Writing an Ecosystem

As I mentioned in last week’s post, my day job is working for a local college as a biology and chemistry tutor. I got my own degree in biology a few years ago, and have since been working various positions in management and academia. My specialty is wildlife biology, but I have experience with everything from veterinary medicine to botany. I don’t run into many scientist writers, much less biologists, so I thought I would share my expertise insofar as it pertains to constructing fantasy worlds.

As with societies, ecosystems are first shaped by geology. The shape of the world is extremely important for determining weather patterns, which in turn dictate where the water will fall, and thereby where life will spring forth. Mountain ranges will generally be wet on one side and dry on another, creating a divide between forest and desert. On a smaller scale, north facing slopes tend to catch more moisture than their south facing backsides. This effect causes there to be spots of relative moistness and dryness even within the larger forest or desert. The geologic age of a mountain range can determine if its peaks are jagged spires of exposed rock, or rolling hills beneath a lush canopy. It’s also important to remember that rivers run downhill, but they also shape the land through which they run. Rivers may cut deep gorges through the mountains, or fan out across a valley. Latitude and elevation also play important roles in shaping an ecosystem. All these abiotic (nonliving) elements conspire together to form the basis for a specific and unique web of life.

When land is first created by volcanic eruptions it is barren and lifeless. Then lichens begin to grow on the rocks, slowly breaking them down through chemical and mechanical processes. Along with the decomposition of the dead lichens, this forms a sort of proto-soil on which mosses can happily grow. Mosses will accelerate the soil building process, which will be aided by erosion of the rock due to the weather. Once a thin soil develops, grasses can colonize the new land. As the soil becomes richer with decomposing plant matter and broken rock, new species will outcompete the old. Eventually, shrubs and small trees will grow, followed by taller and leafier trees that will shade out the smaller species. After a long succession of species, the land will finally reach a climax forest and the process will halt. The trees that dominate the forest outcompete everything else, but they never could have colonized the barren stone. When a tree falls, or when a wildfire comes through, it creates an opening for the wildflowers, grasses, and bushes once more. It’s important to keep succession in mind when designing an environment because you wouldn’t want to put a sun-loving maple beneath the boughs of a shady oak. Employing the concept of succession in your writing can also provide some much needed character to natural settings. A forest is never just a forest; it is a patchwork of disturbance and succession. A forest is not a blanket of the same three trees; it should be a quilt that contains old growth stands, meadows, bushes, and young trees, each competing with the other.

Once you have your geology and plant community prepared, you can start thinking about wildlife. Like plants, animal species occupy different niches. Elk like to graze in meadows, deer prefer the forest’s edge, while moose like wading through marshy land. It’s also important to note that animals seldom sleep where they eat. Elk may graze in the meadow in the morning and evening, but will take shelter in a shady and thick forest at noon and night. Their shady retreat protects them from overexertion in the heat of the day and serves as a timber fortress to defend them from predators. Many animals will also move with the turning of the seasons. Migrations can be to lower elevations for winter, or even lower latitudes. In the spring, most animals have their young and need a safe and food-dense place to rear them. 

Predators will always follow their prey; they will be active when their prey is active and sleep when their prey sleeps. Predators also have their niche. Wolves are coursing predators, meaning they chase their prey down, while mountain lions prefer to wait in ambush. Since wolves hunt in a pack, they can kill animals as big as a bison, whereas mountain lions are solitary and prey primarily on deer. Wolves prefer the wetter lowlands, while mountain lions stick to the rocky highlands. Wolves will try to steal a mountain lion’s cached kill if they can, and will chase the lion away. There are a host of scavengers that will visit a corpse once the apex predators are done with it. Coyotes, foxes, ravens, eagles, vultures, magpies, wolverines, and even bears will make a meal from the remnants of a slain deer. The specific species will vary in an ecosystem according to a variety of factors, but the tale of hunter and hunted is always the same.

I’d be remiss if I glossed over the small creatures, as so many of us are wont to do. There will be insects buzzing through the air and crawling across the ground. Spiders will spin their silk homes between the tall blades of grass. Fish will course through the streams, gobbling up anything they can fit in their mouthes. Squirrels will build their homes in trees and underground. Mice will forage in the meadows, and marmots in the mountains. Salamanders will sit patiently in the water or under moist logs, waiting for something tasty to crawl by. Frogs will croak their songs that can carry for miles. The drilling of a busy woodpecker will echo through the forest, and the piercing cry of the hawk will make everyone take pause. Lizards and snakes will bask in the sun, and owls will glide through the night. Every ecosystem is bursting with life from top to bottom, even deserts.

We all have occasion to describe the natural world, and those descriptions can be more real and more beautiful if we consider the ecosystem from top to bottom. A character can never just stroll through the forest. That forest is filled with plants and animals of every kind, and they will fill it with their sights, sounds, and smells. Agricultural land is filled with birds and rodents of every kind, as well as foxes, coyotes, and badgers. Even our cities are not exempt. Birds, rodents, cats, and dogs will make their homes on the streets and falcons will nest upon the castle tower. Even in our modern, sanitized lives, nature is present. For our characters, the natural world is omnipresent. 

Nature should be the Foundation of Fantasy

Most fantasy novels are set in a pseudo-historical setting because we love swords, cloaks, and princesses. Many authors do a considerable amount of research to make their setting authentic and believable. Often it is the historical details, rather than the fantastic ones, that form the groundwork for the world of the imagination. People must still eat, sleep, and go to the bathroom in whatever context they are set, and so those are details that the author must provide. We understand that the agriculture, government, technology, and and warfare in a story must adhere more to the examples of the past than those given by the modern world. We cannot have our knight galloping past a combine tractor, nor does it make sense to have a feudal system if the wheat can be harvested and processed mechanically. Additionally, we must be careful to avoid infusing our sword-wielding characters with modern values and sensibilities.

