Author Archives: AshleeW
A sweet little Christmas story for kids of about age two through six. The story itself is simple and straightforward, and I like that it incorporates the true Christmas story of Jesus’ birth. We most definitely need more kids’ Christmas books that speak of what Christmas is truly all about, or that are centered around Jesus and His love for us, as opposed to the worldly Christmas view that centers around Santa Claus. The only thing I wasn’t overly crazy about were the illustrations. I am a bit picky about illustration style, especially after having read so many children’s books in the past few years (I have a 7-year-old), and the type of artwork in this book simply isn’t a style that I gravitate toward. It is very 2-dimensional and unrealistic, with the use of a very small amount of colors. My son is a fan of all different types of illustration styles, however, and he liked the illustrations in this book, although the story itself was a bit simplistic for him now that he’s at a higher reading level. All in all, The Littlest Christmas Kitten is a great story that I would recommend for any Christian family at Christmas time, or any time during the year!
(I received a free copy of this book from BookCrash in exchange for an honest review).
To follow up yesterday’s rather fishy post, I thought I’d list some great mermaid reads! You should be able to find most of these at your public library, so dig in! (My personal favorite is Sirena by Donna Jo Napoli!).
2.) Mermaid: A Twist on the Classic Tale (Carolyn Turgeon)
3.) The Forbidden Sea (Sheila A. Nielson)
4.) The Vicious Deep (Zoraida Cordova)
5.) Lies Beneath (Anne Greenwood Brown)
6.) Lost Voices trilogy (Sarah Porter)
7.) The Little Mermaid (Hans Christian Andersen)
8.) The Syrena Legacy series (Anna Banks)
9.) To Catch a Mermaid (Suzanne Selfors)
11.) A Treasury of Mermaids: Mermaid Tales from Around the World (Shirley Climo)
12.) Daughters of the Sea trilogy (Kathryn Lasky)
13.) Ingo series (Helen Dunmore)
14.) Sirena (Donna Jo Napoli)
15.) Rising (Holly Kelly)
16.) The Secret of the Emerald Sea (Heather Matthews)
17.) Water trilogy (Kara Dalkey)
18.) Antara (Marilena Mexi)
I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
― T.S. Eliot
Just as Adam came before Eve, so the merman came before the mermaid. At least, that’s how legend goes. The Babylonian god Oannes predates the first known legend of the mermaids by more than a thousand years. Unlike the mermaids and merman we picture now, Oannes had both a human body and a fish body, allowing him to live both among men and beneath the sea. Convenient, huh?
The Syrian mermaid, Atargatis, came along much later than Oannes. One version of her story says that, when she was a goddess (and not yet a mermaid) she fell in love with a humble shepherd, but killed him by accident. Mortified, she threw herself into the sea intending to take the form of a fish. The waters could not hide her beauty, however, and instead of a fish, a mermaid was born. Ancient depictions of Atargatis showed her as a fish with a human head and legs.
Greek mythology has stories of the god Triton, the merman messenger of the sea. In much of European folklore, of course, mermaids were considered unlucky. They were known to sing enticing songs, luring sailors to their deaths on rocky shoals. However, this representation of mermaids more accurately describes Sirens, who were originally bird-women, or demons of death sent to hunt souls. But years of time combined the characteristics of these two half-human creatures, and mermaids acquired a rather bad reputation as a result. Nereids (sea nymphs), on the other hand – not to be confused with the Sirens – were always quite protective of sailors. They reserved their beautiful voices to sing only for their father’s amusement – not to tempt sailors to a watery grave.
Mermaids do not have souls. Well … this also may be a characteristic they inherited from the demonic Sirens, who themselves were soul-catchers. Stories say that one way a mermaid could gain a soul is to marry a human man. Perhaps one of the best illustrations of this is Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Little Mermaid.” Andersen also left the “Siren” angle behind when he caused his own little mermaid to not only NOT kill the human man, but to save his life instead.
Sightings of these mythical creatures? You bet. From thousands of years ago even to modern times there have been “sightings” of mermaids, findings of their bodies, and documentaries made entertaining the idea of their existence. One or two displays were made of a mermaid’s “remains” – although later discovered to be fake, of course.
There are documents and journals from long ago which record sightings. Virginia’s Captain John Smith claimed to have seen one in 1614 while exploring the West Indies, describing her as having long green hair, and even claiming to have felt “the first pangs of love” when looking upon her. Christopher Columbus saw “three sirens” that “came up very high out of the sea,” in 1492.
