First Day of Spring: Imbolc, Publishing and a Cover Reveal Coming

Blessed Imbolc!

Today marks on the modern Catholic calendar, St. Brigid's Day, the patroness of Ireland. While the modern calendar says winter and in some places snow is on the ground, on the old calendar it is an approximate date for Imbolc, the first day of Spring. It translates from Old Irish as "in the belly" and is said marked the pregnancy of the ewes. It is one of the fire festivals, or major festivals, on the Druid calendar. With Beltane, it is one of the two that are goddess-centered days.  There are several traditional ways to mark Imbolc/St Brigid's Day. Many of these carry whispers of pre-christian traditions.

This is a symbolic time for me. In November, just after Samhain (the Celtic New Year) I launched Three Worlds Press as a full-fledged publishing company. The early months have been exciting. As with the Spring, we are poised for the new, explosive growth of Spring. Everything smells new, green and earthy. Who cares if snow is in the forecast for today.

Pay attention...this is a double blog day as a cover reveal from Three Worlds Press follows shortly!

I want to share just a few links with you to explore and celebrate.

From the Irish Central website: http://www.irishcentral.com/roots/St-Brigids-Day-February-1-marks-start-of-Celtic-Spring-138470479.html

Wikipedia gives an acceptable overview here:  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imbolc

Imbolc is the date of the second event on my upcoming novel Dark Dealings. While Micaela does not realized it, the event marks the beginning of a new cycle of her life and the birth of her "true" self in a dangerous world of magic, vampires and shapeshifters .

Review: Once A Goddess by Sheila R Lamb Human meets Myth

Let me start by saying something.  The plot and characters of Sheila Lamb’s Once A Goddess are near and dear to my Irish heart.  My own novel, Dark Dealings, because of it s Druid themes contains many parallel references.  But NEVER think that Once a Goddess is a novel of one culture and one time. It is a story of love and loss, loyalty and independence and those who fight for what they know to be real.

This is a remarkable work of world-building and character development. In  Ms. Lamb’s novel, names from Irish lore are given flesh, human desires and vices while remaining magical creatures from a long distant past. Names like Brigid, Morrigan, Ogma, Dagda, Lugh and the Fomorians.  The main female protagonist is Brigid, a complex and layered woman, torn between her anam cara and her duty to her people.

For the sake of peace, Brigid of the supernatural Túatha dé Danann enters into an arranged marriage with Bres, the next chieftain of the enemy Fomorian tribe, whose iron weapons and brute strength challenge the Danann magic. The Danann instruct Brigid to spy for them, and to keep the source of their powers secret, dangerous tasks that complicate her goal of making the best of her forced union. 

Sacrificing her own hope for love, Brigid faces the Fomorians alone. She must confront her rival, Morrigan, who competes for Bres's affections, as she begins to suspect that he is breaking the truce through lies and political manipulation. When his tyranny threatens the very existence of the Danann, Brigid must risk her life to unseat Bres from power.

This is an amazing read. A must buy. I give it

    

Visit her website Pagans, Saints, and  Potatoes  to learn more about her and her work.   

Once a Goddess is available in eBook and paperback at Amazon  and in paperback from Barnes & Noble

          

              

Across the Pond: Guest blog with Mhairi SImpson

Today I visit with Mhairi Simpson and talk about my journey to Dark Dealings and why Druids and Wall Street make sense.  Stop by and chime in.

http://mhairisimpson.com/2012/06/druids-and-wall-street-a-guest-post-by-k-victoria-smith/

While you are here, read excerpts from Dark Dealings at the links to your right.

Last Bite at the Apple: Chapter 3 Dark Dealings

Dark Dealings, my debut novel, releases officially as an eBook on May23rd.  Today, I give you one last sample chapter to whet your appetite...or your thirst.

Watch here for upcoming details of the launch contest and blog tour!


Links to Chapters 1 and 2 can be found to your right >>>>>>> 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Chapter 3

           

Micaela stared into chocolate brown eyes. Not Reece, Adam. She shook out the cobwebs of the vision. Her fingers were cramped and curled. She had let go of Adam’s hands and wrapped her own hands first around the invisible rifle and then around the orb. Her palms were warm.

“Micaela, are you okay? You were gone a while.” He massaged her palms and knuckles.

“How long?”

“Ten minutes, maybe more,” he said.

Ten precious minutes. Panic squeezed her chest. “Joshua’s Cave. He’s in Joshua’s Cave. He’s hurt bad.”

“That’s over a mile from the trail.”

From the shadow of the trees, Chief Deerfield, Adam and Reece’s grandfather, emerged and spoke to Adam. “Listen to her, Red Hawk. You know what she saw.”

Micaela let out a soft gasp. “Adam, how much did you see?”

“We’ll talk later, Micaela.” Adam called to the men. “We know where he is. Grab the two-ways and the rifles.”

They raced in the direction of Joshua’s Cave. No questions.

Her head throbbed and her stomach churned. Years before, after the doctors had eliminated a possible brain tumor, they told her the auras, the headaches, the nausea were the result of migraines, but she knew better. Micaela crawled off the step, threw up into Una’s azaleas, and then passed out. When she opened her eyes, Chief Deerfield and Peggy stood over her. Tears ran down Peggy’s face.

“They radioed. They found him, Micaela, just where you said. They’re bringing him down now.”