It’s true that humans will be humans no matter the context, but that doesn’t mean context is irrelevant to the way we approach the world. In Mongolian, there are over 500 words to describe the traits of horses, with about half of those describing the coat color alone. Mongolians spend a significant amount of time in their stories describing horses, and will often dwell on a horse’s pedigree longer than the hero who rides it. The Mongolian obsession with horses may seem alien to the average modern Westerner, who spends the majority of his time sitting indoors. In the same way, our characters should give attention to certain details that we would miss.

One of the most astounding criticisms I’ve received of my novel, The Wind from Faerie, is that I dwell too long on descriptions of nature. There are certainly valid criticisms to be made of my work, but this one seems utterly off base to me. I’ve often thought I don’t spend enough time describing the soil, the plants, the animals, and the clouds. The ancients were intimately tied to nature in a way that is difficult for us to understand today. If our ancestors could smell the snow on the air, and see the threat of it in the quilted clouds, then they could bring the flock to safety and insure that the fire is stoked before a flake has fallen. I only have to go back two generations in my own family before I reach a relative who had to farm without any mechanical aid. Someone who has to use a horse or ox to plow their field will know that animal like a member of their own family, and will gain an eye for all such creatures. My protagonist, Kellan, grew up stalking through the forest primeval. It is only logical that he would pay attention to bark and leaf, and that he would interpret all else through that lens. When he sees the marble columns of Parthicum, he is reminded of the august trunks of his native forest.

There are many reasons why I love the movie Gladiator, but one of my favorite details is how Maximus (the protagonist) is always examining the soil. He was a farmer before he became a general, and he never loses those instincts. He even stoops to feel and smell the dust of the Colosseum, the dust that may very well be soaked with his own blood by the day’s end. That’s good storytelling. Even today, those that spend time in nature will form a bond with it. Imagine a rancher, crouched among some thin and brittle grass. He’s in Iraq, waiting for an enemy convoy to roll by on the road, but all he can think about is that poor grass. A goat could hardly get a mouthful off it, and it would be a dusty mouthful. Suddenly, he has a concrete way to relate to the Iraqis. He can sympathize with those herdsmen, trying to eke a living from that thin grass while it’s getting trampled by foreign boots.

I’m currently working part time at a local college and am helping teach biology to the students there. In biology, there are roughly two levels of understanding life. The first is understanding what is happening on a molecular, cellular, and genetic level. This is essentially the stuff we can’t see, things that have strange names, and processes that involve a bunch of dots and arrows. It is understandably difficult for most people to learn. The second level is anatomy, behavior, and ecology. In this category, we are talking about how things grow and reproduce, how they get their food, and work in a community. Most importantly, we are dealing with plants and animals now, how they look and act. People are always good at learning the second category, even if they have no interest in biology. It isn’t just the difference between abstract concepts and concrete examples, those are present in both categories. The difference is that humans are hard-wired to quickly grasp the natural world. Plant and animal identification can be picked up quickly by anyone, and the average person can do a better job identifying species than our best computers. In botany class, after correctly identifying a tree, my professor would ask us why we had come to that conclusion. We’d often jokingly reply, “Because it looks like one.” The human mind can take note of all the subtleties of an organism at a glance, and that’s even true for those of us who spend an inordinate amount of time indoors. Imagine how much more adept our ancestors were, who were immersed in it, and for whom understanding nature was a matter of life and death.

Many of our characters live in a world in which nature is a part of their daily lives. They would know the songbirds that wake them in the morning, and the owls that call at night. They would know the names of the weeds, the trees, and the useful plants. They would know the insects that bite, those that spoil their crops, and those that predate the pests. They would know the names of the mountains and rivers, what creatures one might encounter there, and in which season. They would know what can lame a horse, the value of a cat, and how to train a dog. They would know when to sow, and when to reap; they would certainly know not to drink the water from every stream. In the midst of all their practical knowledge, they would also love and respect the natural world. They would recognize its beauty and its joys. Nature would be in the stories they tell, and the songs that they sing. They would define themselves relative to the natural world; it would inform their very identity. If we don’t know how our characters relate to nature, then we don’t know our characters.

If you find yourself at a loss for words to describe the beauty of nature, and the cycles of life alongside her, then I highly recommend reconnecting with your roots. Connecting with the natural world is an essential part of a healthy and happy life. We would be greatly benefited if we walk on the same trails of our ancestors, which are ultimately the same trails our characters must trod. Get outside and see the world!

Dungeons & Dragons: Cross Training for Writers

I’m an avid Dungeons & Dragons player, and have been a Dungeon Master for nearly ten years. For those of you who are unfamiliar with D&D, the Dungeon Master (or DM) is the chief architect of the world in which the players have their adventures. As a DM, I have planned plot-lines, created characters, laid the metaphysical foundations for magic, and constructed worlds from the smallest village to politics on a global scale. Being a DM is nearly the same as being a fantasy novelist, which is part of the reason it was so easy for me to translate my D&D world into The Wind from Faerie. However, there is one important difference between writing a novel and writing for a game of D&D: in the game, characters talk back.

I’ve often heard writers say that their characters have a life of their own, which is a feeling I can understand, but D&D takes the concept to a higher level. Your characters actually have a mind of their own because they are played by real people, and those people bring their own personality and interpretation to those roles. As the DM, I may imagine a heroic end for a mighty warrior, but that plan might change if the wizard decides to join the warrior in his final sacrifice. Suddenly, the scene becomes about companionship against all odds, and loyalty to the end. Even though I may meticulously plan the details of the world, I can never fully account for the free agency of the players and so they always surprise me. I think if I could attain that level of character development in my novels, a point at which my characters go beyond what they were created to be and become the arbiters of their own destinies, then the pages would breathe with life and authenticity.

