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The Great Collection of the Elemental Families of Huphaea, anid 1830 #24

aimeredleaf, The Narrative Gardener Leave a comment

Hello Everyone! It has been a while, I know, since I’ve put out an episode. I’ve been hard at work on three short stories set in Huphaea, which have taught me how all-encompassing writing within word counts is! They were all meant to be contest entries, but honestly, only two made it to submission. The third way over shot the word count and because I was happy with it, I didn’t feel the need to cut it down. Undoubtedly, it will appear as a perk for newsletter subscribers or in an anthology of Huphaea stories at some point. I actually have a bunch thanks to my weekly writing group. But anyway, I’m back to the time of Ivy and Elahna (anid 1830) instead of four hundred (which would be quardeccund in Huphaea) anid or more in the past and looking forward to recounting their journey once more.

I hope all has been well with you in the post-vaccine world. It’s nice to go places without masks again and see life taking on more familiar shapes. Personally, I’m just thrilled that I can visit my library and browse the shelves enveloped by the scents of paper and ink! Here’s what happened when I made my first visit in person…

hahaha…oops.

Take care and enjoy the summer for those in the northern hemisphere.☀😎🏊🏼‍♀️ It’s good to be back!

In the last episode, way back in the spring, Elahna and Ivy were preparing to leave Cragbend and head on to Irillo. Ivy had just diagnosed the problems with the giant planetree and we had seen an air magician, or air weaver, as they are called. Ivy had given Lisssa her word that she would recommend Scosy for a stablehand at the palace in Irillo once she got there. Let’s get back to the story, shall we?~

Felicity and Revel pranced and quickstepped out onto the Shoe and toward the main road.

Image by Albrecht Fietz from Pixabay 

We passed a bakery with a sign the reverse colors of Sweetnic’s back in Cragbend. Must be Rennay’s kinsman’s shop, I thought.

Cragbend confectioners

I still had the peach tarts wrapped in the spelled paper that kept them warm in my rucksack so I didn’t need to stop and replenish. Besides, there was bound to be confectioneries galore in Irillo, and we would be there that evening! Butterflies started rising in my stomach and I actually got a bit annoyed at myself. For a moment.

Why annoyed, you ask? Well, it’s not as if I hadn’t been in big cities before, I’d been to Boston, Dublin, San Francisco, even Moscow and Rome, and I knew Irillo wouldn’t be on that scale. There was just so much emotion and anticipation roiling around inside me that I just couldn’t deal with it. I don’t like being overly emotional about anything, really. So I drew in a deep breath of cool, pine-and-spruce-drenched air and relaxed into my blanket-saddle to enjoy the day.

Before the hour (erdur) was out, the edge of Venrood Forest was in sight. Sunshine blanketed the green fields that spread out as far as I could see. Here and there, in strategic locations I surmised, clumps of trees formed windbreaks, and as we passed, hedgerows appeared as boundaries.

Image by Jordan Stimpson from Pixabay 

“The fields are much larger on this side of the forest.” I mused aloud to Ivy, hoping to begin some conversation.

“Yes, well, they are within a day’s ride of Irillo, so production is important. Landholders a day’s ride out are the main suppliers of food for the city. Goods come down the Irilliscent too, but the surrounds are the largest source.”

“That makes sense. Is that a river, the Irilliscint?”

She nodded. “It runs through the middle of the city. We will cross the Irilliscint bridge just before entering Forelore. It flows in from the sea on the northwestern coast in the Foster lands, over an anek’s ride away. Out here, these homesteads are grain farms and hay farms mostly. Closer in you will find the animal farms and vegetable suppliers. They are close enough to leave home in the early morning hours and make it in to sell at the market or unload and be back in an anar. A long anar, but a profitable one.”

Image by Broin from Pixabay 

I turned to look back at the looming wall of the forest. I missed the relative shade of the trees already, but I really missed my sunglasses. I started mentally cataloging my pack contents in search of something I could use to shade my eyes. Ivy, however, appeared unaffected, which didn’t surprise me.

Revel seemed to be in his own zone, trotting easily in step with Felicity, so I loosened my grip on the reins and made to swing my rucksack off one arm and around to rummage through it. As the pack slid down toward my lap, its weight disrupted my balance so suddenly, I dropped to the ground on top of it. Revel shied, banging into Felicity and Ivy let out a startled yelp.

“Are you all right? What happened?”

Thankfully, Revel kept his wits and didn’t run, as my right foot was still caught up on his side in the stirrup. I twisted my ankle slightly and freed my foot. The stretch in my hip lessened and I sat up to make sure nothing else was injured. But all was well, just a bit of pride hurt.

“I was trying to get something out of my bag without having to stop, but I guess I stopped anyway.” Then I winced as I brushed off my shoulder. That would be colorful tomorrow, for sure.

