Comments on Writing a Novel, Literary Influences, Works-In-Progress, and Chapter 42 from “Devil’s Revenge”

I wrote this blog entry last July.  Noticed that some were reading it this morning per my blog stats, and went to re-read it myself.

I had to laugh!  Not much changes in my life because I am writing a couple of novels, and Bill Penrose’s warning to FINISH A DAMN BOOK!  still stands true.   I did finish “Devil’s Revenge” and in posting parts on a website and on this blog  it had its supporters.  A lot of times I kept going because of the dedicated readers who pushed me with suggestions, questions, ideas…things I hadn’t considered myself in the writing.

The last 3 plus years has been productive.  I went through some diversions (D/s, bdsm, some scoundrels, a bit of a bad patch health-wise) but I never stopped writing. Even published two small books.  Sometimes I wondered where in hell all this was going.  And WHY was I continuing to write….blindly some days.

There are no pat answers to any of this…and with some other writers who have become dear and abiding friends, I can say this:  just keep writing.  Some days it seems  there are no ideas in the brain pan, and other days you are sprouting in all directions like a tree in spring.

Perhaps the key here is reading….and reading broadly.  For a couple of years I was involved in an erotica website, but I didn’t read much erotica except what was produced on that site.  Erotica can be a dead end I think.  Bill Penrose (“Ancestors of Star”, etc) has always maintained that my dipping my toes in this genre was slight.  I think he is right.  And frankly, I read such ponderous bdsm crap  I wanted to cry.  Some of it was horrifying and some just…boring.  Be careful of the influences you let into your life.  They could be worse writers than thou art.

I have a couple of friends who are serious writers.  We churn a lot of issues over together and I think one thing is proved:  You have to read broadly.  Not just the Iliad, some classics, some contemporary novels, but take some risks here: it’s only time and these efforts, regardless whether you finish something or not, will have an impact.   You will find bits and pieces sneaking into your writing and perhaps that will be all to the good.

I do remember some influences when I was writing “Devil”:  I had attempted “Tristram Shandy” (I hold no one can read that complete novel!), read for the third time (took 25 years, though) “Tom Jones” (I love this novel!!  It’s archaic but very, very valuable for so many things) “Pamela” and “Mists of Avalon”.  All these works found some resonance in this new (only my second) novel.  Perhaps uncomfortable places, but they settled in, sometimes in the dialogue, some times in the plots.

Since January I have been working on “The Kimono”.  This is a hard one to write because the research is paramount.  But! It’s going…slowly, and some days I could cry and tear my hair, but it’s going.

Recently I picked out an old book from my shelves:  “The English Spirit, Essays in History and Literature” by A.L. Rowse.  Good God! This is such a wonderful book!  It has absolutely nothing to do with what I am writing, but the lyricism of the writer is so good, and the essays are so involving,  I can’t help but learn something from this for future usage. Beyond that, though, it’s just a joy and pleasure to read, and I am hoping Rowse’s lyricism will rub off onto my own attempts.

Nothing more than the pure joy of reading and reading broadly. I am hoping my writer friends heed this, because I do believe we don’t live by our loins alone (that’s to the erotica writers…lol!) but there are worlds out there….that we pull in here….for our productions.

Lady Nyo

(below from July, 2009 blog entry)

Where are the directions for writing a novel?  As much as it’s discussed, apparently, there aren’t any. Well, there are suggestions and some guidelines, but  nothing in concrete.  It’s as individual as the author and has different approaches.  The key thing I am told is to keep going.

And that’s the rub.  I’ve been working on this quirky novel for over 3 years now, and it never seems to finish.  That is ‘normal’ from what I am told by those who HAVE finished novels.