Writing characters has always been the most difficult part of writing for me. I can easily and joyfully build intricate and authentic worlds, but character creation is the real crux. It is also the most important part of a story. Without interesting, characters, the most exciting plot becomes dull. With interesting characters, we are content to read about anything. The Harry Potter world is riddled with inconsistencies and its plots are simple in scope, but they have become some of the most popular books of all time because they feature a lovable cast of heroes. Even the father and master of fantasy, J.R.R. Tolkien, used fascinating characters to make interesting what might have been dull. The Shire is a land of simple people and country delights, and is perhaps one of the most sleepy places ever conceived. Nothing of note ever happens in the Shire, until Bilbo Baggins hosts an unexpected party. Yet even without the dwarves and wizards, the rangers and wraiths, it is the hobbits who make the shire interesting. Bilbo, Frodo, Sam, Mary, and Pippin are wonderful, fascinating characters that make the Shire into a place of excitement. That’s simply good character writing, and D&D is helping me to be better at it.

The surprises that the players bring to the table can be both welcome and unwelcome. It is heartwarming when the players provide a splendid interpretation of what I have planned, but their contributions are not always so appreciated. Inevitably, the players find the holes in my plot, the part of the map that hasn’t been filled in, or take the path I hadn’t considered. Having to go off-script is both maddening and exciting; it invalidates many of my preparations but leads to improvisation and whirlwind creativity. Readers have a nasty habit of doing the same things to my novels. They can always see what I can't, and point out the places where I obviously could have done better. The trick, which I’m still working on, is getting them to tell you these things before the book hits the shelves. Every worthwhile critique after the fact reminds me of my childhood; if my parents knew I was going to break something playing soccer indoors, then they should have stopped me before I turned their favorite vase into dust. 

Thankfully, D&D allows me to run simulations of ideas to see how foolproof they are, and there is no fool like a D&D player. Anyone who has played D&D understands; sometimes you enter town for supplies, and leave it in ash having gained nothing. Sometimes even the most well thought-out plans go sideways, and that goes double for the DM. I’ve had players accidentally win in the most impossible circumstances, and somehow create a disaster from the most innocent of social interactions. Characters, like people, can ruin a perfectly good plot. They find the plot hole and exploit it for a cheap victory, or can back themselves into a situation so bleak, you wonder how you’ll ever get them out. They’ll take you to the unwritten places, where you’ll be writing with equal parts excitement and dread. They may even change the entire message of your story. This is not the place to despair. These are the flames which will temper your work, making it, and you stronger.

A good storyteller rolls with the punches, and turns her blunders into victories. The key is to keep making mistakes, and have good people who can point them out to you. I’m learning that a story becomes what it was meant to be in editing, but we have to know what’s wrong with it first. Being a DM is my favorite form of cross-training for writing because it makes me consistently aware of my shortcomings, and my friends are graceful enough to let me improve.

Archery, Part Two

Welcome back to a discussion of all things archery! Last week we defined the three main categories of bows, and dipped out toes into the deep history of archery. This week, I’d like to cover arrows, quivers, and shooting techniques for a start, but we’ll see where I end up.

There are two broad traditions of archery, each centered around a different draw technique. The draw technique with which most of the western world is familiar is called the Mediterranean draw. In this form, the archer uses the pads of her three center fingers of her dominant hand to pull back the string, and the arrow is placed on the opposite side of the bow (left side for a right-handed archer). The Mediterranean draw has historically been used in Europe and the Middle East. The advantage of this draw is that it a very strong form; archers can pull a significant amount of weight with three fingers. That advantage is apparent in the infantry archers of Europe who carried bows with draw weights up to two hundred pounds at their peak. However, there are a few disadvantages. Having three fingers on the string provides the chance that all fingers might not leave the string at the same time, creating a mistake called an “unclean release” which can severely affect accuracy. Additionally, placing the arrow across the bow necessitates a slower reloading time, and increases the effect known as the “archer’s paradox”.

The archer’s paradox states that an arrow at full draw may be aimed at its target, but the closer the arrow gets to the bow, the more off target it becomes. Essentially, the string is inline with the center of the bow, but the arrow must move around the bow to get to its target. Traditionally, this problem was solved by using flexible arrows with heavy points. The flexible arrow bends around the bow, while the heavy point pulls the shaft toward the target with its superior momentum. Many modern recurve bows feature a cut-out center, meaning the belly of the bow curves to one side so that an arrow doesn’t have to move around as much wood. Compound bows are usually constructed so that archer’s paradox is practically negated, allowing them to use stiffer arrows. Generally speaking, an arrow’s spine (a measure of flexibility) must be appropriate for the bow or it will shatter on impact.

The second widely used draw form is a technique known as the thumb draw. In this form, the archer uses his thumb to draw the bow, usually placing the string in the crook of the distal knuckle. The pad of the index finger is then placed on the thumb nail for reinforcement. Additionally, the arrow is usually placed on the same side of the bow as the dominant hand (right side for right-handed archers). The thumb draw was used by all people of the Asiatic steppe, as well as the Romans, Byzantines, and by at least one of the indigenous peoples of the Americas. Since this draw method places a considerable amount of strain on the thumb, various rings have been used to protect the pad and joint. Rings come in a multitude of styles, and may be made of horn, metal, wood, leather, or plastic. The thumb draw works especially well for short bows (such as those used on horseback), when more fingers would be pinched by the more acute angle of the string. The thumb draw has the potential to have a very clean release since only one digit has to leave the string, but it is considerably more difficult to draw heavy bows with only the thumb. Furthermore, placing the arrow on the same side of the bow as the shooting hand makes this method have extremely fast reloading times. It also decreases the affects of the archer’s paradox. It is a personal grievance of mine that the fast-shooting archers of Hollywood are always shown as using a Mediterranean draw rather than a thumb draw which could actually achieve those reloading speeds.