Chief Deerfield helped Micaela stand up. Her head still pounded and her legs were rubber. He handed her a piece of willow bark. “You remember what to do with this, White Crow.”

When they were seven, Reece had begged his grandfather to make Micaela a member of the tribe and give her a Pokanoket name. Her parents and Una had been at the ceremony.

“Is Reece all right?” She chewed on the bark. The pain started to recede.

“He will be. We will take him to the enclave and help him through this time.”

Micaela’s first inclination was to insist Reece be airlifted to New York; she had a friend who would arrange a police escort. Micaela would call in favors from anyone necessary to ensure Reece’s survival. But she had grown up with the Nation and knew better, they had their own resources.

She watched as the enclave’s EMS vehicle pulled closer. Paramedics in scrubs climbed out accompanied by the aged shaman of the Pokanoket. “If you need anything, Chief Deerfield, Peggy, please tell me.”

Peggy’s eyes were locked on the path to the mountain. She didn’t answer. But knowing now how much Reece loved Peggy and how she returned that love, Micaela didn’t mind.

Chief Deerfield took her hand and walked with her and Peggy to the edge of the forest to wait. “I know what this has cost you, White Crow. We thank you for what you have done for Reece and Peggy… and for Adam.”

“I didn’t want Adam to blame himself, I know how that works.”

“Adam has a destiny and you have helped him on his path.”

Could she get off this path? For now, she would wait in the darkness with the others for Reece to come home.

  

The search team crashed back through the underbrush with a makeshift stretcher holding Reece. Paramedics met them; one grabbed Reece’s arm and, barely breaking stride, started an IV line. They eased Reece onto a gurney and slid an oxygen mask slid over his nose and mouth. The shaman stepped up with Adam as Peggy stood on the other side of Reece and brushed his hair back from his face. When she took her hands away they were smeared with his blood. The shaman began a chant. Micaela stood silent as Adam mirrored the shaman’s motions and words. When they had finished, Peggy bent over and lifted Reece’s oxygen mask so he could speak. She whispered back and laid a kiss on his cheek, then called Micaela over to his side. Reece’s face was gray; his brown eyes had a scary milky film.

“Hey Reece, long time, no see.” Micaela felt the tears pool in the corners of her eyes.

“You were there.” He attempted a smile.

“You’ll be all right. It will be just like before.”

“I’m going to be a Dad. I owe you, if you hadn’t told me….” His eyelids sagged and then shut.

Micaela eyes rose to meet Adam’s. “Is he okay?”

“We gave him something so he could sleep and heal.”

“Any idea what attacked him?”

Anger flared in Adam’s eyes. “Yes, the warriors will deal with it.” He took Micaela’s hands; a tear trailed down his cheek. “Thanks for telling him about the baby. It probably saved his life.”

“When I came out of the vision, you knew, too.”

Adam looked to the old shaman before he answered. “I told you I understand more than you realize.”

Peggy and Adam climbed in the back of the ambulance while a stone-faced warrior escorted the shaman to a waiting Jeep. Micaela watched the motorcade pull away, and then went inside.

 She woke the next morning on the sofa; a quilt covered everything except her cold bare feet. Her grandmother must have taken her stockings off. Micaela swung her feet to the floor, ready to head upstairs for a shower. Her headache was gone, but her body ached with exhaustion. She rested her elbows on her knees and weighed the merits of standing. Brown, dried pine needles protruded from between her toes. Maybe someone had used the quilt for a picnic. She carried it out on the porch and shook it over the railing. No needles. She pressed it to her face. The quilt smelled of detergent and fabric softener.

Una fussed over her the rest of the weekend. She cooked Micaela’s favorite breakfast of Secret Recipe pancakes. They went to Lafferty’s on Saturday night for Shepherd’s Pie. Una insisted on a private booth and Lafferty made sure they weren’t disturbed. Micaela noticed the furtive glances and whispers but no one came near; a blessed change from years ago. Afterwards, they drank tea with a side of Paddy’s Irish by the hearth.

Adam called Sunday morning to tell them that Reece was hanging in. It would be a long road but they were optimistic. After lunch, Micaela sat on the front porch draped in a crocheted throw while Una sat beside her sipping tea. It had rained through the night and into the late morning. Tears of water dripped from the leaves that remained on half-stripped branches. Soon the ground would be covered in frost and then snow. And so began Samhain, the Druid winter when life retreated beneath the earth and darkness ruled.

“I should get on the road. I promised Parker we would meet for a late dinner.”

“You tell your young man I expect to see him for Thanksgiving dinner. I don’t want to hear either of you are too busy.” Una shifted in her Adirondack chair to face Micaela.

“He won’t be able to make it. He’s leaving in the morning for a new office complex project in Vancouver. It’s a great opportunity. He should make partner when he’s done.”

“How long will he be gone?” The furrows between Una’s brows deepened.

“It’s supposed to take several years. He’ll be back every couple of months.” The next part was going to be hard; she knew how much Una liked Parker. “We’ve agreed to take a step back in our relationship. Just friends and all.”

“The wheel turns.” Una nodded. “Are you all right with this arrangement, dear?”

“Parker is great guy, he’s smart, sweet. We’re good together. I suppose it should be enough.” Micaela twirled a multi-hued yarn tassel on the throw between her fingers. “Not everyone can have what Mom and Da had. Can they?”

“Your mother asked me the same question not long before she met your father. Will you be here for Thanksgiving?”