And it keeps changing before my eyes.  Some days the characters gang up on me and take over the action, and other days they are as glum and silent as stones.  They take me down dead ends  and plot twists where I am blind as a bat, but for some reason,  they usually throw me a bone and with the breadcrumbs of design, I can work my way back into the light. (All this begs who is in control of the novel? Not exactly an easy question….it’s a weird partnership)

Bill Penrose has been a great influence and encourager on my writing this novel and other pieces.  He has always stood at my side when I was really lost in space on this novel (and other things) and given me the wisdom and experience of his own efforts.  Bill Penrose is a writer and a terrifically polished one at that.  Many decades writing does that to one who is open to learning and change.  Three years ago, Bill and Nick Nicholson, a fine Aussie writer, grabbed me from the lists of ERWA and put me in a private group and gave me lots of advice and guidance.  They continued to do so in another group for serious writers:  Not Dead Yet.  They worked over my beginning attempts and I learned.  Not enough, but I did learn some important and elemental things about writing.  I still have a lot to learn.  But they both stuck with me and believed in the characters.  Bill taught me how to critically ‘love’ my characters, and my imagination was fired by his own.

All this is to say that Bill gave me a good kick in the fanny very recently and told me that I owed it to him and my other readers to finish ’some’ novel.  (I have about 3 others more than 1/2 way through)  He’s right, and I was distancing myself from the hard work of finishing it.  I’ve been warned.

This is a quirky novel.  This is also a rough draft.  It’s been serialized a bit on this blog, and elsewhere….and the readership has been consistent.  I have a good ‘dedicated reader’ for this one, and I am listening hard to her opinions.  Every author needs this, and it helps a lot.  Thank you, M.

This is a bit unfair to new readers, to bring you into the action towards the end of a novel, but if interested, you can go back through the year’s blog and pick up the threads.

Bess: the narrator, is a 21st century  writer who is zapped through dimensions to the 19th century, and further to 8th century Wales, and  ‘home’ again to the 19th.

Madame Gormosy:  A Devil, a shapeshifter.  She can appear male or female at will.  She is a crucial character in most of the novel and one of my favorites.

M. Abigor:  A very powerful and nasty Demon, an Arch Duke of Hell, and also a Healer.  Go figure.  He’s the main ally of the next character, and pulling the strings and planning the final action.

M. le Devil, or aka:  Garrett Cortelyou.  Tall, handsome, dangerous and funny, Garrett is half human, but also half Demon.  He is locked (for centuries) in battle with Obadiah, a particularly demented demon.  Bess seems like a prize, but she is just a pawn  between these two.

Lady Nyo

Chapter 42.

DEVIL’S REVENGE

We came home.  How this happened isn’t clear.  Perhaps we flew out of that castle, off that island, out of that century like cannon shot and soared through the universe into the present.  Perhaps we tumbled like meteors over and over until we crashed into the earth.  I have no idea, but I would suppose it had to do with the mythical ley lines .

Garrett explained before what he knew about them. Some mystical,  magical spirit markers where the astral body could easily move.  He called it a ‘rip in the fabric of time’.  A portal to other dimensions.  I think Devils use this frequently to hop and jump from century to century, to show up when they are least wanted.

I read a while ago about this new mathematical “String Theory”, where scientists were theorizing extra dimensions more strange than anything we could conceive (ha! I could tell them some things…)  where we could pass from one dimension to another.  Certain  places the Earth’s energy increased and perhaps these were the portals.

But I just don’t remember how it happened to us, to return to the early 19th century. I must have had my eyes closed.

No, that’s not quite true. I do remember something.

I was lost in the darkness, with pinpoints of light travelling above, and small hills far under my feet. Those lights must be whirls of distant galaxies, stars and all that occupy the heavens, and those hills?  I remember Garrett talking about mole hills, the nurseries of different creatures, things beyond our imagination, things only a mother could love.

I seemed enormous, crossing great distances with only the breath of the cosmic wind to blow me afar, yet at the same time the universe was too vast, there were no breadcrumbs to follow.  I couldn’t see Garrett at all, I seemed to be alone.  Perhaps this was Death.  But I knew it wasn’t because I still worried, there was no peace.  Death would bring peace unless I was a ghost.

“Ah! She is coming back to life, she is awakening.”

I heard the voice of Madame Gormosy and I came conscious like a drowning woman, gasping and gulping air.

I blinked my eyes, trying to focus and there was Garrett and sweet Madame looking worried.  I still felt the effects of whatever drug was used for the time travel, but moaned with joy to see that troublesome Madame. I passed my tongue over my dried lips and tried to speak.

“Don’t labor yourself, ma cherie.   Here, drink this water, don’t gulp.”