Ivy snorted delicately. “I don’t mind stopping, just speak up if you need to.”

“I know, ah, never mind. I just need something to shield my eyes. The sunlight is much brighter here than on Earth. Otherwise, I’ll have a headache in no time.” I drew a shirt from yesterday out of my bag and wound it up on my head. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Image by Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay 

“The sun would give you a headache? Strange, it always makes my head feel lighter and more clear when I am out of the forest. Maybe your eyes just have to adjust. Try taking all of the light in, not squinting to keep some out. It may help you.”

“I’m quite sure they do have to adjust, but I will try that.”

I remounted and we lapsed into a conversation about the geography of Irillo. The city is divided into four quadrants-Scholars, Verdant, Lodgings, and Merchants, with the palace, called Forelore, at its center. The Irriliscint runs along one side of the High Seat. She didn’t say it was for protection or anything like that, but my medieval-loving brain couldn’t project anything less than a walled castle. Ivy had mentioned something about old elven architecture, I recalled. I wondered what that meant.

She looked pensive at my query. “I’m not quite sure how to answer that. It is very distinct, you will have no trouble picking it out, even from the rise on the road when we approach the city. Perhaps curved where you expect straight lines, domed tops many times, but seamless in construction. And old. Forelore is said to be one of the first buildings on Huphaean soil. Or a part of it, at least. It’s an immense complex. You will see soon enough.” Her flawless face crinkled with knowing mischief. “So let’s return to the subject of judgments about whom one spends time with in your world. I’m truly interested to know why it is of such concern.”

I rolled my eyes away from her and groaned to myself. Of course, she wouldn’t forget. Here it comes…

The topic took us through the entire morning, noontime repast, and part of the afternoon. Much indignation and spluttering came from Ivy, but she continued asking questions and pointing out flaws in the norms of life on Earth. All I could do was nod, agree, or hold up my hands in unknowing.

Evidently, some of the prejudices and sentiments toward groups of people or races did exist elsewhere on Ereth, but not here in Huphaea. The Balance demands and provides for the acceptance of all who choose to live on the island continent, and it is a choice. Individuals are free to leave and not return, even those with Elemental blood and abilities, though any talents tend to wane outside of Huphaea. Vitae is present in other lands on the planet, but only in select places.

Outsiders could choose to settle in Huphaea as well, though it wasn’t terribly common. But enough so that the diversity of physical characteristics was woven through the people, in addition to the influence of the vitae.

“Some individuals’ abilities are such that they influence their physical appearance. Members of the Lunad and Fairmoon scions have ink-black skin in deference to their power being night active. Many air weavers, like Leverett this morning, are tall and slender, coming as close to the air they command as possible. There are myriad ways the vitae manifests itself.”

“Now that you mention it, I did notice that about him. But his presence still filled the space a larger person would occupy.”

“Exactly. That’s common with air weavers. Air is all-encompassing.”

“So the underlying message is that life is to be lived. As best you see fit. How does that fit into maintaining the Balance?”

A long pause ensued before Ivy answered. “I’m genuinely not sure how to answer this, as I’ve never had to think about it. In your terms, you would say it is one of the social givens, maybe? Being concerned for what another individual does takes energy away from your own anar, from what you do to fulfill your own wants, needs, and desires and contribution to the community. That would mean you would always be out of balance, giving out more energy than is necessary, perhaps more than you have.”

Image by Gordon Johnson from Pixabay 

“There is no room on a balanced scale of the whole and the self for another pan.” She turned to regard me, genuine confusion reflected in a few tiny creases between her eyebrows and the set of her mouth.

“I can work with that. It’s a good starting place if I do end up having to stay here.”

We rode in silence for a while then. I certainly had much to think about. Perhaps the Earthly mindsets would just fall away after a while, like ‘If you don’t use it, you lose it.’

What was that? Oh, no, I didn’t regret taking those fellows up on their offer. (Recall the proposition at the foot of the stairs at the inn in Cragbend of episode #23) I just wasn’t surprised when such questions were asked the next time, lol.

*anek = week, anar = day, anos = month, anid = year

So far Huphaean society seems to be more simplistic than ours, but is it really? There was still a lot always going on, but their motivations and principles were very different. How about the idea of energy balancing per individual, could you do such a thing? Let me know below 👇🏼👇🏼👇🏼

I think I could. It makes so much sense. It would only work if the majority of people did, though. That’s why it did work in Huphaea. Everyone did there. See you next time!~

Wanna be a part of Huphaea? Subscribe to Collata⚡, the Collection of Huphaea newsletter! Then you will be part of Eleanorah’s troupe of Nightingales, privy to extras and fun facts from this fantastical land of magic and elven kind once a month. You can join here:

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©2021 Eleanorah Starr and Red Leaf Word Services. All Rights Reserved.