“I’ll do my best, but I was just assigned to a new financing deal, my first international assignment. I don’t know what my schedule will be yet.”

“You tell Brian Moran that Una Rourke wants her granddaughter here. He won’t argue.”

“It’s not entirely up to him. One of our major clients asked for me specifically and I don’t think they celebrate Thanksgiving in Ireland.”

“Ireland. Who would the client be?”

“Knowth Corporation. Judy will have a briefing file waiting for me tomorrow morning. I understand they’re headquartered north of Dublin.”

“Knowth Corporation. Interesting.”

“You’ve heard of them?”Micaela asked.

“They’ve been around for a long time. Would it be Byrne Connor, you’re dealing with?”

“Actually, my day-to-day contact will be a Liam Farrell. We are supposed to speak by video conference on Tuesday morning.”

“Of course.” Una nodded. “The Farrells have always worked for Knowth.”

Micaela knew her grandmother kept tabs on things back home. She didn’t realize it included major players in the financial community, especially ones who were as reclusive as Byrne Connor. “Is there anything else you can tell me, Una?”

“Nothing right now. Give my regards to Liam and Byrne.”

Available at Amazon for the Kindles, Barnes & Noble for the Nooks and soon at Smashqwords for most other eReaders (included iReaders)

A St. Patrick's Day Crisis

Ireland, The Emerald Isle, Saint Patrick and the Druids. This is the time of year when everyone pretends to be Irish---they can only dream.
I am 100% on both sides, with family from the east to west (Dublin to Galway), a Sinn Fein great-uncle who was brother to a member of the British Army, who went AWOL in Pretoria (apparently a great way to get out of impoverished Ireland in the early 20th century)

I great-grandfather who came to America in 1842 perhaps from Longford, may have served in the Army of the Potomac in one of the Brooklyn Irish Brigades and, at the age of 72, sired my grandfather.

Let's not even begin the discussion about corned beef not being Irish...and green bagel?!?

All right..go for it. The Irish love to mix it up.

The burning question is do you take your Irish soda bread with or without caraway seeds?

What are the true traditions?

I know I have Irish followers, and those that wish they were, from all over the globe and we are never shy about voicing our opinions on any topic.

So Caraway or No?

What's right or wrong with the day?

Sample Sunday: Chapter 1 Dark Dealings

I have been off the radar here for awhile. It has been an interesting ride both personally and professionally. But one of the things I have accomplished is to finally get Dark Dealings ready for publishing. Unless my laptop explodes (and that's what DropBox is for) I anticipate a Launch Party on Wednesday May 23, 2012 for the eBook formats with print versions available at a later date.

It is an exciting and scary time. Please enjoy Chapter 1 below and by all means TELL YOUR FRIENDS!

Dark Dealings: Magic, murder and monsters on Wall Street and beyond.  

Wall Street has fangs. When international power brokers, creatures hiding in plain sight, threaten  Micaela and those she loves, will this heiress of a Druid legacy deny her power again and let others die?  A thrill ride of money, magic and murder across the globe.

Chapter 1

Samhain         

Her hopes for a nice, normal weekend away from the office died on a dark bend of Massachusetts’ Route 7. Micaela flicked on the high beams, wary of the deer that often darted into the unlit road. She downshifted the Porsche Cayman and guided it around a sharp curve. The crisp air that flowed through the open window smelled of late October snow in the Berkshires. As much fun as it might be to floor it, she wasn’t in any great hurry to get to her grandmother’s farm. A mile later, a shadow at the edge of the road made her slow to a crawl. On the shoulder, a man dressed in bloody shreds of clothes sat hunched over his knees. He looked up and stared into her eyes. His mouth formed words she couldn’t hear.

Reece.

Micaela pulled over and grabbed a halogen flashlight from the glove box. She jumped from the car and dashed back to the place she’d seen her friend to find no one there. A dark stain gleamed in the ray of her flashlight. She touched her fingers to it and then lifted them to her nose. Motor oil. Micaela paced up and down, scanning the brush and road for clues.

“Reece, where are you? If this is some sick Halloween joke, come out now!” she shouted into the darkness. No sign of him or anyone on the road or in the woods beside the two lane highway, no footprints and, thankfully, no blood.

Reece wasn’t the type to pull this kind of stunt. His brother Adam, maybe. But Adam would have already stumbled into the road, doubled over in laughter. She walked slowly back to her car, ears straining for any noise she might have missed. Back behind the wheel of the Porsche, Micaela stared into the night sky. Until five minutes ago, she’d looked forward to time away, even if it meant being in Bridewell for Samhain.

She looked around one more time. No sign of Reece. Her stomach was a basketball-sized knot. If this wasn’t a trick… Damn. She slammed her hand against the steering wheel. It was just a delusion, she thought, spawned by exhaustion. She must have been micro-sleeping behind the wheel. Too many late nights hunched over the prospectus of a recent deal. The alternative was unacceptable. It meant the visions had returned. Why now, why had his spirit, ghost… No, she refused the idea that he had passed over. Then again, Samhain was the time of year when people and spirits moved between this world and the Otherworld. Shit.

She wanted to call Reece from her cell phone, but she’d never programmed any of the Bridewell numbers into her contacts. Dread gnawed at Micaela’s mind for the remainder of the drive to her old hometown.