She held a glass to my lips as Garrett slipped behind and pulled me up to a sitting position.  Of course I gulped and spilled more down the front of my nightdress.

“She will make it.”  I heard Garrett’s voice and turned my head to look at him over my shoulder.

I could have spit at him.  I was angry, and didn’t know why.   I felt disconnected and wondered if my atoms had been so disarranged as to warp my body, perhaps my mind? I pinched myself, as I would do over and over in the days to come, just to feel that small pain, to know I was alive.

I recovered after two days, felt more ‘normal’.  Something had changed though and it wasn’t just me.

Madame was always present. She hardly left me alone.  I didn’t say much, too distanced somehow to talk, or even play faro.  Madame was patient.  She didn’t push me in her usual fashion.  At times I glanced at her and she seemed worried, preoccupied in some way.  But then her expression would clear and though her eyes did not sparkle as before, she gave me encouraging little smiles as if to reassure everything would be fine.

It became clear things really had changed, would not return to whatever appeared before as normal. If I thought our coming ‘home’ would have allowed us more time together, I was very mistaken.  Garrett was mostly absent from the house.  When he arrived, I was asleep.

One evening after Madame had lit candles and found me sitting in the window seat, she came and sat down.  Smoothing her skirts across her thighs with her wrinkled and spotted hands, she sighed and looked out at the gathering darkness.

“Can you talk a little about your troubles, ma cherie?  You are so silent now, no laughter, no lightness.  I worry about you, dear child, but you seem none the worse for wear.”

I looked at Madame, the powdered gray hair, skin a lead white and those familiar moue on her face.  Suddenly I felt a sob rise in my throat and great tears began to fall.  I looked at her dear face and realized I had missed Madame Gormosy more than I could bear and here she was, before me, her own pain creasing her aged face.

“Oh, Madame!  I have missed you so much.”

I sobbed out my fear and loneliness and blindly pushed forth my hands towards her, feeling her catch me and draw me to her bosom.  Her hands went around my back, patting me firmly as I heaved great gulping sobs into her breasts, washing the lead powder from her skin and soaking her bodice.

“Ah, ma cherie, I have missed you, too! Who can I play my beloved faro with?  Once I told you how stupid other devils were.  Who can cheat like you? They are bumblers and no fun. They never tip their cards towards me, the solemn devils, they never kick their shoes off under the table, never let me read their deepest thoughts.  Ah! They are no amusement at all!”

I had to laugh.  Madame was very vain about her winnings, and kept them in a lacquered box.  But when I had no more coin to play with her, she would dump the box out and divide the coin equally. Well, perhaps I give her too much credit and have to remember she is a tricky devil, so I would suppose she would rake a bit of coin into her lap.  But all in all, she entertained me, and took great pains to do so.

She snapped her fingers and produced two rather large bowls of tea for us.  So much better than the stout Garrett would snap for.  Madame understood women, even though she was half male, and knew a crying jag would not be comforted by a tankard of ale.

I sipped the hot tea and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, and heard her ‘tut, tut’, as she leaned over and attempted to dry my tears with a large linen handkerchief. I started to laugh, a rather forlorn and empty attempt at laughter, but Madame was predictable.  So was I, apparently.

“What is now to happen, Madame?”  I looked at where my tears had made her white powder run and her wrinkled, old bosom exposed over the top of her plum, velvet gown.  She smelled a little like boiled cabbage.

“Ah, M. le Devil should have many plans by now.  Since you both have returned, he has met everyday with some creature or other.”

Her eyes glittered as she dipped her face into her bowl. The old devil knew something!

“Have you seen who he meets?  Is M. Abigor a visitor?”

“Ah, my curious girl, I only get a glimpse of a tail or a hoof, not much to go on.  Perhaps a slight smell of brimstone, nothing much to identify. These queer devils are all the same, n’est ce pas?”

Madame Gormosy was lying. We both knew they didn’t have tails or hooves, they would look like respectable gentlemen, even though their danger did not come from the swords that dangled at their sides.

Madame cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.  “Perhaps we apply some powder and rouge, get you into a tight corset, do your hair and you will feel like facing life again?  No one can face the future in their nightgown.  We women have our own power, neh?”

