emissions than airplanes. They fly slower and lower so may not be as useful for certain uses but could be ideal for cargo as well as certain passenger tours, particularly to inaccessible places that have no airstrips. Airships Rise Again | Air & Space Magazine| Smithsonian Magazine

Science fiction writer, Isaac Asimov postulated moving sidewalks in cities. What about hovercraft buses to save building more highways? Electric or solar powered trains?

Agriculture. Much is going on in this area regarding methods of reclaiming land, protecting existing environments, carbon capture, etc. I’m particularly interested in CEA – controlled environment agriculture, such as greenhouses, plant factories or vertical farming.

Neil Mattson, School of Integrative Plant Science at Cornell University, says “It integrates technology and agriculture and enables year-round production of high quality products.”

A greenhouse could produce 20 to 50 times more lettuce per acre than a field in California. Of course, there are challenges growing crops in controlled environments, for example, the amount of energy and labour costs required. One of the main questions for Mattson: Is it realistic and economically viable? “I’m trying to understand the pros and cons off this higher tech production system and want to understand its constraints and improve upon the constraints.” Growing the World’s Food in Greenhouses | Cornell Research

Centuries ago, farmers and rural communities in southern Europe adapted to become experts in water, soils, crops and animal management to keep their lands fertile and productive. These practices helped rural communities withstand periodic stresses such as drought and food scarcity.

'In the race for modernisation, intensification of production and competitiveness, we have neglected, forgotten or even (discarded) all that knowledge, all that heritage, all that richness,' said Prof. Martín Civantos. Ancient farming techniques could help mitigate climate change (phys.org)

Indigenous people in Canada and all over the world have been growing and harvesting food for a long time. They have provided us with many staples of our modern world such as potatoes, chocolate, corn, etc. A BRIEF HISTORY OF INDIGENOUS AGRICULTURE (manitobamuseum.ca)

Changing what we eat – less reliance on meat, more protein from plants. More local food production and processing in each province. There used to be a lot of small flour and grist mills in Saskatchewan. Now, as far as I could find out, there are 3 large ones, but smaller processors of organic flour are also found. The Encyclopedia of Saskatchewan | Details (uregina.ca)

Housing. Last summer and this have been terrible for forest fires in Canada. Other parts of the world have had these challenges as well. Homes, whole towns have been destroyed. Can we build houses that are resistant to such fires?

Australia and California are two places where this kind of building is going on. Bushfire Proof House: Top 10 House Designs for Bushfire Prone Areas | Architecture & Design (architectureanddesign.com.au)

Climate changes also affect us in terms of high summer temperatures, and not all houses have air conditioning. Even if they do, this is not the most environmentally friendly way to cool buildings; conventional air conditioners account for about one fifth of totally electrical consumption globally. Heat pumps have become increasingly popular, mitigating both high and low temperatures. Government subsidies are available in parts of Canada to install these.

However, there are ancient methods of cooling houses that have mostly fallen out of fashion, though some are reviving them.

Wind towers. In ancient Persia, buildings used tall wind catchers that extend upward from the roof of a house and funnelled breezes downward. Many of these can still be seen in areas of the Middle East, though not all are functional. Along with the towers many buildings had underground refrigeration structures as well as underground irrigation methods. The ancient Persian way to keep cool - BBC Future

Skywells. These are inner courtyards of old Chinese houses in southern areas of the country, and they still exist. Like wind towers, they help to funnel cool air downward – after all, hot air rises if given the opportunity. How ancient 'skywells' are keeping Chinese homes cool - BBC Future

What about houses built partially into the ground (earth berm)? We’ve had examples of that in Canada, and they can be quite energy efficient. Hobbits anyone? What about a house constructed of straw bales? Little straw house on the Prairie a cosy home | CBC News

I could go on and on. Human beings are incredibly creative, which is probably why we’ve survived for as long as we have. I hope to see the world continue to embrace innovation in ways that preserve life and mitigate the effects of climate change, that unfortunately, we did little about when it first became known as a possibility many years ago.

Wisdom

I like the definition of this word that is posted in Wikepedia (using various references):

Wisdom, sapience, or sagacity is the ability to contemplate and act productively using knowledge, experience, understanding, common sense, and insight. Wisdom is associated with attributes such as unbiased judgment, compassion, experiential self-knowledge, self-transcendence and non-attachment, and virtues such as ethics and benevolence.