Over an hour later, she turned off Cerwiden Street and onto the narrow country lane that led to the Rourke-O’Brien Farm. Flashing red lights slashed through the darkness between the gnarled apple trees of the Rourke orchard. She swerved left as she rounded the last turn to avoid the police cruiser stationed near the foot of the drive. The wooden gate, meant to keep sheep in, was pushed open. A patrolman in an orange vest flagged her down. Her dread turned to fear.

“Miss, you’ll have to park on the road.” The strobe from the light bar illuminated his name tag.

“Sean, Sean Murphy… it’s me… Micaela O’Brien. Is my grandmother all right?”

“Jeez, Micaela, I didn’t recognize you. Nice car. Is it new? I haven’t seen you since… ”

“Sean! Is she all right?” He had always been easily distracted, especially by high powered toys.

“Una’s okay. I think. Some kind of accident in the hills behind the farm.”

“Is Reece at the house?” Please say yes, she whispered to herself.

Sean shrugged. “Don’t know.” He waved her through the gate.

Gravel sprayed behind the car as it sped up the driveway. Micaela left the car in the first open space amid the Jeeps and vans. EMTs sipped from Styrofoam coffee cups beside an ambulance.

In three steps, her four-inch heels were kicked off. She finished the sprint across the brittle late season grass in stocking clad feet. A jack o’ lantern leered from the wood porch while a scarecrow twisted in the wind. She slammed open the screen door and crossed the dark parlor toward the light of the kitchen. The aroma of coffee and baking soda bread filled the kitchen, familiar scents, so different from the sight that greeted her. The crisp linens, flowers and canned fruits and vegetables that usually adorned the counters and shelves were crammed into a cupboard. A kettle screeched on the stove. Dirty dishes overflowed the sink. On the oversized black farm stove, bangers sizzled while the oil danced in the cast iron skillet.

Una Rourke leaned over a massive blue pottery bowl beating the daylights out of the potatoes. Her grandmother was fine, but things must be bad; Una always turned worry into action usually involving food. Micaela wrapped her arms around Una from behind and planted a kiss on her cheek.

“Ah, Micaela, you’re here. Good. Would you get the large platter from the pantry, then slice the soda bread and set it out. The butter is in the fridge.” Una brushed a lock of her still black curls from her face.

“What happened? Sean said there was an accident?” Micaela opened the wood and glass-paned cabinet door and pulled out the pewter bread platter. The knot in her stomach tightened.

“A group of the boys from the enclave were up on the mountain. Reece got separated from them just after dusk. There are teams of searchers looking for him now.” Una spooned the ivory mounds of potato onto a large ceramic platter. “Can you turn down the flame on the bangers, dear.”

“Reece? He’s hunted these hills since middle school. He doesn’t get lost.” He was the son of Chief Deerfield of the Pokanoket enclave, a splinter group of the main tribe near the Cape. He had grown up just outside of Bridewell and knew this part of the Berkshires better than anyone. If he was missing, Grandma had cause to worry. Micaela’s heart sank.

Five men filed in through the back door. In the mudroom, they pulled off suede coats and leather boots. Hunting rifles were balanced against the whitewashed bead board wall. Reece’s younger brother, Adam Red Hawk Deerfield, led the group that included four of Reece’s cousins from the enclave. It was a different entrance from those of their childhood, when the Druids, led by Una, and Pokanoket had played together because the old blood Yankees would have no part of either group. As always, Una’s door was open to all, whenever they needed her.

Behind them, Peggy, Reece’s bride of six months, leaned against the doorframe. She was pale with the shadow of tomorrow’s dark rings under her eyes. They hadn’t spoken since Micaela’s parents had died, but the anxiety that poured from Peggy made Micaela cross the room to hug her. Peggy lurched away, her hands locked at her side and her eyes wide. But Reece must love her and she him, or they wouldn’t have crossed the line between Pokanoket and Yankee to marry. So for Reece’s sake, Micaela reached out.

Peggy’s emotions flooded into Micaela: dread about Reece, concern for the child she carried, regret she hadn’t told Reece, and, after all these years, Peggy’s terror of Micaela’s visions. Micaela gasped and stumbled back. Peggy stared wide-eyed at her.

For ten years, Micaela had tried everything, from psychotherapy to alternative medicine, in the hope of burying the visions and sensations. Except for the occasional nightmare, she believed she had succeeded. She couldn’t… wouldn’t go back down that road. A gift, they called it. Bullshit.

“It’ll be okay, Peg. They’ll find him.” Micaela grabbed the edge of the slate kitchen counter as the room wavered. One of those headaches was around the corner. “You need to take care of yourself, Peggy. You’re no good to anyone sick.”

Peggy searched Micaela’s face. “Are you just saying that or is this something you know?”

Micaela caught Una watching, cautious, waiting for Micaela’s response.

“The only thing I know for sure is that they are doing everything possible to find Reece.” She steered Peggy to a chair. “Can I get you coffee? Some herbal tea?”

“I guess the tea makes more sense. Thanks.”

Henry, Reece’s cousin, laughed. “Hell of a time to give up coffee. Peg’s always got a latte in her hand. Her kindergarten students can already spell caffeine.”

Una’s and Adam’s eyes darted from Peggy to Micaela. It wasn’t Micaela’s place to tell them about the baby.

Adam perched on the counter next to the stove as Micaela poured Peggy’s tea. Six years younger than Reece, he had been the little brother who tagged along on adventures in the woods. Now, he sat there, the image of Reece with the same coal black hair, chocolate brown eyes over arched cheekbones and broad chest.