In 1608 the English navigator Henry Hudson wrote of his own supposed mermaid sighting off the arctic coast of Russia:
“This morning, one of our companie looking over board saw a mermaid, and calling up some of the companie to see her, one more came up, and by that time shee was close to the ship’s side, looking earnestly upon the men: a little after, a Sea came and overturned her: From the Navill upward, her backe and breasts were like a woman’s.., her body as big as one of us; her skin very white; and long haire hanging down behinde, of colour blacke; in her going down they saw her tayle, which was like the tayle of a Porposse, and speckled like a Macrell.”
Were these men seeing things? Manatees, for example? Dugongs? Seals? Or perhaps they had been too long at sea, too exhausted from exposure to sun or cold or salty sea air. Perhaps they saw from a distance, and filled in the details with their own mythical/imaginative mindsets and subconscious, with the stories they themselves had heard while growing up.
I myself have sighted several mermaids … although always between the pages of a book, I’ll admit J But that, I believe, is where mermaids truly shine. Stories, legends, fantasies and fairytales – these are the places these creatures of the sea were always meant to be. Where they can spark our imaginations and lead us into stories greater than ourselves, stories in which the strength of beauty is enough to lead men willingly into the arms of death, stories where a girl gives up her soul and turns to sea foam in order to save the man she loves.
This intrigue, this excitement, this heart-wrenching pain and love and angst, this bigger-than-me quality – isn’t that what stories are truly about, in the end, after all?
So many great fairy tales, fairy tale retellings, and fantasy books from 2013 … and too little time to read them! Heading into 2014 I am certain there will be many more to add to my list. I’ve included several here which, according to Goodreads, were some of the top reads for the year. Have you read any on the list – or maybe all of them?! Which were your favorites?
I’m privileged to be writing at a wonderful site this week called Speculative Faith. I’m talking about the deeper meaning of fairytales and fantasies, and why I think they are so effective in our minds and hearts – more so, many times, than any other type of fiction.
Head on over to read my post, here, and then stay a while and check out some of the other great articles and discussions on Spec Faith.
Book Review: The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making (by Catherynne Valente)
Catherynne Valente is a truly shining author, as The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland proves with each turn of the page. I can’t say that I’ve ever read anything like this book before. Valente’s creativity blows my mind – the places she goes with her characters, the images she conjures, the words she uses to work her spell.
This book is no quick and easy read – but that has nothing to do with its length, which is normal for a young adult book. It’s a book whose premise is undoubtedly attractive to children, but the story itself has such depth, such meat and heart, that’s it’s impossibly alluring for adults as well.
September is a “somewhat heartless” twelve-year-old girl who, when the Green Wind comes to her kitchen window in the form of a leopard and offers to accompany her to Fairyland, does not even bother waving goodbye to her mother. Her journey begins on the coast of Fairyland, where she must choose which direction to take. The path to lose her way, to lose her life, to lose her mind, or to lose her heart.
September meets with many adventures in Fairyland, some of them delightfully imaginative, some of them darkly troubling – all of them of a nature to keep your eyes pasted to the page, and all of them having the potential to make September’s heart grow just a little bit more. She becomes fast friends with a Wyvern who believes he is the son of a library. She makes the difficult and painful choice to part from her shadow in order to save someone’s life. She rides amidst a herd of wild bicycles and is sent by the child-like but formidable Marquess, ruler of Fairyland, to fetch a talisman.
‘There must be blood,’ the girl thought. ‘There must always be blood. The Green Wind said that, so it must be true. It will be all hard and bloody, but there will be wonders, too, or else why bring me here at all? And it’s the wonders I’m after, even if I have to bleed for them.’
Every page, every paragraph, every word of this book is placed with seamless intent, woven to spectacular advantage into a story that is so much bigger than it seems. It is truly a masterpiece.
Sometimes you know as you begin a book that you can sit back and relax because you are in expert hands. This was such a book; Valente is such an author.
For a free preview of this amazing book, go here.
- Catherynne M. Valente – The Girl Who Soared Over Fairyland and Cut the Moon in Two (sffbookreview.wordpress.com)
- Top Ten Tuesday (71): Sequels (pagesunbound.wordpress.com)
- Catherynne M. Valente – The Girl Who Fell Beneath Fairyland and Led the Revels There (fyreflybooks.wordpress.com)
I wrote The Hunt as a part of fantasy author Anne Elisabeth Stengl’s “Childhood Chills” challenge. I’ve taken a very real childhood fear and wrapped it in a story all its own. Hope you enjoy.