It suggests that wisdom is complex and develops over time.

When I think back to my teens and early twenties, I had some knowledge, experience, understanding, common sense and insight. I was able to base my actions on this for good or ill. And so it goes throughout life – we experience and learn much, and if we are open to the process of self knowledge, we can apply all this to our lives. However, if our experiences are limited, this may also limit our wisdom.

As I age, I’ve been thinking particularly of what I didn’t know about aging, which didn’t give me as much empathy as I’d like to have had (in retrospect) when dealing with my aging parents. I was very young (seven) when we left Germany and so wasn’t able to observe for very long my grandfather (who was the only grandparent I had left) as he aged.

In my early university years, I was sometimes appalled by and not sympathetic to ways that adults reacted to or interacted with younger people. As I grew into adulthood, I experienced situations from the other side and had more empathy for the adults I’d once criticized.

How do we develop unbiased judgement and compassion? Partly, I think, it’s what we experience, what models of behaviour we are exposed to through parents, teachers, relatives and friends. It seems to me that openness to others and to new experiences develops best if we are exposed to a variety of people and experiences as we grow and develop. Let us not get stuck in believing that we know best, that there is only one way to approach any situation.

The arts can help greatly in this process: many topics explored in books, plays, music, films, etc. can give us fresh insights.

I’m not against critiques, seeing wrongs and speaking out about them. I do want to continue to be compassionate and empathetic, to be open not only to new experiences for myself but also to be open to hearing others’ stories of their experiences so that my world view continues to grow.

I also think it’s important not to be hard on myself for what I didn’t know in the past. That can’t be changed.

One of the things that I always hope to do as a writer is to share the stories I’ve experienced, have come across, or have imagined.

Edmonton

I first spent time in this city in the late 1960’s and early 70’s when a lot of old houses, old hotels and warehouses still existed in downtown Edmonton. It was a time of hippies wandering and hitchhiking, Hari Krishna performing on the streets, and people who offered places to stay, some of which were supposedly haunted. I always maintained a spot in my heart for the city.

However, cities grow, and Edmonton is not the same as it was. My son and grandson live there now, as well as a couple of friends, and I go to visit several times a year if I can. At first, I wasn’t sure if I liked the city as much as I used to. Construction had changed the face of downtown with apartment blocks, high rises, trendy shops and restaurants (I like good restaurants, but also small and intimate ones). It is and feels much huger than it was. I’m not necessarily a fan of large cities, though those that have interesting neighbourhoods which feel like small communities, (e.g. Berlin, Germany) can be quite interesting.

I no longer drive long distances so my trips to Edmonton involve planes or buses. I need to walk or to use public transit to get around. The LRT has been extremely convenient to get downtown, to the art gallery, to my favourite mall at Southgate Centre. I was able to get to the Muttart Conservatory in the past, using a couple of buses. Lately I’ve been using city buses more as well and finding them incredibly convenient, being able to text for the next bus (with each passing day I become more enamored of my smart phone), or use my phone to get directions. I’ve used buses to get to areas of the city I hadn’t gotten to before (Italian Bakery, Whyte Avenue) unless someone drove me, and I have plans to do more exploration.

My favourite cities in Canada have always been Saskatoon, Hallifax and Victoria – all have water, interesting neighbourhoods and cultural amenities. I’m adding Edmonton to the list as I become more familiar with it. One of the things I love about it is the river. Like Saskatoon, that water is a kind of heart and the trails along it are wonderful to walk. I haven’t done as much of that as I’d like – there are good maps of those trails and designated park spaces as well as golf courses along the river.

I haven’t been to the new location of the Royal Alberta Museum, and it’s been years since I explored Jasper Avenue. I haven’t been on the university campus in a while. The neighbourhood where my son lives is quiet and walkable, though close to amenities like an ice cream shop, a Bodega restaurant, and a grocery store. An LRT station is withing walking distance and several buses go nearby. The river is also within walking distance.

There are more areas to explore and I look forward to getting to know the city even better.

Three Women

 Karen Blixen (aka Isak Dinesen), Beryl Markham, Elspeth Huxley – I’ve written about these three women before, but they are endlessly fascinating to me, and a recent re-read of Markham’s book ‘West with the Night’ reminded me of that.