I sighed. I was back amongst devils, and at least they were familiar. Their magic I knew, at least some of it.  No tattooed snakes travelling the length of arms, nor Warrior Queens speaking in tongues.   Just Madame Gormosy with her transvestite ability and snapping her fingers for bowls of tea.  There was still this issue of Garrett disappearing and it seemed that coming ‘home’ had done little to change that.  I needed some answers and the only way was to do as Madame demanded.  I shook off my suspicions and gathered myself.  I was still very much a part of this puzzle.  Dark forces were gathering and I still was just a pawn on a demented chessboard.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2009

“The Zar Tales”

"The Zar Tales"

Gets published.  In a few days, probably.

Bill Penrose, the dear friend and writer who formatted “A Seasoning of Lust” last year this time, has done his magic again.  Bill has taken these projects of mine and made them real.  He is a very well published author himself,  (“Ancestors of Star”  and “Anne the Healer” just to mention two books available from Lulu.com) and also a research scientist, though what he does boggles my brain. Something to do with chemistry and conductors and lots of things mysterious.

This level of friendship is amazing to me.  What he does…the formatting…is the HARD work to me.  Mysterious and beyond my capabilities.  The writing is easy…..the formatting is difficult.  Lulu.com doesn’t take prisoners, though they tout themselves as ‘easy to use’.   Hah!

But I think we both learned from the first book and Bill is, once again…working his magic here.

Thank you, Bill.

Lady Nyo

(Below I am posting a part of the last chapter of “The Zar Tale” just for fun. It is part, the end part of a very long wedding scene.)

Gifts were piled on the long table before them: rugs and blankets, pots and a few pieces of silver.  These gifts were to start the new couple on their life together.

The moon rose up into Heaven and was girdled with an array of distant stars.  A soft nighttime breeze wafted over the fields and a bonfire was lit and still the dancing went on.  The feasting and music continued, likely to last throughout the night and into the early hours of the dawn.

Ali looked down at Shakira, whose head in her heavy wedding crown was supported by the high backed chair she had been sitting on all day.  She could not move much for the combined weight of the crown and the heavy amber and silver necklaces almost immobilized her.

“Shakira, my wife” said Ali tenderly.  “Walk out with me a bit and let us have a moment apart of all our friends.”

Shakira was glad to do so, and since her bridesmaids were sitting all to the left of her, they remove the heavy headdress and some of the wedding jewelry.  That done, she felt the weight of the world lifted from her and she gathered her robes and walked apace with Ali.

Standing in the dark away from the bonfire, with only the moon to grace the ground with light, Ali put his arm around her shoulders and looked out across the landscape, now only shadows and dark mystery.

He, once a mighty Zar, and before a fierce Berber warrior, was now just a man, a mortal with no mystical powers.  At the thought of this moment, where he stood on the ground with a worthy woman at his side, he could have shed tears for his good fortune.

Now he would grow old, as other mortals and he would labor as other men for his bread. He would be part of a humanity that brought justice into the world, no longer a ghost who passed for little, but a man who had substance when the night fell and the dawn came.  His feet would walk on the hard earth and he could feel the winds come down from the mountain on his face.  He could feel the coolness of water and the heat of fire.  He was man.

A sudden cold wind blew where they were standing and Ali pulled Shakira close.  He glanced up at the moon and just for a moment, it looked a sickly green. The stars seemed to melt and revolve in a tangle up in the sky and Shakira shivered under his arm. It was only a second, but for Ali, he knew the signs.  If the others, especially the former Zars had seen what he did, they didn’t say a word.

Perhaps it was just the wine the men had been drinking and it meant nothing at all.  But Ali scowled at the moon and put his hand on his Berber sword.  He had been a Zar for a thousand years not for nothing.

Shakira did not see the change in the moon, but nestled under the strong arm of her new husband.

For her part, she was very glad her husband was mortal, and when the wedding guests tied their hands together with strong yarn and led them to Shakira’s house with drums and flutes and much laughter, she knew she had the best of all worlds.  She had the protection and love of a mortal, and though a Zar could be an enchanting being, the man in her life now was the substance of the best of her dreams.

* * *

But this is not the end of the story.  We will leave them both to enjoy the early months of their wedding, but there is much more to this Zar tale.