Bow, arrow, knife. That’s all Theron had ever needed. With those three things, he could eat, protect, kill. With those three things, he ruled his own world.
He had received word days ago from a village in the north, farther than he had ever traveled, requesting his services.
Begging is more like it, he thought wryly as he recalled the meeting he had had with the town leaders.
“A beast haunts our wood,” one of the white-haired men had said to him in a voice spindly with age. “It has been here for generations, but it’s never once attacked any of us – until now.”
“What sort of beast?” Theron had asked. Dragon, chimera, gorgon? Theron had hunted and killed all these creatures before, and many more besides.
A shuffling of feet, clearing of throats, was his answer. Finally: “We … we don’t know for certain,” one of the men admitted. “But,” and his face grew dark, “it has taken – killed – three of our own of late, and has left no trace of them behind. Whatever it may be, it’s a danger of the worst kind.”
“Why not send one of your own after it?” Theron asked bluntly. “Why me?”
“We did,” the white-haired man said. “The first of ours the beast took was my granddaughter, who was only in the wood looking for herbs. But the second two it took were the ones sent to search for her. Both full-grown men. Both fully armed.”
“So you see,” one of the others grasped Theron’s wrist. “You see why we need you. We have heard you are the best.”
“I am,” there was no hesitation in Theron’s answer.
“Well, then,” all eyes turned to him in judgment, expectation – hope. “Prove it.”
The wood was dark, darker than Theron would have expected for early winter. The trees were straight and high, and – astonishingly – many of them still had leaves, which blotted out the already feeble rays of sun.
So much the better, thought Theron. The darkness could work for his benefit. He would wear it like a cloak. Taking in his surroundings, he felt the familiar tenseness creep into his muscles as he entered the trees. Alert senses, sharp eyes, sensitive ears – the hunt had begun, as had his thirst for it.
All other thoughts were wiped clean from his mind. Even the reward the villagers had promised him – nothing to scoff at – was shoved aside. This was why no one could match him. This was why he was the best, his services in constant demand, his name spread far and wide. For anyone could learn to track – anyone could learn to see and smell and hear the right things. But few could turn their bodies into the instrument that Theron’s became, made for one purpose alone. And few could slip into their prey’s consciousness and fears as he had taught himself to do.
And he had learned it at a young age. “When your father beats you from the time you can walk, and your mother would curse you as soon as speak your name, you learn to adapt,” Theron had confessed with a laugh when questioned once where his abilities came from. “You learn that strength is not solid like a rock – but fluid, like water.”
He had never revealed so much of himself to anyone before, never spoken the words of his past aloud. But the girl who asked him – years ago, now – had been different. Special. But she was gone now, too. Gone, shoved to the back of his mind and heart like everything else. And he was free to fill the emptiness in him with the hunt.
“You can’t run forever from the things that haunt you, Theron,” she had said to him.
“I can try,” he had told her jokingly, trying to ignore the pain and pity in her sweet eyes.
Now here he was, still running. But he was running to something – not from it. And those two things were worlds apart – weren’t they?
Theron squatted and brushed his fingers across the ground, sweeping a leaf gently aside. The giant print of a winter-stag was pressed into the cold, hard dirt. Not what he was hunting, but – he thought –something to remember. The racks of winter stags – made entirely of ever-frozen ice – sold well in the south; the price of one would keep him for half the year at least.
A noise made him lift his head. His eyes were keen as they scanned through the most distant trees. The sound had been like none Theron had ever heard before – and he had heard a great many. A cry, wild and empty. The moment it died away, he could not remember if it had been closer to the mewling of an infant, or the roaring of an angry dragon. He shook his head in confusion and frustration.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw something flit from a pile of leaves, spiraling up into the high branches of a tree.
Only a sylph.
Theron watched the tiny creature fly higher and higher, its wings fanning like two golden leaves sprouting from its back. The movement of its flight, so familiar to him, brought him calm. He breathed deep before shouldering his bow and trudging deeper into the heart of the wood.
Around noon Theron found the first sign of the beast’s presence. A tuft of hair, black as night, stuck on the low branch of a hemlock. It was like nothing Theron had seen before. It shone, beautiful as starlight. He pressed it to his nose and coughed. It smelled of death.
He knew beyond a doubt that it belonged to the beast. He knew also that this beast was like nothing he had hunted before. And the challenge of it sent a thrill right through him. The danger of it lit his senses on fire.