Insecure Writers Support Group July Post

aimeredleaf, The Narrative Gardener Leave a comment

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Post your thoughts on your own blog. Talk about your doubts and the fears you have conquered. Discuss your struggles and triumphs. Offer a word of encouragement for others who are struggling. Visit others in the group and connect with your fellow writer – aim for a dozen new people each time – and return comments. This group is all about connecting!

Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!

Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.

July’s question is: What would make you quit writing?

I can answer this in one word:

Image by OpenClipart-Vectors from Pixabay 

TIME.

Writing has become part of the package of the life I’ve built, but it isn’t what sustains or supports me. It is something I want to do and that I have recently found satisfaction in.

I’ve always known I needed a creative outlet, but it was an aspect that I ignored or boxed up to be let out ‘later’. I was far too busy for writing, I didn’t feel I had anything to write, and I preferred to read in my free time.

I also had landscape designing as my creative outlet. A few birds with one stone there, so to speak.

Since garden design is at a minimum now, I have searched for other ways to be creative. I can’t draw, I’m not musically inclined in the slightest, and poetry is ok, but I’m not often inspired in that manner.

Once I decided to write my own novel and stories, it has all come down to TIME.

It is a huge challenge to get in words when I can, in between gardening, living with three active dogs, house stuff, farm activities, and last but not least, starting and managing an editing business. So far, I get them in when I can, and I’m happy with that.

What tends to happen is if I get ‘into story’ then I stay there until that piece is written and let other things lag, like my blog.

Because I can only do so much.

Image by Pete Linforth from Pixabay 

I’m putting my faith in the tortoise of the proverb, content that ‘slow and steady’ will get the book, story, alternate world written. When the muse whips me along, I go with it as much as I can.

Writing is the thing that I can put aside and pick up later, and it uses more energy than reading, so it takes some preparation during the day. Time is certainly the deciding factor.

If I write, it’s because I have the muse and the time. If I don’t write, it’s because I don’t have the time.

And now that I’ve started, if I stop, it will most certainly be a matter of something else requiring that time.~

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay 

The Farmhouse

aimeredleaf, The Narrative Gardener Leave a comment

Another of my writing group pieces, this one came from the prompt of:

Write a story that takes place in the same place but at two very different time periods.

Enjoy!

the location of note

One of the underlying threads of my decision to live in my hometown again was that my dad and I would renovate the downstairs apartment in the farmhouse so I could live there.

I had two pretty noisy, active dogs and I knew there was no way I would be able to find an apartment with them, and I didn’t have the money to buy a house. It was an idea we had kicked around for some years at that point, and my decision to leave my then-situation cemented it.

I’d come home and stay with my brother until the apartment was done.

We had been demolishing this particular room for days, it felt like, and every wall we opened up revealed more problems. The list was continually growing longer, and my patience shorter. At times telling myself that it would all be worth it in the end worked, and other times it didn’t.

Today was one of the latter days. It was blasted hot, I was in as little clothing as possible when working with nasty musty horsehair plaster and lath, old cellulose blown-in insulation, and mouse infested fiberglass batting—or what was left of it. I was dusty, dirty, and cross. But I refused to stop. I wanted it done, the clock was ticking.

We had already discovered two layers of flooring, and because I decided to rip out the built-in cabinets to make room for more bathroom closet space on the other side of the wall, the upper layer had to be torn up. I wanted this room done right, it would be my office/study/reading room because of the big windows and the morning sun.

Actually, it is the room I’m in now, and in fact the exact spot I’m in now.

After all the cutting, wrenching, prying, and levering, the chunks of plywood began to come up, revealing an entire hardwood floor of two-inch planks, worn smooth by the passage of countless feet. My frustration instantly morphed into curiosity—how old was this house, really?

My dad didn’t seem to know, just that it had always been here, and the previous owner had added on several times, even in his lifetime, with his help.

The floor had vestiges of greenish-gray-blue paint, typical of older farmhouses, and dips where it was worn thin from travel. Then under the windows, we uncovered several holes, possibly those of pipes, but not necessarily.

By the time we finished clearing the room back to the studs and lower floor level, it became clear that we had uncovered the first kitchen in the house.

As it stands now, the kitchen is in front of me, through two walls. But to see the arrangement of cabinet marks and holes, it made complete sense that this room would have been the kitchen. Even if the barn that is out my window now wasn’t there, there would have been a barn of some sort, and the kitchen would have been located at the back of the house to look out on it for keeping track of family members, and catching the rising sun because it faces east.

The pictures that formed in my mind drew on images from Little House on the Prairie, but that wasn’t really right. At the time of this kitchen, the whole hill would have belonged to this farm, from the apple orchard and the Thayer Estate on one side to Sterling Road on the other. This house most likely would have had all the amenities of the time.