Do you remember the Mullahs they met on that black mountain road?  Those who judged Shakira Sheikha so harshly?  The ones who met an unfortunate fate?

These Mullahs were judged in Paradise and sent back to earth, but now in the form of Zars!

And they weren’t of the ‘helpful’ variety as were Ali and his Berber and Persian friends.

No, they were out for revenge and now imbued with the power of a terrible djinn.

The End (for now)

——

Jane Kohut-Bartels

“The Zar Tale”

Copyrighted, 2010

Interview with Bill Penrose, Author of “Anne the Healer”

(Bill Penrose is a friend of over three years standing I met on a  website, ERWA (Erotica Readers and Writers Assoc). I don’t participate much there anymore because I can’t seem to get the submissions of others  on a regular basis. (I am told it’s a server problem on my end.) It was a good classroom for those years,  and I would recommend it to any beginning writer for what you learn.  Most of us benefit from our time there and go on and perhaps broaden our writing from erotica. Or not.

Bill Penrose was one of the best people to come out of the ERWA experience. He took me, a very raw writer, in hand, and gently mentored  and encouraged  until I  started to stand on my own.  There were others who did the same, Nick Nicholson for one, and I remain very grateful to these two fine friends and great writers. Bill also has taken on the publishing of my first book, “A Seasoning of Lust” and is soon to do the second, “The Zar Tales”.

Thanks, Bill.  You know…you know.

Lady Nyo)

Bill, this book is rather different from “Ancestors of Star”. It delved into Catholicism, faith healing and other social issues, like homelessness.

I was still searching for the right genre. I began this novel as my Nanowrimo 2004 project, and finished it about a year later. Finally, I grew tired of letting it sit on my hard drive and decided to put it out there, first on authonomy.com, and finally on Lulu.com . I think it’s a good story, but I wasn’t really trying to get a message across, only to entertain.

While I was teaching at Illinois Institute of Technology, I was close to several contrasting neighborhoods in Chicago, including Bridgeport, Chinatown, and Bronzeville. Each neighborhood had its own peculiar characteristics, but Bridgeport was most interesting because of its cosmopolitan, transitional character. It had traditionally been Irish-Italian working class, as well as the home of the Daleys and the center of the famous Chicago Democratic Machine. But with the recent dramatic influx of Hispanics, it was becoming more diverse every day. It wasn’t just the broad ethnic spread, but the class distribution. There were the very poor, even some who lived in tents made of plastic garbage bags and duct tape, and others in narrow homes over a hundred years old. The shops on 31st Street reflected the fascinating variety of the area.

In other words, it’s an area where you almost expect unusual things to happen, much more so than in the homogenous suburban area where I lived. Although ‘Anne the Healer’ could have been set almost anywhere, it was a natural for the Bridgeport area.

Why did you write a novel about faith healing? Could you speak a bit on your own religious or spiritual convictions? How did you come to these?

I like to put a little magic in my stories. Life itself is magical in so many ways, so for me, it’s not much of a stretch to add just a little more magic, just enough to disorient and make the earth shift a little underfoot. I think it’s also important to merge it with the universal magic by making the special magic, e.g., Anne’s talent for healing, ambiguous. In other words, it should be possible to read ‘Anne the Healer’ without believing in faith healing or divine powers. Like the universal magic, it should be possible to interpret her healing power as self-delusion or coincidence.

‘Anne the Healer’ actually spun off from the character Mary the Healer in my first attempt at a novel, ‘The Sisters of Kali’. One of the Sisters, Mary Bell, discovers that she can sometimes cure sick or injured people by praying for them. At first, she is doubtful and then frightened by her mysterious power, with justice, because soon it takes over her soul and her life.

While ruminating on Mary’s character, I thought of other scenarios involving a reluctant healer, and wrote a short story, ‘Anne the Healer’, a tale of a brief liaison between a faith healer and Tim Hardy, a minimum-wage bookstore worker. I soon fell in love with Anne, but Tim was too passive to suit me. When I decided the story merited novel-length treatment, I made Tim a petty criminal with enough cynicism to doubt Anne’s talent, and later, when faced with evidence of her power to heal, plan to exploit her for his own purposes. But of course, they fall in love instead, Tim first.
I know that you are a scientist. Did you find that you were searching for different answers or was this not a conflict with your scientific views of life and death?