Adam whispered, “I don’t pretend to understand everything that happened to you or why you and Peggy haven’t spoken. But we need any help you can give us; whatever it is. Reece needs you.”

“There are dozens of searchers out there. Someone will find him.” She refilled the kettle and set it back to boil. The aroma of Peggy’s tea drifted up. Lavender, oat, catnip and lemon balm, Micaela blended the herbs just as Una and her mother had taught her. She poured a second cup for herself, although she doubted it would help.

Peggy looked up, tears glittered in her eyes. She’d heard their conversation. “It’s been hours, Micki. Please.”

Reece’s family, members of his tribe, her childhood friends sat at Una’s table, half eaten meals in front of them. Their hunger had been replaced by a greater need. Behind Peggy, Una radiated comfort and warmth. Six pairs of eyes poured their pleas into her soul, colliding with her nightmares.

Micaela set Peggy’s tea on the table and took her own cup out to the back porch. She wrapped her hands around it and inhaled the fragrant steam. The evening dew had hardened into frost. A late October fog crept down the hills and across the lawn. Tendrils of mist sought the house. On the hillside, a beacon from a searcher’s flashlight shimmered in the darkness diffused by the vapors. It would be a bitter night on the mountain.

She had stuffed all the metaphysical shit in a box and shoved it into the darkest recesses of her mental closet. The jump into Peggy’s mind had been a lit match in the closet and Micaela didn’t want to look. Of course, it would be Peggy who opened that door in Micaela’s mind. The look of horror on Peggy’s seventh grade face when Micaela came home after her parents died was diamond-etched in her memory. She could still hear Peggy and her other so-called friends whisper at the lunch table words like “freak,” “crazy,” “just like that girl in the Stephen King movie”. She placed her empty cup beside Una’s garden basket on the white cast iron table.

The screen door creaked. She knew it was Una before she spoke.

“Micaela?” A word. A whisper. A thousand questions.

“What am I supposed to do?” She stood at the edge of the porch and shivered.

Una joined her on the top step and draped an Aran Isle cardigan over Micaela’s shoulders.

“Peggy still thinks I’m a monster. But she needs me to be one now.” Micaela slipped her arms in the sleeves and started pacing. Her hands clenched and unclenched. “Reece, his family, the whole tribe… they were my friends when everyone else treated me like a side show attraction.”

“Reece could be dying up there.” Una’s steady gaze fixed on Micaela’s face.

“You don’t think I know that. It’s what they think I do, right? Know things.” She stared out at the dark hillside and fought back tears of frustration. “What if I don’t know, what if I can’t find him?” What if the vision on the roadside meant she was too late?

“And if you don’t try?” Una smoothed Micaela’s auburn waves the way she had when Micaela was a teenager waking from one of her nightmares.

“I’m not sure I know how.” Micaela slumped against the porch rail.

“You’ll figure it out.” Una kissed her forehead. “You know I’ll be here if you need me.”

Mrs. Ryan rounded the corner of the house; her ceremonial robe embroidered with Ogham and triskeles billowed around her. She had been part of the family and the community for as long as Micaela could remember.

“You haven’t changed, Aunt Evelyn.” Micaela hugged her old dance teacher. Evelyn Ryan wasn't Micaela’s blood aunt, but that had never mattered.

“Any word on Reece?” Mrs. Ryan asked.                                

Micaela shook her head.

“You’ll find him,” Mrs. Ryan said, “Then we will celebrate his rescue and your promotion. Your parents would be very proud of you and the community is too.” By community, she meant the Druid Grove, of course, not Bridewell’s Yankee elite, who barely acknowledged the Irish or the Pokanoket.

“My stuff can wait,” Micaela said. Why she had driven to Bridewell in the first place no longer seemed so important. But tonight was also one of the most important festivals in the Druid Community. As Priestess of the Bridewell Grove, Una Rourke had to be there.

Micaela turned to her grandmother. “It’s Samhain; shouldn’t you two be on your way?”

“I must go.” Una had stopped asking her to attend years ago. “Can you handle things here?”

Micaela rubbed her temples; the tell-tale throbbing had begun. “Of course I can. It’s what I do.” She stared up at the mountains. The full moon floated above the peaks. Reece was out there somewhere.

Dark Days, Bright Ideas

I have been hibernating for the last month, but unlike the groundhog, I will not wait for February 1^st, Imbolc to me, to come out of my sleep and blink at the world.

In the ancient tradition of the Druids, winter began at Samhain (Halloween on the modern calendar) and lasted to Imbolc (approximately February 1). By that calendar, the winter solstice does, in fact, mark mid-winter. It is the shortest day of the year. The nights in the Northeast US can be long, dark and cold. And like days gone by, when people would retreat to the warmth of the hearth and plan for the next year, we do the same.

Winter was and is a time of re-evaluating and re-grouping… think New Year’s resolutions. In modern times, we are no different and, as I talk with many of my friends, we feel as if we are on the brink of change and new growth. Change is never easy and often downright painful. We can feel lost in the dark night of winter.

Those of you who have stopped my blog over the last year or even few months have been privy to some of the changes in my life. After years of a torturous bank merger, I resigned my position with a major national bank. I had spent long nights (and days) looking at the current environment, which did not empower me. It was and is an organization that subtly and not-so-subtly encourages their people to cross ethical lines (if not legal ones) and disrespected their customers and employees. My values and integrity are important to me and so my prospects for success and advancement were bleak.