Though I don’t know much of the history of the property before my father’s time, I have often thought about this house and who sat here in this kitchen taking meals, or preparing them.

How many people were in the family, did they have servants, (can you tell I have been reading a lot of historical fiction?), and most importantly, how did they deal with all the rocks in the land that we have thousands of dollars of equipment to deal with now?

Were they successful?

I tend to think so. It was a large property and traces of it are still visible on the land; there must have been enough impetus to continue. It’s difficult to see any of the age of this house now, with the modern improvements we worked so hard on for two years, but knowing that the bones of it stretch back to a time past is only more fodder for my imagination some days.~

© 2021 Aime Sund and Red Leaf Word Services. All Rights Reserved.

Why I Write: What Writing Is and Has Been to Me

aimeredleaf, The Narrative Gardener Leave a comment

This essay was written from a prompt during my local weekly writing group. It coincides with the QOTD for author Sacha Black’s Author Life #WritersofInstagram July challenge. I think it’s beneficial to examine motivations every once in a while, this was an opportunity for me to do so. I hope you enjoy it, and leave any comments below, I’d love to hear them.

Writing has been present in my life at different times and under different circumstances. I discovered an affinity for it somewhat in sixth grade when I was assigned my first research paper. My topic was Irving Berlin; a topic I had no real interest in, though I still learned much about the man and his accomplishments.

But I learned more about the process of writing.

That was when the process of research-outline-write according to outline-revise-submit was the accepted method. And being someone with high Strategic strength according to the Gallup Strengths Test, it worked very well for me. In fact, I kept the same process throughout high school and into college.

That was forced writing- done because I had to. My English professor in college told me that I wrote very well, and that it seemed to come easy for me, that he found a fluency and confidence in my work. At the time, I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but the comment stayed with me as a bolster when I needed it.

Once I graduated, I didn’t need to write any longer. My hands were tied up in soil, plants, and garden tools.

I journaled off and on, here and there, but never for any length of time. The exception to that being when I was in Ireland. I did keep an almost daily journal of that nine months for the express purpose of recording all of what I did, felt, and experienced there. It is one of my most cherished possessions, even today.

It was only three years ago that I decided I wanted to write my own novel after a book- A Discovery of Witches by Deborah Harkness- had a real impact on me. I fell in love with everything about it, and have done so again since then with the Shades of Magic series by V. E. Schwab. Both of these ‘book hangovers’ have only reinforced my main motivation for writing- to give someone else the same feeling those influential books have given me.

There is a quote out there in the internet world that says something like “Don’t give up writing, maybe someday YOU will be someone’s favorite author.” That whole idea drives me. Very little apart from grand architecture and works of art truly survive through time like the written word. In some way, I think we all want to leave an impression, and this is how I’d like to. So I guess I’m writing to make a mark.

[Isaac] Azimov said he ‘thinks through his fingers.’ I can understand that, but my fingers have no hope of keeping up with my mind. One of my biggest challenges of writing is getting what I’m thinking down on the screen before it’s gone. By the time the sentence is finished printing, my mind is three thoughts ahead. I’ve even wondered if my fingers have some sort of memory of their own, honestly.

But that’s not to say that I know every line that makes it to the page ahead of time, or even that I know what my characters will actually do. I know their major actions, but not necessarily all the little steps in between.

For example, I started writing a short story a few months ago for an online competition. I had the prompt, and the max word count, so I started in on an outline. That went fine, too. Then I sat down to write. I read the opening scene of this story to my weekly writing group, it involved a dragon chase. When I got to the second scene, two characters jumped up and interjected themselves into the mix, and I had no idea where they came from. My fingers went along with them anyway.

That story is now finished but did not make it to submission. From a starting word count of 5000, it burgeoned to over 9000 words when it was done. Those two characters insinuated themselves into the story and took it into depths I hadn’t planned for, but which I really love. It may still make it to another submission, but I also think it will make a great reader magnet and prequel explanation to the novel series. It was not wasted time or energy.

Many writers say they write to let the stories inside them out, to give them life. This short story has been an example of that for me as well. When I’m in character, the words flow and my mind shows me all of the scenes in crystal clarity as we go, it’s almost like a trance. Then I have to go away and do other things for a while, because it is exhausting, despite the exhilaration I feel for being a vampire (in that story), or my magically-endowed protagonist while writing.

I guess I write to create something lasting, I hope, and to exercise my creativity. To be someone or something else for a while, and to paint the images in my mind in words someone else can interpret their own way. The mind is an amazing tool, so complex and unique. Did you know there are people who think in images and others who think in words? I can’t fathom thinking in words, my inner monologue is too full of images and color. Through writing, however, I can communicate with that other mind in their own language. That to me is reason enough to write, and why writing and human authors will never fade away.~

©Aime Sund and Red Leaf Word Services 2021. All Rights Reserved