There is a third draw technique which is of historical interest though it isn’t widely used today: the pinch draw. In this final technique, the string is pinched between the pad of the thumb and the side of the index finger. The pinch draw allows for a very clean release; the string will naturally slip out once it reaches a certain draw weight (hopefully at full draw). The downside of this technique is that it has a very low threshold for weights it can reliably draw, which is most likely the reason it is a functionally extinct form. Historically, the pinch draw was used by many of the indigenous peoples of the Americas. The pinch draw was also used in Ancient Greece until the end of the Classical period, and among the early Assyrians.

There are a multitude of arrow and arrowhead types used today and historically, of which I will only scratch the surface. Today arrow shafts may be made of hardwood, graphite, aluminum, or carbon fiber. The weight, length, and spine of the shaft are all of great importance for its performance. Wooden “footed” shafts are made of two different kinds of wood, usually with a harder wood near the head where the arrow is most likely to break. “Barrel” shafts taper from the center toward both ends, giving them an ideal combination of weight and flexibility. The fletchings are most commonly still made from feathers, preferably goose or turkey. There is a stiffer plastic variety that is in vogue with compound bow archers, which are called vanes. There are generally three fletchings at the back of an arrow to serve as airfoils that stabilize its flight. The nock is the notch by which the arrow is attached to the bowstring, and provides control for the rotation of the arrow. Nocks can be cut into the wood of the shaft and reinforced with fiber to prevent splitting, or may be made of plastic or horn and glued onto the end.

Arrow heads come in many shapes and sizes. Broad heads are the most commonly known variety. They have two or three cutting blades and can be constructed of stone, bone, or metal. They are still used for hunting but were also used in warfare. The crescent arrowhead is a kind of broad head that was used in antiquity and has the twin cutting blades curving forward, rather than back. There’s a fun story somewhere about a Roman Emperor decapitating an ostrich in the gladiatorial arena with a crescent arrow. Bodkin points were simple conical or triangular metal points that were commonly used in warfare and had impressive armor-piercing capabilities. Target points are bullet shaped for minimized damage to the targets when shooting. Field tips are also used for target shooting, but have a concave taper toward the tip. They are generally weighted similar to broad heads so that hunters’ practice with field tips is easily translated to performance with broad heads. Blunts are metal or rubber cylinders that are used for hunting small game and for some types of target shooting when penetration is not the goal.

Quivers are the containers that hold the arrows, and are generally worn on the hip or back, though compound shooters often have them riveted to the bow itself. The quiver worn around the hips is called a belt quiver, and is the most widespread type of quiver despite what Hollywood portrays. Belt quivers were used in Europe and Asia from ancient times to the present. Their shape, construction, and exact placement on the belt is variable, but the basic design remains the same. Back quivers require an archer to draw the arrow over the dominant shoulder by the nock. They were used by the indigenous peoples of North America and Africa. The arrow bag is a specific quiver design that featured a drawstring at the top of a cloth sack, which would protect the arrows from the elements. The arrow bag was used by the English Longbowmen and would have been worn on the belt or set on the ground for easy use.

The Sensiahd word of the day is “saed”, meaning “arrow”. Example sentence: Sath rho coreth sath voe saeda. They shot them with arrows.

Archery, Part One

On this blog I usually discuss stories, their process of creation, and ones that I particularly enjoy. Despite my penchant for fantasy, I’m also an eager student of history. I suspect the same is true for most fantasy writers. Most of us like to ground our fantasies in reality; even in a world full of magic, its important to know the difference between a gladius and a spatha. Writers usually pick an analogous time period and stick with it. If a writer is creating a medieval fantasy, he must understand the feudal system, the terminology for arms and armor, which tools that were available to people of that period, what the common food staples were, and so on and so forth. The amount of research needed to assemble all this information is considerable and will make a history enthusiast even from those who were not previously inclined. In today’s post, I’d like to provide a resource for writers that might save them an hour of research. For the rest of you, sit back and relax as we discuss all things archery.

I’ve been an archer for about as long as I can remember. I’m not sure who first introduced me to the sport, but my grandfather served as my great teacher. He gave me four bows over the course of his life, three of which were coveted Ben Pearson recurves. My first bow was a compound with a draw weight around ten pounds. Draw weight is the amount of weight it takes to pull the string back to its full draw. The force associated with that weight is then transferred to the arrow, making draw weight a standard measure of bow power. Essentially, my bow with a ten pound draw weight requires me to lift ten pounds with my fingers every time I want to draw the bow. Grandpa gave me the first recurve the day I proved I could pull back the thirty-five pound draw. Next were the forty-five pound and fifty-five pound bows, the latter of which I still regularly shoot today.

There are three broad types of bows: longbows, recurves, and compounds. Longbows are the most traditional bow. They are comprised of a stiff stick and a string. The stiffness of the wood resists being bent, and stores potential energy when bent by the string. Drawing the string back further loads the bow with potential energy. On release, the string transfers the energy into the arrow as the wood snaps back into a more relaxed position. Longbows generally have considerable “stacking”, which means that the last few inches of the draw contain a disproportionately greater amount of the draw weight. A bow that stacks is generally more difficult to shoot than a “smooth” drawing bow (draw weight is more proportionally distributed throughout the draw). In longbows, the power of the bow is directly related to its stiffness and the bow length. 