I also briefly had an agent and after a difference in philosophy parted company with that agent. I am a supporter of agents and publishers everywhere and appreciate the work that can be done on behalf of authors when the right fit is found. It is an evolving world and lots of relationships have to be redefined or re-aligned. I will never rule out establishing a mutually beneficial relationship with an agent and/or publisher.

So, as the days grow shorter and I approach the Winter Solstice and the first anniversary of this blog (Wow, one year already!), what am I up to now.

Dark Dealings proceeds toward publication with a target of early 2012. I have been approached by several small press houses about publishing my novel, but self-publishing remains for me a very viable option.  In an effort to manage all the plans and projects to the future, I will be forming a Limited Liability Corporation in the next few weeks. In addition to the name of the company, I will also announce my decision on how I will be going about publishing Dark Dealings.  Oh and I continue to look for a day job to pay bills until my writing does that for me.

So I have not been wasting the short days and the long night. I have been planning the next harvest.

When I was in grammar school (yes, that’s what it was called back in the day) we had to memorize poems. One has stayed with me all these years. I have posted it before, but for myself and those who plan for the next cycle of growth, it is worth posting again.

I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.
A magical thing
And sweet to remember.

'We are nearer to Spring
Than we were in September,"
I heard a bird sing
In the dark of December.

                                                                                                                                ~ Oliver Herford

Now I don’t care if what the mix of dark and light are, just someone find me a forty-eight hour day. How are you doing as one year ends and another is about to begin?

Hurricanes and Writing in the Dark

                So Irene blew through the Northeast this past weekend leaving destruction in varying degrees in her wake.  We were fortunate and suffered very little property damage.  My thoughts and prayers go out to those less fortunate.  We did lose power for approximately thirty-six hours but we were prepared with a generator to hook up the refrigerator, one television to entertain others and an oxygen concentrator for my father.  My father normally lives on his own in a 55-and-up community about two miles from our house.  He has emphysema (50 years of smoking will do that to you) and requires oxygen supplementation. Prior to Irene’s arrival, we picked him up and brought him to our house in anticipation of the power outage. His development is still without power.

                On top of that, my daughter is preparing to move to the New York apartment that was the result of the hunt covered in a previous blog. There are boxes, furniture and goddess only knows what piled everywhere.

                Did I mention my father is hard of hearing and likes to turn up the volume so that the neighbors can listen along?

                Don’t get me wrong, I love my family and am grateful for the minimal impact Irene has had on us. But hurricanes, fathers and moving daughters can throw a routine into chaos.

                On the full night of the black-out, I sought out the solitude of my writing cave in the spare room we have on the second floor.  It was dark and there was no electricity so I lit three candles and surrounded my paper with them. For someone who writes about vampires and ancient Druids, it was the perfect ambience for working on the sequel to Dark Dealings.  The soft flicker of the candle flame was soothing and chased the stress into the shadows.

                The pieces are starting to fall into place for Book 2 (as yet untitled) and I have Christopher Vogler’s: The Writer’s Journey, Mythic Structure for Writers to thank. It is one of my touchstone works when I feel like my story arc is floundering. In his work, Vogler takes the Hero’s Journey, as well-described and analyzed by Joseph Campbell, and applies it to modern storytelling first in movies and then in the written word. It is not a formula approach to novel writing but a study of the common elements found in great and memorable stories since we first sat around the cave fire. It helps me focus on why my plot may feel dull and listless.

               

                Like my ancestors the bards of Ireland, I spent the night in a darkness broken only by the flickering tongues of flame. I thought about how to make my story better. I want a novel that will transport someone from their normal world, to take them on an adventure and give them a gift to bring back with them. And so I struggle and study and learn from other storytellers, from readers and from the flame.

                Come back this weekend to meet one of those storytellers, Steve Umstead, a fellow PubWriteGroup member. We learn from each other every day on our journey to be the best writers we can be.

                So the storm moves on and so do I until the next hurricane, earthquake or, dare I hope, flash of inspiration.  It is only the beginning of the season you know.

Excerpt #2 Dark Dealings

Dark Dealings: You can read the opening in an earlier Sunday Sample post to the right of this. 

We are now in Chapter 2, Micaela has confirmed that Reece is missing and, given her earlier vision, she knows time is slipping away.  Peggy (mentioned below) is now Reece’s wife, but was a key player in the events years ago that drove Micaela away from her gifts and the Druid community.  Adam is Reece’s brother and next in line of shaman/wise man of the local Pokanoket community, which has close relations to Druids and Micaela’s family.

Your comments are welcome below.  If you like this, please follow and recommend to others  ____________________________

Adam stood over the sink washing dishes and strategizing with the other searchers.  She crooked her finger at him to follow her outside.

            “What’s up, Micaela?” he eased the screen door closed behind him.

            “I’m not sure how to start this conversation without sounding like a lunatic.  I worked years to avoid what I’m about to say and do.”

            “Spit it out.  Our families have known each other for generations, you can trust us…you can trust me.”

            Micaela stared out into the oaks.  “Things were said about me when I was a teenager…  I was different, I saw things.”

            “I was little, but I kind of remember.  Is that what Peg was talking about?”

            “I thought it was gone. That I’d out grown it or exorcised it.  That I could be like everyone else.”