All three are white women who lived in Africa for periods of time, in British East Africa which became Kenya, and so all three were part of that colonial period. All three wrote about it and from their writings it’s clear that they loved that country, that it got into their hears and souls. Blixen was Danish, both Huxley and Markham were British.

All three women were unusual for their time in the kinds of lives they led. Blixen ran a coffee farm because her husband was mostly off being a hunter and guide; she wrote about that in ‘Out of Africa.’ Markham was the first woman to get her pilot’s license in Africa and she did a lot of flying there, as well as becoming the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic from east to west (1936). Huxley became a writer also and although she initially advocated for the continuation of colonial rule, she later called for the independence of African nations.

Markham and Blixen knew each other and apparently were rivals for Denys Finch-Hatton, who was also a pilot and killed in a crash. Both Blixen and Markham say in their writing that he’d asked them to go with them on that last flight but neither woman mentioned the other.

I recently discovered that some people claimed that Markham didn’t write ‘West with the Night’ but that her third husband, journalist Raoul Schumacher did. The reasoning is that Markham never went to a regular school but was taught at home by her father (her mother left when Beryl was very young). Those claims have been discredited because drafts of the manuscript had been shared with Markham’s publisher before she ever met Schumacher. And if you read it, I think that you will discover her unique voice. Even if Schumacher helped her with the editing, Markham would have had to tell him her story.

Karen Blixen’s book ‘Out of Africa’ was made into a movie (1985, with Meryl Streep, Robert Redford and Klaus Maria Brandaur), as was Elspeth Huxley’s book ‘The Flame Trees of Thika (1981, with Hayley Mills). I’ve seen both and enjoyed them. There’s also a film about Beryl Markham, which I haven’t seen, called ‘A Shadow on the Sun’ (1988).

I learned recently that Karen Blixen was also a painter. Karen Blixen Museum

Huxley lived to the age of 89 and died in England; Markham died at 83 still raising horses in Kenya; Blixen died at 77 in Denmark.

Daughter of Earth – Chapter XXII

The following is an excerpt from book four of the Leather Book Tales fantasy series ©Regine Haensel.

 

Alizarine (Ali) has been captured and put in a dungeon. She knows that friends are coming to rescue her and has also discovered that a piece of obsidian that her friend Samel gave her has magical powers.

The voices fade and I’m left with much to think about. For one thing, I have a great deal of hope. Julina is not all powerful and is fumbling about, trying to get the bracelets. She doesn’t appear to know anything about the piece of obsidian that I have, which holds powers that no one had an inkling of. Wherever this stone came from, it’s certainly absorbed magic and it’s gifting some of that to me. Unfortunately, Julina also said, “We don’t want her to die yet.” My eventual fate doesn’t make me happy. I don’t know how much time I have, but I’ve got to make plans to get out of here.

          Deciding to test what the stone can do, I walk about the room and lean my head against walls here and there. Now and then I catch a voice. Once I hear a guard say loudly, “You stupid fool! You almost dropped that rock on my foot!” Occasionally there are murmurs but I can’t distinguish words.

          Then I recall how the stone enabled me to smooth parts of the walls of my tower room so I could draw on them, and how my hand sank into stone. Could I wear away enough of a wall to make an opening? I didn’t want to try anything like that in the tower because someone was always coming in, but here I’m thinking no one is likely to disturb me for some time.

          I examine the walls, consider the most likely place to break through. The only section where I have some idea of thickness is the wall holding the doors. All the others could be arms-length deep as well as being underground. If I can make even small holes near the hinges or the lock, I may be able to open the door. I choose to try the lock. First, I grasp the black stone in both hands until it’s almost too hot to hold. Then I set it down and place both hands on the wall surrounding the lock. Slowly, slowly my palms sink in. I press as hard as I can but make only a thin indentation. I sigh and lean down to pick up the stone to warm my hands again. The stone has sunk into the floor, twice its own thickness, I can barely distinguish its rainbow shine. Quickly I pry it out so as not to lose it, hold it tightly again until it heats and then press the stone itself against the wall. It sinks through and strikes the metal of the lock. A few more applications and the door creaks open.