I never had a problem keeping science and spiritualism in my head at the same time. I’m not one of those scientists who claim to ‘leave God at the laboratory door’. Two people can look through a microscope at, say, a bacterial cell. One person will see an agent of disease, or perhaps a useful tool for the making of yogurt, or an intellectual puzzle to be solved. Another will see an actual miracle, the whole machinery of life packed into an impossibly tiny space, a spectacularly complex and beautifully constructed living device capable of reproducing itself, and involved in a vast web of interactions with the living and nonliving worlds. I find it difficult to do science without being caught up in the beauty of all things, from the mind-boggling structure of atoms, to the incomprehensible vastness of the Universe. The likelihood that these structures arose through a long process of variation and natural selection doesn’t dilute the miracles one bit. In fact, the more we understand, the more marvelous the Universe becomes.

Somewhere in ‘The Sisters of Kali’, my main character, Phyllis, says, “Miracles are everywhere. They happen every day, all around us. But we only question the new or different ones, the ones we haven’t become jaded with.”

No one has to believe in a god, or even a vague spiritual force, to appreciate Nature. Whether or not we attribute the Universe to a great spirit or to random chance isn’t due to the careful study of Nature, but something that comes out of our own character. No one really sets out to study the Universe in order to discover God or prove Her absence. They begin with the assumption that God exists, or doesn’t exist, and interpret all they see and hear from that perspective. Belief trumps facts every time.

I’ll go one step farther and say that the Universe is constructed in such a way that it’s impossible to prove or disprove the existence of a spiritual force. This ambiguity is built into the world, and it’s absolutely essential to the existence of Free Will. If we could solve an equation, or run a statistical analysis that conclusively proved the existence of God, Free Will would vanish instantly. Every decision after that would be conditioned on whether it would offend or please God. We’d have no choice but to try to discover what this new God wanted from us, and try to do things to satisfy Her demands.

You are not a writer who turns from the sexual issues in your books, but in “Anne the Healer” you handled this in a very different way. Why was that?

Mostly, I thought it would distract from the main story. I’d just spend a half year with two different critique groups who found the sexual interludes in ‘The Sisters of Kali’ too explicit, and intruded on the main story. In my current WIP, I’ve run into the same criticism, and I’ve decided to dumb down or dilute those scenes in the next rewrite.

Thank you, Bill.  What you write about Free Will expands my thinking on the issue.  I wish you had been my teacher in chemistry.  I think you would have made it all…’plain’.

And very much more illuminating.

http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/anne-the-healer/7805407

Lady Nyo

“Devil’s Revenge” Chapter 42, and some comments on writing a novel.

Where are the directions for writing a novel?  As much as it’s discussed, apparently, there aren’t any. Well, there are suggestions and some guidelines, but  nothing in concrete.  It’s as individual as the author and has different approaches.  The key thing I am told is to keep going.

And that’s the rub.  I’ve been working on this quirky novel for over 3 years now, and it never seems to finish.  That is ‘normal’ from what I am told by those who HAVE finished novels.

And it keeps changing before my eyes.  Some days the characters gang up on me and take over the action, and other days they are as glum and silent as stones.  They take me down dead ends  and plot twists where I am blind as a bat, but for some reason,  they usually throw me a bone and with the breadcrumbs of design, I can work my way back into the light. (All this begs who is in control of the novel? Not exactly an easy question….it’s a weird partnership)

Bill Penrose has been a great influence and encourager on my writing this novel and other pieces.  He has always stood at my side when I was really lost in space on this novel (and other things) and given me the wisdom and experience of his own efforts.  Bill Penrose is a writer and a terrifically polished one at that.  Many decades writing does that to one who is open to learning and change.  Three years ago, Bill and Nick Nicholson, a fine Aussie writer, grabbed me from the lists of ERWA and put me in a private group and gave me lots of advice and guidance.  They continued to do so in another group for serious writers:  Not Dead Yet.  They worked over my beginning attempts and I learned.  Not enough, but I did learn some important and elemental things about writing.  I still have a lot to learn.  But they both stuck with me and believed in the characters.  Bill taught me how to critically ‘love’ my characters, and my imagination was fired by his own.