Recurve bows have limbs that curve forward when unstrung. The forward curve is achieved by heating and bending the wood into position, or by construction from several pieces. Stringing a recurve bow loads considerably more energy into the limbs than stringing a longbow because the limbs are being pulled back further. In many recurve bows, the limbs may be pulled 180º from their original position. The amount of flexibility and elasticity required for such a large range of limb movement is more than wood can handle, so recurves are generally constructed of composite materials. In the ancient world, sinew and horn were used to strengthen the wood of recurve bows; sinew was glued on the back of the limbs for elasticity, horn on the inside belly for stiffness. Composite recurve bows were first used by the nomadic pastoralists on the Eurasian Steppe, who famously used the bows for horse archery. The clever design of the composite recurve allowed for the construction of shorter bows that were easier to manage while mounted, but still held considerable power. but became the bow of choice for most people that lived on the edges of that region. In Europe, the Greeks and the Romans adopted the recurve bow and it became popular in all areas that were sufficiently dry for its use. The animal glue that held the composite bows together didn’t hold up well in wet climates, so it never became popular in places like the British Isles. Modern composite recurves are made with multiple layers of wood and fiberglass. The best bow woods are yew and Osage orange because they have an internal laminate structure that mimics composite materials.

Compound bows are the most popular bows used for hunting today. They have pulleys that considerably increase the power of the bow. Compound bows also have a resting state at full draw, which prevents the archer from having to hold the full weight of the draw. Traditional bows are generally not held at full draw for very long because of the strain on the archer, but compound bows can be held at full draw nearly indefinitely. Compound bows are generally constructed of metal, plastic, carbon fiber, and fiberglass. The compound bow was invented in the late 1960’s, and most models today are highly modular. A compound bow may be outfitted with a quiver, sights, counterweights, and mechanical release systems. While very effective for hunting, the compound bow’s long and irregular draw would make it a very poor weapon of war.

Humans have been using bows for around 18,000 years and the evidence suggests that they have been used both as a hunting tool and a weapon of war for the breadth of their history. The bow has turned the tide of many a battle. The Scythian victory over the Achaemenid Empire, the Parthian defeat of the Romans at the Battle of Carrhae, and the English victory over the French at Agincourt were all thanks to the power of archery. The Huns ravaged Europe with the bow, and with it the Mongols built the largest land empire the world has ever seen. The bow is a great leveler on the field of battle. The Mongols conquered half the world using arrow points primarily made of stone and bone. A simple steel point is armor piercing, even against the sophisticated plate armor of the 16th century. However, bows are not a weapon that anyone may pick up and be proficient with. Bows require strength to use, and take years of practice to master. That being said, they take less strength than melee weapons and are intuitive to use. This has no doubt led to the rise in fantasy circles of the bow being a “dexterity” weapon, one that is always used by the weak and small. While it’s true that a bow with enough power to kill requires little strength, most bows used in war had considerable draw weights. The famous bowmen of England pulled longbows with draw weights of two hundred pounds, forces that put so much strain on their bodies that it permanently deformed their skeletons. Smaller composite recurves used for war would have had substantially lower draw weights, but the point stands. The infamous women archers of Scythia (likely the inspiration for the Amazons) would probably have used bows with considerable draw weights.

Since this post is getting rather long, I think I’ll break it into two parts. Next week we’ll look at quivers, arrows, and shooting techniques.

The Sensiahd word of the day is “cwra”, meaning “bow”. Example sentence: Eth cosilien cwrae fyn. The wood elves have bows.

The Witcher and Folklore

I’ve recently finished Blood of Elves, the first entry in Andrzej Sapkowski’s Witcher Saga. Despite being the first book in the saga, Sapkowski has written three books before the events of Blood of Elves. Two of those books are a collection of short stories, while one is a stand-alone novel. Those three books, and the five books of the Witcher Saga all follow Geralt of Rivia, the eponymous Witcher. Sapkowski’s books eventually became the basis for the Witcher video games which have won broad acclaim. The most recent Witcher video game, The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt, has even been celebrated as one of the greatest video games of all time.

My brother is an active gamer and is a massive fan of the Witcher video games. It was his love of the games that led him to Sapkowski’s books, which he then encouraged me to read. He loaned me his copy of The Last Wish, which I massively enjoyed. The Last Wish is one of Sapkowski’s collections of short stories, a format at which he excels. Sapkowski’s works are delightfully folkloric and his style is perfect for the short story. One can well imagine telling a tale of Geralt around a campfire when the night is especially dark and fearful sounds emirate from the forest.

Having been ensured by Sapkowski in The Last Wish, I was slavering for the chance to enter into the saga proper. Admittedly, Blood of Elves does little to forward the plot of the Witcher Saga; it merely sets the stage. However, it is one of the delights of Sapkowski’s writing that he does exceptionally well with a limited plot. His characters are interesting, if a little melodramatic, but his world is endlessly diverting. Additionally, Blood of Elves is riddled with foreshadowing that compensates for the slow beginning to the series. As with most fantasy series, it will be best to judge the overarching plot of the saga, rather than nitpicking at a single book. I know I’d much rather have Sapkowski tell a wonderful story than throw in unnecessary twists to keep me engaged. A good writer can make anything interesting, and need not rely on cheap tricks to maintain the interest of his readers. I think Sapkowski is a good writer. I’m happy to read about caravan rides, long conversations, and strolls through the city because Sapkowski writes them well.

I think the most special and noteworthy characteristic of the Witcher books is their folkloric ambiance. Most fantasy books sound like poor imitations of other fantasy books. It is only the very best fantasy books that can sound authentic, akin to the sagas and epics of old. I find that those authors usually have a great love for myth and legend, and they include many sly nods to their sources of inspiration. What’s brilliant about Sapkowski’s work, is that he hasn’t gone down the same path as even the very best fantasy authors. Most of those authors were drawn to what’s known as the “high tradition”, the stories that were composed by the great bards of their time, but which would have been largely unknown to the common folk. Hesiod’s Theogony, Homer’s Illiad and Odyssey, the Irish Táin Bó Cúailnge, and Beowulf would all be considered part of the “high tradition”. They are works that would be recited by professional bards in the presence of the nobility, and would not have been well known by the laypeople. On the other side lies the “low tradition”, those stories that were known by every common laborer and nursemaid. These are the stories that have been collected in Grimm’s Fairy Tales and the Kalevala. Sapkowksi has noticeably chosen the “low tradition” as his muse. Though I’ve enjoyed the “low tradition”, I have always most admired the “high tradition” with its sweeping tales of human courage and frailty, its complex metaphors, and its inspired poetry. Sapkowski’s work has therefore been a welcome surprise. He’s demonstrated that folklore is rich soil for growing new stories and strengthened my desire to examine it further.