 

The Leather Books fantasy series (Queen of Fire, Child of Dragons, Companion of Eagles, Daughter of Earth) is available through the Saskatchewan Library system, for purchase online from SaskBooks, [Bookstore (skbooks.com)]on Amazon, or from booksserimuse@gmail.com. Book five, Time Dancer, is in the process of being written. 

Companion of Eagles – Chapter XII

 The following is an excerpt from book three of the Leather Book Tales fantasy series ©Regine Haensel. More excerpts from the series will be available on this blog on Sundays this month.

 

Samel is travelling through the mountains with a caravan, which has stopped for lunch. Samel wanders off to eat on his own, and finds an eagle entangled in a snare.

So, very carefully I move aside branches until I can touch the young eagle. I begin gently to untangle its wing. The bird makes a soft chirping noise but doesn’t raise its head. I continue working at getting it released. I gather up the leather thongs tied to the branched trap and pull it out.

          Now the young eagle raises its head and takes a step toward me. I back up, holding branches aside. The bird brushes past my knees and hops out of the bush. I hunker in place, unmoving. The eagle spreads its wings, leans forward and launches into air. My breath catches in my throat and I have a sudden vision of leaping into the air myself and soaring over the valley. The bird circles a few times, making a whistling sound, as if in thanks. I crawl out of the bush and wave. Did it come from Aquila and is heading back? Or is it a mountain eagle? I wish I could send a message to Rowan telling her what just happened. Wouldn’t she be surprised! I’d love to see her face if that happened.

          The eagle dives toward me. For a moment I think it’s attacking so I back up and consider running. The bird land in a flurry of wings right in front of me. It cocks it’s brown head and hops closer. It looks at me.

          I squat. “You’re welcome,” I say. “I was glad to help.”

          But the eagle continues to sit there and I speculate on why. Could it be waiting to help me in some way, to thank me for what I’ve done? Rowan used to use her raven for sending messages. Now might be my chance to send a note to Papa at Aquila. No sense trying for my sister, because I’m not sure where Rowan is.

          Continuing to keep an eye on the bird, I take a bit of parchment out of my belt pouch along with a stick of charcoal that Ali gave me. I write a few lines, fold the parchment, and reach out slowly. The eagle doesn’t move, lets me tie the bit of parchment to its leg. I think clear thoughts of Aquila, where it is and what it looks like, and Papa. When I’m done, the eagle leaps at me, takes a nip out of my outstretched hand and is off into the sky again before I can complain. I hope this eagle will know how to get to Aquila. I watch until it’s a speck in the east, and then gone.

 

The Leather Books fantasy series (Queen of Fire, Child of Dragons, Companion of Eagles, Daughter of Earth) is available through the Saskatchewan Library system, for purchase online from SaskBooks, [Bookstore (skbooks.com)]on Amazon, or from booksserimuse@gmail.com.

Child of Dragons – Chapter XI

 OK so I promised an excerpt from each book of The Leather Book Tales every Sunday this month. Last Sunday I was busy painting my bathroom and forgot, so this week, one  excerpt on Friday, the other on Sunday.

The following is an excerpt from book two of the Leather Book Tales fantasy series ©Regine Haensel. More excerpts from the series will be available on this blog on Sundays this month.

 

Rowan has gone to a place on a lake with two others to look for missing people. The searchers split up and she is on her own.

The cool of evening. The silver leaves are back on my wrist and shining enough so that I can see a couple of arms lengths in front. How long have I been wandering among the trees? If I concentrate I can sense the pull of the fire from the camp. My stomach rumbles; maybe I should return now. I’d hoped to find the lost ones this evening, but that could have been too optimistic. I notice that the forest itself is glowing slightly, but that’s not caused by the bracelet. I catch a glimpse of the moon beyond the highest branches. I drop to a stump and rest. I should at least have brought a water skin. Why did I dash off, not prepare? That’s not like me. I have to find balance between trusting the bracelet and using my own common sense.

          At first it’s very quiet. The longer I sit, the more it seems that I can hear murmuring. Perhaps it’s merely the wind sighing through the trees, or water flowing over stones. I hold my breath to see if that helps me hear any better. I can almost make out words, more than one person speaking maybe. Could it be the missing ones? Best be careful and not rush in. Barely breathing, I rise and move cautiously toward the voices. The path narrows and almost disappears; bushes grow close together, overhanging the path. I have to get on hands and knees and creep forward. I peer through foliage.