All this is to say that Bill gave me a good kick in the fanny very recently and told me that I owed it to him and my other readers to finish ‘some’ novel.  (I have about 3 others more than 1/2 way through)  He’s right, and I was distancing myself from the hard work of finishing it.  I’ve been warned.

This is a quirky novel.  This is also a rough draft.  It’s been serialized a bit on this blog, and elsewhere….and the readership has been consistent.  I have a good ‘dedicated reader’ for this one, and I am listening hard to her opinions.  Every author needs this, and it helps a lot.  Thank you, M.

This is a bit unfair to new readers, to bring you into the action towards the end of a novel, but if interested, you can go back through the year’s blog and pick up the threads.

Bess: the narrator, is a 21st century  writer who is zapped through dimensions to the 19th century, and further to 8th century Wales, and  ‘home’ again to the 19th.

Madame Gormosy:  A Devil, a shapeshifter.  She can appear male or female at will.  She is a crucial character in most of the novel and one of my favorites.

M. Abigor:  A very powerful and nasty Demon, an Arch Duke of Hell, and also a Healer.  Go figure.  He’s the main ally of the next character, and pulling the strings and planning the final action.

M. le Devil, or aka:  Garrett Cortelyou.  Tall, handsome, dangerous and funny, Garrett is half human, but also half Demon.  He is locked (for centuries) in battle with Obadiah, a particularly demented demon.  Bess seems like a prize between them, but she is just a pawn  between these two.

Lady Nyo

Chapter 42.

DEVIL’S REVENGE

We came home.  How this happened isn’t clear.  Perhaps we flew out of that castle, off that island, out of that century like cannon shot and soared through the universe into the present.  Perhaps we tumbled like meteors over and over until we crashed into the earth.  I have no idea, but I would suppose it had to do with the mythical ley lines .

Garrett explained before what he knew about them. Some mystical,  magical spirit markers where the astral body could easily move.  He called it a ‘rip in the fabric of time’.  A portal to other dimensions.  I think Devils use this frequently to hop and jump from century to century, to show up when they are least wanted.

I read a while ago about this new mathematical “String Theory”, where scientists were theorizing extra dimensions more strange than anything we could conceive (ha! I could tell them some things…)  where we could pass from one dimension to another.  Certain  places the Earth’s energy increased and perhaps these were the portals.

But I just don’t remember how it happened to us, to return to the early 19th century. I must have had my eyes closed.

No, that’s not quite true. I do remember something.

I was lost in the darkness, with pinpoints of light travelling above, and small hills far under my feet. Those lights must be whirls of distant galaxies, stars and all that occupy the heavens, and those hills?  I remember Garrett talking about mole hills, the nurseries of different creatures, things beyond our imagination, things only a mother could love.

I seemed enormous, crossing great distances with only the breath of the cosmic wind to blow me afar, yet at the same time the universe was too vast, there were no breadcrumbs to follow.  I couldn’t see Garrett at all, I seemed to be alone.  Perhaps this was Death.  But I knew it wasn’t because I still worried, there was no peace.  Death would bring peace unless I was a ghost.

“Ah! She is coming back to life, she is awakening.”

I heard the voice of Madame Gormosy and I came conscious like a drowning woman, gasping and gulping air.

I blinked my eyes, trying to focus and there was Garrett and sweet Madame looking worried.  I still felt the effects of whatever drug was used for the time travel, but moaned with joy to see that troublesome Madame. I passed my tongue over my dried lips and tried to speak.

“Don’t labor yourself, ma cherie.   Here, drink this water, don’t gulp.”

She held a glass to my lips as Garrett slipped behind and pulled me up to a sitting position.  Of course I gulped and spilled more down the front of my nightdress.

“She will make it.”  I heard Garrett’s voice and turned my head to look at him over my shoulder.

I could have spit at him.  I was angry, and didn’t know why.   I felt disconnected and wondered if my atoms had been so disarranged as to warp my body, perhaps my mind? I pinched myself, as I would do over and over in the days to come, just to feel that small pain, to know I was alive.

I recovered after two days, felt more ‘normal’.  Something had changed though and it wasn’t just me.