            “But something happened in there.”  Adam made it sound more like a statement than a question.

            “I've opened Pandora’s Box.  But if I can help find Reece, I can’t close it now.”

            Adam leaned on the porch railing.  She watched the emotions play across his face.  His eyes lost focus and he seemed to go somewhere inside.

            “Micaela, I understand, more than you know, what we’re asking of you.  We’ve looked for Reece for hours.  Times running out.” His eyes were haunted.  His voice was barely a whisper.  “It was my idea to go out tonight.   I said it would be easy to hunt by the light of the full moon.  Reece didn’t think we should ignore the Elders.”

            “I can’t guarantee anything, Adam.”

            “But you’ll try, it’s all that matters.” He pushed off the porch rail and faced her.  “Tell me what you need.”

            “I’m not entirely sure. For starters, I think we should sit, in case someone passes out.”  She moved to the bottom step.  After the dizziness brought on by her brief contact with Peggy’s mind, she didn’t want too far to go if she went down.

            “Now what?”  Adam sat beside her.

            “Take my hands.”  They faced each other.  His large hands swallowed hers in their grip.

            At first nothing happened.   Micaela struggled for a way into the vision.  What happened in the kitchen had been so sudden and violent. She had been overwhelmed by the emotions.  That was it---Peggy’s strong feelings acted as a trigger. It must have been Reece’s own emotions that brought the vision on the highway.  Micaela would have to ask Adam to relive the event and the sensations.  She wished she could protect him from it, but she didn’t know how.

            “Adam, I need you to think about the last time you saw Reece, about what happened up on the mountain.”  And I need to stop resisting, she thought, for now.

            He chewed his lower lip, his dark eyebrows knit together.  Micaela exhaled and focused on releasing the stress in her shoulder.  She opened herself to the magic.   Images slammed into her.  She could see through Adam’s eyes.  She was Adam.  Reece and the other four men headed into the woods.  The temperature dropped as the sun set.  She reached beyond their muted voices.  The forest air filled with the hoot of an owl, the skitter of small feet, the final screech of a small rodent, and the snap of branches as larger things moved.

            Adam/Micaela signaled to Reece that Henry had spotted a six point buck.  She felt Adam’s confusion turn to concern when Reece wasn’t bringing up the rear as usual.   Adam retraced his steps.  At first he scanned the path, then whispered Reece’s name, no reason to spook the buck.  But another noise and a different scent drove the buck deeper into the woods.  Silence was no longer necessary. 

April Fool's and the Amadán

            One of the theories on the origins of April Fool’s Day is related to the old calendar.  In the Middle Ages, even though the calendar was changed to mark the New Year as January 1, many still celebrated the more ancient practice of marking the New Year at approximately the Vernal Equinox.  In France and other locations it was a week-long celebration ending on April 1.  It is thought that these celebrants were referred to as April Fool’s by the more modern and self righteous new calendar adherents.

           

            One of my personal theories is that it was a resurrection of the Feast of Fools, celebrated on December 28 until the sixteenth century.  Many are familiar with the Feast of Fools from the scene in the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  It was a festival that turned the hierarchy upside especially the clergy.  It was by all accounts celebrated with ridiculous ceremonies and mock consecrations and general buffoonery.  It in turn was a replacement for the Roman Saturnalia.  The growth of April Fool’s seems to have begun after the Catholic and Protestant Churches succeeded in eliminating the antics of the Feast of Fools.  As you may begin to see, the word fool had different implications in those days than it does now. Think court jester or The Fool of the Tarot.  Neither form of the fool is foolish, but is viewed as a vagabond or a trickster. Sound familiar???

            Near to my heart is “the fool” in Ireland.  If you are familiar with Gaelic you are not surprised that there are two words for fool.  The Irish word for a female fool is an óinseach.  Interestingly enough there is no popular folklore around this.

            The Amadán is the male fool.  In Irish myth there are two forms.  The Amadán na bruidhne, is considered malevolent, the fool of the fairy mounds and palaces.  This fool is thought to be responsible for the fairy stroke and more active in June.  He causes sudden and mysterious death.  The Amadán Mór is viewed as benevolent. He is part of Irish folklore, including the Eachtra an Amadáin Mhóir, which is considered part of the Fenian Cycle.   Visit this link for a translation of the story. http://www.answers.com/topic/eachtra-an-amad-in-mh-ir  It is often compared to Perceval of the Arthurian cycle.  . In the Eachtra. the Amadan, the son of a murdered king, flees to the forest with his mother.  There he grows large and hairy during the night.  At one point he loses his shins and after a quest and some trials.  When he meets achampion who challenges him for his wife, our hero declares he will defend her with only his fists.  The champion calls him a Big Fool. He wins the battle and has his legs restored by the magic of the Druid. 

            So when someone asks me how I can merge Druids, vampires and shapeshifters in my novel, Dark Dealings I think of stories like this and quote Una Rourke, my main character’s grandmother and Druid priestess, “We who have touched the Otherworld know differently.”  All things are possible.

            There are other practices around the Amadán.  Feel free to share them here.  Has anyone heard of blessing the entries with salt, ash and holy water to keep the Amadán out?

Greetings from the Grove

A short wish on the glorious morning!




Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh!