The Sensiahd word of the day is “scethem”, meaning “story”. Example sentence: Nes sciet scethema amcurra eth pyran. We told stories around the fire.

Anarion and the Dryad

The following is a short story that I began tinkering with while The Many Antlered Crown was in the hands of my beta readers. This is a first draft that isn’t even complete, but I thought it might be a fun read for those of you who are interested in such things.

Anarion was a poet of consummate skill and wide renown. Though he was welcome in the most opulent courts, he was ever drawn back to the open road. He often sang of the watchful loneliness of the road and of the mystery of its unwinding. He openly declared that there was nowhere a road could lead that he would not follow, and to many it seemed his boast was made true, for he had been to many places. Anarion vowed to tread every trail, not flinching from the unknown, but pushing the limits of human knowledge to the very ends of the earth.

There came a day when Anarion had come to the base of the furthest mountains he had ever heard in tale or song, and he thought his labors were complete and his boast fulfilled.

“Here is proof that the road does not lead ever onward, as some have said, but has its end. I have walked every road, and my vow is fulfilled.” Anarion said with satisfaction. 

Then a voice answered Anarion, though he had supposed to be alone.

“No mortal has trodden the paths beyond the mountains, but they are paths all the same.” The voice came from a hamadryad, who leaned her naked torso from a tree at the road’s end. “The realm of men is small in the circles of the world, and there are a great many paths ahead of you if you dare to tread them. Some you may never walk a second time, and others may prohibit your return.”

“I am sworn to walk these paths, if they exist, no matter what dangers may lie ahead.”

“You are fair and brave, young poet, and if I were blessed with feet to walk, I would surely go with you as a guide. Only sing me a song that I might remember you, for you will never come here again if you once set foot beyond the mountains.”

Then Anarion sang a song of travel, that made the hamadryad’s roots ache with longing. The magic of the song rang deep in her wood until the twining roots came together to form legs, and they were fair and lithe. She emerged from the tree like a new leaf, soft and green on her hips. Her new toes wiggled in the dirt experimentally before she leapt on the road. The dryad danced down the dusty trail, while Anarion sang behind.

They climbed into the mountains until the forest drew back from the ice-bound peak, and still they continued. They trudged through fields of snow, over the grinding glaciers, and along precipices slick with ice, until they came at last to the tallest peak. Anarion thought then to cease, and return to the easy road, but the dryad strode on, off the peak and continuing up into the clouds that lay thick around. Then, seeing that the road had not yet met its end, Anarion followed.

The pair strode through the upper airs with a slight spring, like when trodding on a bed of pine straw. Then Anarion saw that the creatures he had fancied in the clouds were real indeed. Great turtles swam through the sky and plunged through the clouds, their colossal shells overgrown with hanging lichens. Then the skies grew dark and serpents of fire darted across the airs, striking at the shadows which grew in size and malice all around. A rumbling growl shook the sky so that Anarion greatly feared what manner of beast had been roused.

“Fear not, young poet!” The dryad cried above the din. “That is no wild beast that you hear, but is Eranthon, the mighty hound who will flush the rains from their hiding. He will drive them to the earth, and it would be good for us to follow, for his master comes behind. Woe to any he catches unawares!”

Then the growl of Eranthon seemed very close, and Anarion fancied he could hear the pounding thread of the great hound. Then a large flock of rain burst from the clouds and flew toward the earth, and the dryad leaped from the cloud top to follow. Anarion was afraid to go, but was far more afraid to see the visage of Eranthon, and the awesome hand of his master. Anarion stepped off the cloud and plummeted through all the lands of the air until he splashed into the ocean below. The dryad was floating nearby, so he clasped her hand and held tight, for the waves were roused and stampeding.

“Come, Anarion, wrap you arms around my waist! The serpents of fire have begun to strike at the waters, which is a sign there are dark things coming nigh the surface. I will bestride a wave and bear us away. For now, we share the purpose and direction of the fleeing waves.”

Anarion did as he was bidden, and soon the pair were racing before the storm, but the seas grew rougher so that the waves behind stood tall and terrible like titans of the waters. The little wave that Anarion and the dryad rode couldn’t outpace the fury that raged behind, where the waves dared to grasp at the very clouds. Monsters of the deep were illuminated in their tentacled horror as they wrestled with the lightning. Eranthon barked so loudly it shook the heavens, then the hand of his master dealt heavily with the waters, throwing them back from the heart of the storm. Wind and wave overwhelmed Anarion and the dryad, casting them into the riotous waters where they churned as in the belly of a great beast. 

Not even the dryad’s natural buoyancy could help them regain the surface and at length they began to sink. They drifted down into darkness of the deep, a realm only recently vacated by the leviathans. The cold currents that wound there felt the faces of the newcomers like blind men, and with shaking fingers discovered that they were beautiful. The currents were deeply moved, and swept the pair to a place they might be preserved. Anarion and the dryad were set among the roots of the mountains, and among the tangled roots of stone there were hidden chambers of air.

“Why save us?” Anarion asked the currents once breath returned to him. “Your realm is cold and dark, and yet you have been merciful.”

“We have felt your faces, and have seen that they hold beauty and life. The depths hold much wealth in gold and pearls, the native treasures of the deep and the spoils of its conquests. The leviathans covet their cold treasures, though not a glimmer of their light may be glimpsed in the murky depths. Each monster lays atop a nest of gold, but each coin may as well be a grimy stone. We have once rescued a ruined ship’s figurehead, which seemed the most fair thing we had ever touched, but in you we find beauty wholly alien to our world. We could not let you become another prize in a monster’s hoard.”