          Moonlight illuminates a tall, thick tree. Its canopy droops downward, so that I can’t clearly see what’s underneath, but I can make out shapes and movement. Carefully I sneak closer.

          “Sssafe. You’re sssafe with me,” a voice hisses.

          Undulations, a flash of pale blue, and darker green. Huge coils wrapped around – two children? A large golden eye flashes in a strange feathered head, teeth gleam. I have no weapons, need to sneak back and get Onoku.

          Crack! I’ve knelt on a branch. I hold my breath. The forest has become unnaturally silent. Moonlight dims, mist and shadows rise. I can’t see anything, not even when I stand, branches catching my hair and clothes. I take a couple of steps forward, losing a bit of hair. The bracelet glows faintly on my wrist, but I pull the sleeve over it, not wanting to reveal it to whoever or whatever may be under the tree. Still, it comforts me to know that I have its power as aid.

          “Who’s there?” a voice asks.

          A bright shaft of moonlight washes away shadows. Standing in an open area near the tree is a dark-haired man, a little taller than I. He looks younger than Jernan, and holds the hands of a boy whose head reaches to his elbows and a girl slightly shorter. I can see all of their faces clearly. The children look similar to Mirage and Juniper. The young man, oddly, reminds me of Onoku – the same round face with a hint of brass in its colouring. Is this why the caravan guard wanted to come? Does Onoku know this person? I can’t answer those questions now. Where did that huge strange creature, so like a snake, go?

          “We’ve been looking for you,” I say. “Gerda and the others returned to Vatnborg and the school by ship. With a man called Vartos. Maybe you know him? Three of us stayed behind to search. The boat will be back tomorrow to pick us up.

 

The Leather Books fantasy series (Queen of Fire, Child of Dragons, Companion of Eagles, Daughter of Earth) is available through the Saskatchewan Library system, for purchase online from SaskBooks, [Bookstore (skbooks.com)]on Amazon, or from booksserimuse@gmail.com.

Queen of Fire – Chapter V

 The following is an excerpt from book one of the Leather Book Tales fantasy series ©Regine Haensel. More excerpts from the series will be available on this blog on Sundays this month.

 

Rowan rides south to try and find her father and brother, whom she has recently found out about.

I wander in a dark wood, barefoot and cold. Water drips down my neck, but the cold and wet isn’t as bad as the knowledge that something stalks me, has sniffed out my scent in spite of the rain I have called to wash it away. I rub strong-smelling herbs on my feet and all over my body to disguise my odour. Suddenly I come to a break in the trees and eyes look at me out of the darkness. They seem to be staring right at me but can’t see me. I hear the creature draw in a breath, but it can’t smell me either. I am encircled and protected by light. There comes a sharp barking call.

Moonlight lies across my eyes; the rain has stopped. The donkey leans against one of the walls, probably asleep. I’m cold and glance at the glowing coals. Stretch out an arm to reach for more wood and  freeze as I spot a pair of shining eyes in a nearby bush. Branches rustle slightly and a black nose followed by a long muzzle emerges.For a moment I think it’s a dog and wonder if there’s a farm nearby after all.

There’s an odour, though, not the smell of dog, but something wild. What if it’s a wolf, the one that Father wrote about; but a wolf wouldn’t live that long. Perhaps it’s the one Mother feared. Why would wolves hang about our family? Another rustle and the creature moves forward. It’s a fox – sleek red-brown fur, white-tipped busy tail. I’m barely breathing, avoiding any movement that might startle it. Is it looking for food? Would it attack me? I think I could beat it away; it’s not that big, but would the bite of a fox cause much damage? The animal simply sits there and the two of us regard each other. I wonder what it thinks of me. The forest is quiet except for the occasional drip, drip of water. Eventually the fox fades back into the bushes. Perhaps I’ve merely been inspected and found harmless. On the other hand, if this were an old tale, the fox might be  messenger, but if so I don’t understand the loll of a tongue, the sniff of a nose, the tilt of a head or the twitch of a tail.

 

The Leather Books fantasy series (Queen of Fire, Child of Dragons, Companion of Eagles, Daughter of Earth) is available through the Saskatchewan Library system, for purchase online from SaskBooks, [Bookstore (skbooks.com)]on Amazon, or from booksserimuse@gmail.com.