After that, the signs were easier to spot. More black hair, faint trails beaten through the sparse underbrush, hardened piles of droppings, each as large as his fist. Once even the suggestion of an enormous paw print, though it was scuffed almost beyond recognition. A lesser hunter than Theron could not have done it. He shifted through the trees like a wraith, tasting the wind, careful that his own scent caught the faint breeze and drifted far behind him. His strength never faltered, though he didn’t stop once the whole day through for food or rest.
The fever of the hunt ran through him. “Like a disease,” she would have said to him, all those years ago. “Like a passion,” he would have corrected her.
The cave was deep in the forest, at its very heart. Theron reached its entrance just before sundown. Vines hung like frilled curtains over the black gape of its mouth. The cave itself receded into the side of a slope in the forest floor that was so gentle it might have gone unrecognized by casual eyes.
But Theron’s eyes had spotted it long before he reached it.
Perfect. He smiled to himself. The creature had trapped itself.
For a moment – only a moment – he let the thought of his prize money flit into his mind. The things he would do with it. Maybe he would go east and look for her. Maybe … maybe he would stop hunting, stop running, just to be with her.
The scent of rotting carcasses rose to meet Theron like a slap in the face. What manner of beast keeps the remains of its meals inside its own lair?
His skin tingled with anticipation as he ducked beneath the rocky cave opening. Stepping gently over piles of bones, Theron swung his bow off his shoulder and strung an arrow in one silent movement.
Yes, the beast was here. The same scent of darkness and death that had been upon its hair permeated the still air inside the cave.
He crept further into the shadows. Every moment he expected to hear a warning growl, see the deadly glint of eye-whites or the flash of bloodied teeth. He was ready for it. He had lived his life ready for it, taught himself to fight this thing before ever he needed to fight it.
When the black form loomed ahead of him, he shot immediately. The twang of the arrow sounded odd in the confines of the cave walls. The next arrow was strung almost before the first had hit its mark.
No angry roar, or scream or pain. No sound other than the clatter of bones, picked clean, beneath Theron’s feet, and the echoed drip of water from a cold rocky corner.
Theron crept closer to the still, black form. He reached out to touch it. His hand came back with a clump of black hair, bright as starlight, and with the warmth of blood from fresh wounds. No rise and fall of breath. No life in the creature at all.
Dead, then. The beast was already dead.
Theron felt a sigh go out of him. Tension drained from him in a wave. He could still claim the prize, he knew. The villagers need never know the beast had already been dead. But that wasn’t it. He had wanted this kill. He had longed for it. How many hunters got the chance to kill the unknown? To slay the unseen?
Yes, he had wanted it badly. The knot that had been forming in his chest escaped in a single sob. It hit the walls of the cave and turned back on him like an accusation. He turned from it, left the cramped , rocky space and burst out into the darkening chill of evening. He turned a full circle, gazing up at the silhouetted trees, their leaves dancing and glowing with sylph light.
Maybe it’s time for a change, after all, he told himself. Something pushed at his heart, tiny and persistent. Hope.
The cry erupted from behind him, on the embankment opposite the cave. It was as wild and empty and desperate as it had been the first time. Like a child’s yowl of helplessness and a dragon’s furious fire together. Deadly.
Theron went still. His heart beat its regular, steady rhythm. His blood ran as warm as always. But his heart was like a rock inside of him. He had been duped. He had been led, like a senseless animal into a trap. Here was the unknown, here was the unseen thing, still alive and at his back, just as it had always been.
Before he turned, he let his gaze wander to the black mouth of the cave once more. Whatever creature lay in its depths had only been the bait.
And he, the hunter, had been the prey.
Strength, he said to himself, is not solid, like a rock, but liquid, like water.
He turned slowly, not bothering to lift his bow.
Not hard, like a fist, his heart chanted. But fluid, like blood.
He lifted his eyes, dark with long-awaited understanding, to see the fate he had created for himself.
(Copyright Ashlee Willis, 2013)
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
”Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, ‘tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
”Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
‘Sir,’ said I, ‘or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
‘Surely,’ said I, ‘surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
‘Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, ‘art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as ‘Nevermore.’
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered ‘Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, ‘Nevermore.’
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
‘Doubtless,’ said I, ‘what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking ‘Nevermore.’
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
‘Wretch,’ I cried, ‘thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
‘Prophet!’ said I, ‘thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
‘Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting –
‘Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!
(First published by Edgar Allan Poe, January 1845)