Soda Bread A Very Not Irish Food

Like so many foods, Irish Soda Bread was not invented by the Irish, but it was quickly adopted.  My personal opinion is that it was a bread easily baked in the hearth.  It did not require yeast, a delicate and expensive ingredient.  Why the spring/St. Patrick’s Day association?  Again, pure speculation. Unless, of course, it is my ancestors whispering from the Otherworld.  Imbolc, the Druid festival that marks the beginning of Spring on the old calendar, was centered around the hearthfire and butter, milk and other special foods.  In fact, the name Imbolc is often linked to the translation ‘ewe’s milk’.

Traditional buttermilk is formed from the liquid that is left after the cream for the butter is separated.  In older times (older than me), the milk was left to stand for separation. During that time, the milk would sour by creating lactic acid.  It is the reaction between the lactic acid and the baking soda that is key to a great soda bread.

Many people like to include caraway seeds in their soda bread.  I am not sure that these seeds were readily available in Ireland.   In ancient times, there is evidence that the predecessors of the modern Irish may have traded as far away as what we now think of as the Middle East.  But at the time that Irish Soda Bread was popularized (the 18^th century), it is more likely that caraway was brought back by Irish soldiers serving in the British Army (before Independence) in India.  I am a purist, I don’t put caraway in my soda bread and it is peanut butter and grape jelly (only) on white bread. There are things I will experiment with but these are not in the group.

So without further adieu, here is the soda bread recipe, that I make, that celebrates Imbolc and Spring and is mighty tasty!  For International followers, there are conversion tables.  If you hit a wall, let me know and I will help where I can

Ingredients:  (makes 1 loaf)

4 c white flour

½ c granulated sugar

1 tbsp baking powder

1 tsp salt

2 tbsp butter

1 egg

1 tsp baking soda

1 ½ c buttermilk

1 c raisins

½ c currants

In a large bowl, mix the flour, sugar, baking powder and salt in a large bowl. Rub butter into the dry ingredients until the mixture is like corn meal (grainy texture).  Add raisins and currants and mix until coated.

In a small bowl, beat the egg with the buttermilk then add the baking soda.  Let sit for 5-10 minutes.  Stir the buttermilk mixture into the dry ingredients, forming a soft dough.  Knead the dough lightly, using more flour, if needed.  Form dough into a ball, then flatten into an eight inch round.  Scour the top with an “X”

Bake the scone in a buttered 8” cake pan in a 375 degree oven for 50 minutes, or until the bottom sounds hollow when tapped and a cake tester comes out clean.

Remove from the cake pan and cool on a rack.

St. Patrick and the Druids

As this is the Storytellers Grove and I am the chief bard, I have reposted here one of the better sites I have found about Saint Patrick. I found it one of the more informative on his mission, myth and relations with the Druids.

St Patrickl

from

http://www.sacredfire.net/celtchrist.html

St. Patrick (AD 385-462) was captured and enslaved in Ireland as a youth, escaped, and finally returned as an adult to spread Christianity as a Catholic missionary. He was not Irish by birth, but was believed by some accounts to be either the son of a Roman Officer, or a British Celt. In his confession, one of the few documents known to be written by Patrick, he describes his father as"Calpornius, a deacon, son of Potitus, a priest, of the village Bannavem Taburniæ"  

In legend, Patrick is given credit for driving the snakes out of Ireland. In reality, the 'snakes' may well refer to the Druids, who were discredited and finally driven underground with the coming of Christianity. Patrick is credited with establishing Christianity in Ireland, and in the following centuries it either ousted or assimilated the old, pagan beliefs. Pagan festivals and holidays were adapted into Christian holy days, and many of the local god and goddess stories converted into tales of Irish saints. The most famous example is the Celtic goddess Brigit, or Bride, who is now known in the Christian Church as St. Brigit, Ireland's premier female saint. St. Patrick's birth name was Gaewyn and the estimated date of his birth was 390 A.D. in Roman Britain. At age 16 the man who would later be known as the patron saint of Ireland was kidnapped by Irish raiders and sold into slavery. He escaped slavery six years later and fled to the European mainland where he received his religious training at Catholic monastaries. He took the name Patrick upon joining the priesthood and eventually attained the rank of Bishop. It was then that Patrick set out to do missionary work in Ireland. In around 432 A.D., he arrived in Ireland and began to compete with the priests of the pagan faith for followers. St. Patrick's struggle with the pagan order of the time began during the Celtic springtime fire festival known as Beltane. The ritual commenced with the ceremonial lighting of the High King's fire, from which all the other fires in the land would be lit. According to legend, St. Patrick lit an Easter fire on a nearby hill. The High King sent nine chariots to vanquish Patrick and put out his fire. Circling counter to the sun's path, the chariots attacked, but were unable to prevail against the holy fire. Still, Patrick's work was cut out for him. In his struggle to discredit the Druid elders and gain the confidence and later the souls of the Irish population, he was (in his own words) forced to "curse their fertile lands, so that they became dreary bogs; to curse their rivers, so that they produced no fish; to curse their very kettles, so that with no amount of fire and patience could they ever be made to boil; and as a last resort, to curse the Druids themselves, so that the earth opened and swallowed them up." St. Patrick began teaching Catholicism and the Holy Trinity to the Pagans by using a three leaf clover (a plant used in many of their rituals) to represent the father, the son and the holy spirit. His efforts were successful in converting the Gaelic population to Catholicism and making Ireland a fortress for the Catholic faith.

 

For more interesting information visit: http://mysite.verizon.net/cbladey/pat/patrick.html#Main