The Other Place

 The following is an excerpt of a short story from the collection The Other Place ©Regine Haensel. More excerpts from the collection will be available on this blog each Sunday this month.

 

Besides the main farm where we lived, Mr. Bradley had another farm where he kept pigs. We called it the other place and when Papa talked about it his eyes lit up.

          “A house is there,” he said, “empty.” And a look passed between him and Mutti, one of those looks that meant they were thinking the same thing and didn’t need words to know what it was. “Also a barn. Graneries, a machine shed; everything like a proper farm, Annelise. Just no one living there.”

          Mutti looked around the room and my eyes followed hers. The stove in one corner, a wood stove, (we’d had a gas one in Germany) a small set of cupboards beside it. My foldout cot stood against another wall, a sofa bed and a table with four chairs crammed in the middle. One room, while in Germany we’d had a small apartment. There it was my grandfather who had to sleep on a cot in the living room. Had he minded I suddenly wondered. He never said anything about it, but my parents had often talked about the difficulties of finding an apartment after the war. If only we could have a house, a house like Tante Dorothea’s with a red and gold rug on the floor, a blue room for me with a desk, a room for Mutti and Papa, a kitchen and living room.

 

(The next section skips to Greta and her Papa’s visit to look at the other place. He goes to look after the pigs while Greta explores the house.)

 

I wandered off by myself. The room beside the kitchen had two large windows and against one wall, a stairway. Upstairs there were three doors. I opened the one directly ahead of me, a closet with a couple of wooden hangers swinging on the bar. I stepped inside and poked around. There was nothing else, but I thought it would make a good hiding place. The other two doors opened into bedrooms. Papa and Mutti could have the larger one and I would have the room with tiny blue flowers in the wall paper. I leaned my arms to the window sill and flattened my nose to the glass. The back yard was brown and white, splashed here and there with puddles, a line of bare black caragana hedge and then the beige and white fields, stubble and snow, stretched on to meet the distant sky. Nothing moved in that world. I seemed to be looking at a picture. Then I heard Papa’s step on the stairs and turned. He was smiling.

          “It is a good house, ja, Greta?”

          I nodded.

The short story collection The Other Place is available through the Saskatchewan Library system, for purchase from SaskBooks, Other Place, The (skbooks.com), or from booksserimuse@gmail.com

Goldenrod

 The following is an excerpt of a short story from the collection The Other Place ©Regine Haensel. More excerpts from the collection will be available on this blog each Sunday this month.

 

I remember my mother’s eyes the first time she saw the place where we were to live, the grey weathered boards, the rickety steps, and inside, the single room where we would eat, sleep and cook. My father didn’t notice because he stood behind us, but I saw the look of shock, the indrawn breath and then the instant swallowing of it all. She walked up the steps, through the open door and marched inside as if she wanted to get it over with. My father followed slowly.

          “It’s not much, Annelise, I know . . .”

          She turned to him, her face calm. “It will be all right, Franz.”

          His words rushed out, he took her hands. “Herr Bradley says he will build something better soon . . .”

          She answered the hesitation in his voice with a small smile. “It will be all right.”

          I was surprised that she didn’t talk about how she had not really wanted to move to the farm, but I was finding out that my mother never said, “I told you so.” We moved into the bunkhouse and unpacked our trunks and suitcases. It was good to have a few familiar things around us, but I discovered that one of the blocks from my Grimm’s fairytale puzzle was missing. No matter how hard I looked I couldn’t find it.

          During the days when Papa worked, I watched Mutti, trying not to let her notice. I wanted to know how she could be so quiet about all the things that had happened to us. Sometimes I would see a far-away look in her eyes and I would wonder if she was thinking about Germany.

          This farm was not at all what I had expected. First, the tiny bunkhouse which Mutti cleaned from front to back. When I asked to help, she gave me a bowl with soapy water and a dish cloth, and told me to wash out the lower cupboards. There was a huge yard with fences here and there, and buildings that I didn’t know the use of. The big house was where Mr. and Mrs. Bradley lived. I didn’t know why they couldn’t let us live there, too, but if Mutti wasn’t going to ask, neither would I. There were a couple  of dogs and some cats, but the dogs were chained up and barked very fiercely whenever anyone came near. The cats lived in the barn and ran away when I tried to get close enough for petting. I was starting to wonder about this better life that Papa said we would have in this country.