Madame was always present. She hardly left me alone.  I didn’t say much, too distanced somehow to talk, or even play faro.  Madame was patient.  She didn’t push me in her usual fashion.  At times I glanced at her and she seemed worried, preoccupied in some way.  But then her expression would clear and though her eyes did not sparkle as before, she gave me encouraging little smiles as if to reassure everything would be fine.

It became clear things really had changed, would not return to whatever appeared before as normal. If I thought our coming ‘home’ would have allowed us more time together, I was very mistaken.  Garrett was mostly absent from the house.  When he arrived, I was asleep.

One evening after Madame had lit candles and found me sitting in the window seat, she came and sat down.  Smoothing her skirts across her thighs with her wrinkled and spotted hands, she sighed and looked out at the gathering darkness.

“Can you talk a little about your troubles, ma cherie?  You are so silent now, no laughter, no lightness.  I worry about you, dear child, but you seem none the worse for wear.”

I looked at Madame, the powdered gray hair, skin a lead white and those familiar moue on her face.  Suddenly I felt a sob rise in my throat and great tears began to fall.  I looked at her dear face and realized I had missed Madame Gormosy more than I could bear and here she was, before me, her own pain creasing her aged face.

“Oh, Madame!  I have missed you so much.”

I sobbed out my fear and loneliness and blindly pushed forth my hands towards her, feeling her catch me and draw me to her bosom.  Her hands went around my back, patting me firmly as I heaved great gulping sobs into her breasts, washing the lead powder from her skin and soaking her bodice.

“Ah, ma cherie, I have missed you, too! Who can I play my beloved faro with?  Once I told you how stupid other devils were.  Who can cheat like you? They are bumblers and no fun. They never tip their cards towards me, the solemn devils, they never kick their shoes off under the table, never let me read their deepest thoughts.  Ah! They are no amusement at all!”

I had to laugh.  Madame was very vain about her winnings, and kept them in a lacquered box.  But when I had no more coin to play with her, she would dump the box out and divide the coin equally. Well, perhaps I give her too much credit and have to remember she is a tricky devil, so I would suppose she would rake a bit of coin into her lap.  But all in all, she entertained me, and took great pains to do so.

She snapped her fingers and produced two rather large bowls of tea for us.  So much better than the stout Garrett would snap for.  Madame understood women, even though she was half male, and knew a crying jag would not be comforted by a tankard of ale.

I sipped the hot tea and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, and heard her ‘tut, tut’, as she leaned over and attempted to dry my tears with a large linen handkerchief. I started to laugh, a rather forlorn and empty attempt at laughter, but Madame was predictable.  So was I, apparently.

“What is now to happen, Madame?”  I looked at where my tears had made her white powder run and her wrinkled, old bosom exposed over the top of her plum, velvet gown.

“Ah, M. le Devil should have many plans by now.  Since you both have returned, he has met everyday with some creature or other.”

Her eyes glittered as she dipped her face into her bowl. The old devil knew something!

“Have you seen who he meets?  Is M. Abigor a visitor?”

“Ah, my curious girl, I only get a glimpse of a tail or a hoof, not much to go on.  Perhaps a slight smell of brimstone, nothing much to identify. These queer devils are all the same, n’est ce pas?”

Madame Gormosy was lying. We both knew they didn’t have tails or hooves, they would look like respectable gentlemen, even though their danger did not come from the swords that dangled at their sides.

Madame cocked her head and narrowed her eyes.  “Perhaps we apply some powder and rouge, get you into a tight corset, do your hair and you will feel like facing life again?  No one can face the future in their nightgown.  We women have our own power, neh?”

I sighed. I was back amongst devils, and at least they were familiar. Their magic I knew, at least some of it.  No tattooed snakes travelling the length of arms, nor Warrior Queens speaking in tongues.   Just Madame Gormosy with her transvestite ability and snapping her fingers for bowls of tea.  There was still this issue of Garrett disappearing and it seemed that coming ‘home’ had done little to change that.  I needed some answers and the only way was to do as Madame demanded.  I shook off my suspicions and gathered myself.  I was still very much a part of this puzzle.  Dark forces were gathering and I still was just a pawn on a demented chessboard.

Jane Kohut-Bartels
Copyrighted, 2009