“But what now are we to do, stranded at the roots of the mountains with nothing to guide us to the light? Here, surely, all paths have met their end and ours is shortly at hand.”

“You are creatures of the light, and a rumor of the light is in the beauty of your being. Follow the rumor to its truth and you will see the light again. The path winds ever onward, Anarion.”

Then the currents of the deep left them, and they were alone among the roots of the mountains. It seemed a long time that they sat in the darkness, but it was difficult to mark the passing of hours and days. The dryad didn’t know the way forward, for no breeze or songbird had brought her word of it, and her roots had never ventured so deep. They tried to decipher the advice of the currents, but could find no enlightenment. After a time, they gave up and lapsed into a melancholy silence. Then Anarion spoke in a voice that was distant and wistful.

“Even when the moon would be hidden, and clouds would cover the stars, it was not as dark as it is now. Even then, there would be some silver light that dropped like dew on the earth. You couldn’t tell where it came from, it was just—there. I wish I had looked more closely then.”

“I wish I could feel the sunlight cascading down through my leaves again. It was so warm and sweet in the springtime, when my leaves were fresh and green.”

“You could taste sunlight?”

“Of course.”

“I wish that I could taste a sunbeam.”

“Did you ever try?”

“No, I suppose I didn’t. I wish that I had tried. I did feel it lay beside me in the grass for an afternoon nap, and I watched it parade into the west in its regalia of fire. I might have heard it once, in the summer, when it was humming through a wheat field.”

Then Anarion was filled with such a longing for the light and he was stirred to song. The dryad knew the chorus, for she had sung it when she was only a seed, lost among the shadowy soil. She joined her voice with Anarion, and their words recalled the world of light that was now so far from them. They sang the harvest moon, the crescent, and the wheeling stars. They sang of sunlight crowning the mountains, twilight at the waterside, and the burning western sky. They sang of all the light they had known, and all they had lost, until the memory of it shone in their faces. Each was filled with radiance, when they looked on one another, their eyes gleamed with the clean light of sunrise.

The Sensiahd word of the day is “rhost”, meaning “to travel, to journey”. Example sentence: Nes ean rhost cws uscwrod. We’ll travel until dusk.

Nature in Writing

Despite my love of the humanities, my formal education has been in the sciences. I have a biology degree, and have spent the last six years or so employed in a biology-related field. Sometimes the field has been quite literal, other times I’ve worked in a lab or classroom setting. I’m relaying my work history to you because I want you to understand that biology has been my chief livelihood for sometime now, and biology is eminently concerned with the correct ordering and classification of life. Even as a child, I was obsessed with having the right names for things. I owned every field guide that my local bookstore stocked, and some that it didn’t. When my wife and I go on hikes, we take great pleasure in pointing out the names for each flower, tree, and squirrel that crosses our path. We eat wild currants, elderberries, huckleberries, blackberries, and thimbleberries in their season. We work to recognize the calls of frogs and the songs of birds. We find joy in naming the stars, streams, and mountains. I can’t remember the last time we went on a hike and returned without a beautiful flower, rock, or shell. At home, we garden and raise livestock. Nature is important to me, and to my family. It is no wonder that it’s important in my writing.

If you’ve ever read one of my books or poems, you’ve no doubt noted how long I dwell on natural descriptions. I’ve been told that beautiful descriptions of landscapes is a hallmark of my style. A beta reader of a recent draft remarked that my natural descriptions are always detailed and poetic, but my descriptions of towns and villages are terribly terse. I think his assessment was fair. I spend hours researching trees and flowers, making sure that I’m not putting an American plant in a European setting, or planting it in the wrong part of the forest. Foxglove grows in clearings and along forest margins, while bluebells prefer to carpet the center of ancient woodlands. It’s important to me for these details to be correct.

Many fantasy authors do some hand waving, mutter “magic” a few times, and admit whatever plants and animals they please into their stories. Even Tolkien, who is my hero in all other respects, is fairly lax with his flora and fauna. In a setting that is primarily European, Tolkien gives the hobbits potatoes and tobacco (under the name of pipe weed), which are both American plants. Granted, there is nothing inherently wrong about mixing disparate organisms in a fantasy world, the mixing can even serve a literary purpose. The hobbits in Tolkien’s books have a diet that is readily comparable to the rural Englishman, providing his average reader with a sense of ‘home’ when considering the Shire. Unless I am feeling particularly cantankerous, I don’t usually have a problem with this device. I think its also acceptable for authors to invent their own plants and animals to populate their fantasy world. However, I just can’t bring myself to tinker with the natural world. There is something really special about getting the details right; I think it weaves a kind of spell. Humanity has a strong connection to nature. We instinctually feel the character of a natural scene, and understand its constituent parts. When each name is right, and each creature is in its proper place, the scene becomes more real to me. Then I can stroll through the land of my imagining and stoop to drink from the poetic font that springs forth from its center. If the details are wrong, the way is shut to me.

The Sensiahd word of the day is “anu”, meaning, “name”. Example sentence: Ser rho dhun anuna et eth twrra enanu. He gave names to the nameless hills. 

Durin's Song and the Pride of Dwarves

I’ve recently become obsessed with “Song of Durin” by Clamavi De Profundis. It’s a piece that uses the words from Tokien’s poem of the same name. In The Fellowship of the Ring, Gimli sings the Song of Durin in response to Samwise’s disparaging comments about Moria. I’ll provide the poem at the end of this post, so you can see how wonderful it is and why it’s so fun to be set to stirring music.