The short story collection The Other Place is available through the Saskatchewan Library system, for purchase from SaskBooks, Other Place, The (skbooks.com), or from booksserimuse@gmail.com

If You Move Away

The following is an excerpt of a short story from the collection The Other Place ©Regine Haensel. More excerpts from the collection will be available on this blog each Sunday this month.

It was a Saturday in 1955 when Lotte and I shared one of the wooden benches by the sandbox in front of the white stucco apartment building in Kiel, Germany. We talked about Das Doppelte Lottchen, a film neither of us had seen, but wanted to. I had the book from my Tante Dorothea, and I told Lotte about the black and white pictures and drawings.

          “Can I come look at it?” Lotte asked.

          “Later,” I said, knowing Mutti and Opa were arguing.

          Lotte had the same names as one of the twins in the story. The other was Luise, and I said I wished my name was Luise so that we could be like those girls. Two girls, separated as babies when their parents divorced, met by accident at a summer vacation home for girls, and were able to bring their parents back together.

          “My Papa is dead,” Lotte said, “and yours has just gone away for a while. And we have different Mutti’s. That’s not the same.”

          I sighed. Sometimes Lotte could be a dumm-kopf. “But I’m going away, too,” I said. “Mutti and I are going where my Papa is. “I swallowed a lump in my throat. What if I never saw Lotte again?”

          Lotte stared at me for a minute or two with her eyes scrunched up as if the sun was too bright and she couldn’t see very well. Then she jumped from the bench and stood with hands on hips, just the way I’d once seen her Mutti stand when she was scolding one of the bigger boys for throwing sand.

          “If you move away,” Lotte said, “I won’t like you anymore.”

          It seemed that a cloud had slipped in front of the sun and meant to stick there. All of the things I’d been trying not to think about tangled and made a knot in my head. I wanted to explain things to Lotte, in words slow and clear, but how could I when I didn’t understand myself? Like in the fairy tales where a wicked stepmother or a witch came and made things hard for children in the family, it wasn’t fair! I stood in front of Lotte, holding my hands in fists at my sides so that I wouldn’t hit my best friend. Lotte glared and suddenly I felt tears prick the corners of my eyes. I blinked hard. Why couldn’t Lotte see that if your family was leaving you had to go with them?

          “I don’t care if you don’t like me,” I said through clenched teeth.

 

The short story collection The Other Place is available through the Saskatchewan Library system, for purchase from SaskBooks, Other Place, The (skbooks.com), or from booksserimuse@gmail.com

Courageous Women

Several days ago, I got out an old book called ‘The Blessings of a Good Thick Skirt: Women Travellers and Their World’ written by Mary Russell and published in 1986. The following passage from near the end of the book struck me as being very relevant to recent experiences.

Death has claimed the lives of many brave women who could not be pinned down to the certainty of dying at home and in their beds. Alison Chadwick, who at one time had climbed higher than any other woman, died on Annapurna with Vera Watson, roped together in death just as they had been friends in life. Claude Kogan, foremost mountaineer of her time, died in 1959, leading the first international women’s expedition to Cho Oyo. Fliers in particular have spiralled like bright butterflies from the sky, among them Harriet Quimby, the Duchess of Bedford, and both Earhart and Johnson.

How these women died is important. Those older and wiser may shake their heads at the foolishness of courting danger, of throwing life away in such a reckless fashion. But the women who lost their lives in this way have exercised a small choice in how and where they died and taken death as they had taken life – their spirits whole and free. For those left behind and for succeeding generations they have the certain knowledge that there is more to life than dying.

I have a quibble with ‘small choice’ because I don’t think these kinds of choices are small, but in the main, I get these paragraphs.

We don’t have far to look these days to see women standing up to be counted, to speak up, to demonstrate. Sometimes these actions result in death or torture, other times they do not but we all recognize the courage. There continue to be women who climb mountains, participate in sports, lead the way in events and enterprises.

However, there are many women who live seemingly quiet lives and cope courageously every day with the circumstances of their lives: illness of self or loved ones, financial woes, job loss, death of loved ones, aging, and so on. They keep going, do the best they can, still find joy and smiles, help others.

In this blog, I salute those women and wish them continued strength and courage.

Note: I know many men are doing the same.