Since I’ve had “Durin’s Song” on repeat, I’ve been thinking a lot about dwarves, and how Tolkien’s interpretation has dominated fantasy ever since. I’ve covered the history of the concept of the dwarves in my blog post, “On Dwarves”. When one looks at the history of the concept of dwarves, it becomes apparently clear that the modern idea of dwarves owes much more to Tolkien than the Germanic mythology where their origins lie. I’ve known how important Tolkien was to the development of the “modern dwarf”, but have never given that idea the appropriate consideration. Tolkien, like myself, is generally so occupied with elves that it’s easy to get distracted. 

When listening to “Durin’s Song”, it struck me how much effort Tolkien dedicated to the development of dwarves. They were not side characters that he created as a foil for the elves, they were a fantasy race for which he cared deeply. The dwarves don’t get their own epic, like the elves do in The Silmarillion, so it’s easy to imagine they were neglected. However, dwarves are arguably the most important characters in The Hobbit and also play a large part in The Lord of the Rings. Even in The Silmarillion, dwarves are given pivotal roles in the tales of the First and Second Ages. Tolkien made the dwarves a proud and noble race, with wise kings, rich lore, and valiant heroes. Had Tolkien lived longer (and been better organized), I like to think he would have written a dwarven epic. I suppose The Hobbit could fill the role of a dwarf-centered story, but its tone is not as grand as the elves get in The Silmarillion or that men get in The Lord of the Rings.

While it is true to say that fantasy authors have mimicked Tolkien’s conception of fantastic races, it is unfortunate that they have seldom been able to capture the glorious tone of Tolkien’s lore. Too many authors reduce the races to caricatures; all dwarves are alcoholic and greedy while all elves are haughty and aloof. Tolkien wrote his races with common flaws, but they were not the focus of his work. Instead, he emphasized the noble potential of those peoples. I’ve appreciated Tolkien’s take on elves and men before, but have myself made a caricature of Tolkien’s dwarves. Now that I’m giving the matter more thought and realizing just how complex and fascinating dwarves can be, I’m feeling inspired to further explore dwarves in my own writing. If I write anything special, I’ll be sure to let you know.

"The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadows of his head.

The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall

Of mighty kings in Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away:

The world was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.

There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote;

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built.

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,

And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;

The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dûm.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.”

- The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien

The Sensiahd word of the day is “wret”, meaning “to work”. Example sentence: Taldyn wret tae eth sleibon. Dwarves work in the mountain.

A Good Fairytale is Hard to Write

With the first draft of The Many Antlered Crown completed and off to beta-readers, I’ve had a curious lack of work. After writing The Wind from Faerie, I proceeded fairly quickly to the sequel. Having finished that sequel, I’ve now taken nearly a month’s respite from serious writing and my fingers are starting to get twitchy. I’d really rather not get into the final book of the series until I’ve done a bit more editing on the second, but I’ve been needing to write something. I finally decided to try my hand at an idea I’ve been toying with for a few months now: a collection of fairytales. The fairytales contained in my books were a blast to write, and I was feeling rather inspired by Lord Dunsany’s work. Surely it would not be so hard to write a few tales?

It has been far more difficult than I could have imagined. After much thought, I’ve managed to produce two pages, or about 800 words. When I’m writing a book, 800 words is the bare minimum I allow my self to write in a day. I’ve been dabbling in this fairytale business for several weeks now, and there’s no sign of reasonable progress. My wife and I are driving to the Oregon coast soon, and I’m hoping the long car ride and ocean views will help cure my curious silence. I’m sure the removal of my diversions can only help.

Why should writing fairytales be so difficult? After all, they tend to be rather simple stories. They are usually short, with little time for character development, and they use classic folklore elements with which we are all familiar. I think it’s exactly those things that make fairytales seem simple that makes them difficult to write. A short story has to make its point quickly, and the characters must be painted with a few, masterful strokes. We must quickly understand which characters are good and which are bad. We also have to understand how the supernatural elements will fit together. We must be able to differentiate the helpful creatures from the harmful, know the weakness of the monster, and understand how the hero’s plan will work. I think a good fairytale also has an otherworldly quality which is hard to fake.

In addition to all the little elements of a fairytale, which are so important, there’s the matter of the plot. There is an enormous variation in the plots of fairytales; some follow the hero’s journey archetype, while others are utterly unique. Sometimes they teach a moral, other times they are only fun adventures. Despite the broad variation, all fairytales share a few essential qualities. In fairytales, the mundane world we are accustomed to comes face to face with the supernatural. Many times the characters of fairytales don’t seem surprised or concerned when they encounter the supernatural. Taking advice from a talking stag or driving away the meddlesome wee folk seems natural. Everyone listening to a fairytale already knows that magic exists, and that our world is populated by strange and mysterious creatures. Even if it is shocking to happen upon a mermaid, no one ever believed that mermaids were imaginary, neither the characters or the readers. Fairytales come from a time when anything was not only possible, but likely to happen sooner or later. I might not know anyone who’s stumbled into the Faerie realm, but it stands to reason that someone would because its a real place that one could stumble into. I think the frank acknowledgment of the magical is one of the most delightful aspects of fairytales.

Contrary to the oft repeated phrase, fairytales don’t always have a happy ending. What they do always have is a struggle between good and evil. There are very few antiheroes or morally gray decisions; fairytales are usually rather straightforward. That is not to say that the struggles in fairytales are less realistic or inconsequential. On the contrary, the stakes are often very high and very human. Life, love, and wealth may be won or lost in a moment. Thankfully, the heroes are often much more than doughty; they are clever, wise, and chaste. Fairytales celebrate virtue and the good it brings those who bear it.

There are so many elements which come together to make a fairytale powerful and memorable. They are an art form, distinct from all others. I’ll certainly not master the technique in a few weeks, and perhaps not in a lifetime, but I’ll keep tinkering with these magical little stories. I know whatever I do, I’ve got to write more than two pages.

The Sensiahd word of the day is “awilliar”, meaning “pleasing”. Example sentence: Es marec maidre siahd awilliar. I want to be able to speak pleasingly.