Last week we looked at the historical background of the Jewish observance of Hanukkah, an extra-Biblical holiday with, as we’ll see today, a most interesting connection with the Christian festival of Christmas.

Is the miracle of the holy oil burning for eight days truth or fiction? As one reader suggested, it might depend upon whether you believe in the apocryphal book Maccabees. Well … my present beliefs are not such that I take those writings as inspired Scripture, but I’m not going to rule out the possibility of God working such a miracle.

Some sources say there was no miracle, that the celebration became eight days because the original rededication of the Temple was a delayed (early winter rather than late summer) celebration of the seven-day Feast of Tabernacles along with the “Eighth Day of the Assemblies.” But either way, it’s curious that not only is the holiday still celebrated today, but it merited a mention in the Gospel of John.

Now it was the Feast of Dedication in Jerusalem, and it was winter. And Jesus walked in the temple, in Solomon’s porch. … (John 10:22-23)

What’s this all about? I noticed while looking for this Scripture that John often used the feast times as time markers for different parts of his account: “it was Passover … the Feast of Tabernacles …” etc. But here, he adds all this detail, as if to leave some unspoken clue. Not just “it was the Feast of Dedication,” but “and it was winter.” And the description of Yeshua (I like calling Him by the proper Hebrew form of His name) walking through Solomon’s porch in the Temple, during this holiday, which centers around speculation of a miracle.

Well … Christmas is rife with legend and speculation, as well. The story of an actual historic figure, Nicholas, a bishop renowned for his good works, grew into the myth of “Santa Claus.” Even the idea that the Messiah’s birth actually occurred on December 25 is rooted in myth and speculation. Scholars generally agree that Yeshua’s birth was likely sometime during the fall feasts, likely the Feast of Tabernacles. Our first clue to rule out December is the fact that Luke tells us the shepherds were in the fields with their flocks, and the weather in that part of the Middle East is too inclement during December for that. Our second clue is the fact that until after Constantine, when the Roman Catholic Church was established and the Jewish expressions of faith done away with, there was no … Christmas. The “Christ-mass” was fixed on December 25 as a replacement for a pagan midwinter celebration that roots at least back to Egyptian times, with the “rebirth” of the god Osiris.

In addition, there really is no Biblical command to celebrate the Birth of the Messiah—in fact, the Biblical records of birthday celebrations in general are limited to those in which someone died (Pharaoh, in Genesis, executing his traitorous baker, and Herod, granting the head of John the Baptist to Salome). But if we insist on fixing the date of Yeshua’s birth, then in keeping with the theme of Messianic events corresponding to Old Covenant feasts, it would be reasonable to assume that His birth did indeed take place sometime during the Feast of Tabernacles, which scholars agree is symbolic or a foreshadowing of when God will “tabernacle” or dwell with His people. Other Messianic events: Yeshua was crucified on Passover, rose again on the Feast of Fruits—as the first of those to enjoy total victory over death—and the Holy Spirit was given on Pentecost, another feast day celebrating—surprise!—the early harvest. Scholars also suggest that He will return during the Feast of Trumpets (remember how the trumpet sounding is linked to the Second Coming?), and so it seems to make sense that His Incarnation—when God came down to tabernacle in a human body for our redemption—could have taken place during the Feast of Tabernacles.

So, in thinking through all that, an interesting thought occurred to me.  If Jesus was born during the Feast of Tabernacles—Septemberish—then that would put His conception right around the time of … Hanukkah.  The Feast of Dedication … or Festival of Lights. Perhaps, the Kindling of the One called Light of the World, Himself?

“And it was the Feast of Dedication … and it was winter. And Jesus walked in the temple …”

Hmm … mere coincidence, or truly a clue, since the term “temple” often refers to the human body as God’s dwelling place?

But it’s all speculation, of course.

Last week I viewed probably one of the best Christian films produced in a while — and by Christian, I mean specifically Christian, with representations of real-world Christians and real-world church and society situations.

It wasn’t widescreen fiction; it wasn’t speculative as in fantasy / sci-fi speculative. And yet I still think the film has much from which Christ-honoring storytellers can learn.

7. Carefully written, realistic representations of life

The film was The Second Chance, a somewhat vaguely titled release starring singer/songwriter Michael W. Smith and directed by Steve Taylor — the ‘80s provocative Christian-rock musician, who among other things, wrote the song “I Manipulate,” mocking legalist leaders, and “I Blew Up the Clinic Real Good,” scathing abortion-clinic bombers.

That somewhat abrasive style makes its way into Chance, whose story asks how Christians confront problems such as inner-city poverty and violence in our own cities. Do we withdraw into our own churchy comfort zones and toss money into others’ ministries from a distance? Or do we head into the fray ourselves, bringing some element of risk and discomfort in order to be “doers of the Word and not hearers only”?

Previous columns in this Nine Marks of Widescreen Fiction series, including last week’s sixth installment about love and romantic elements, have included this suggestion: that maybe our stories should be less “comfortable” and slightly more risky, sweat-intensive, even adrenaline-inducing.

The speculative genre often covers that territory automatically — and, I submit, that could mean some “undesirable” story elements may also seem necessary.

A realistic picture worth some four-letter words?

Some readers will think me a heretic in a moment.

While viewing the Second Chance and its rather gritty portrayals of inner-city life and ministry, I kept thinking (… three … two … one …) Hey. They have cursing in this movie. Cool.

Maybe it’s my overexposure to “fundamentalist” Christian factions that makes me want to head the other way. Maybe it’s a realization that not taking the Lord’s Name in vain is one of the Ten Commandments and swearing is only condemned by Christ later — yet some Christian authors, even Frank Peretti, have dared to let their characters misuse the term “God” but oddly still avoid “swear words.” Maybe I’m considering C.S. Lewis and other less-scrupulous types, who let Bad Words into their stories and they never seem frivolous — instead, often humorous.

Or maybe it’s a subplot from the movie, in which Tony, one of the church volunteers who’s somewhat slow of speech, had changed his mind on the issue. A youth, trying to help another young man escape a gang, had been beaten horribly for his efforts, and the older man asked him, “Doing okay?” (possible paraphrase) The youth responded, “It hurts like Hell” — to which Tony innocently informed him that people shouldn’t swear. But later Tony is in tears, telling the younger man, “I was more worried about you sayin’ Hell than how you felt.”

During my own writing, I’ve often come across several places in story-time in which I know a character swore — directly, in-print, and not a “he swore” swear, but an actual word right there. That’s certainly what you would do, anyway, if you’re already a temper-intensive type of person who is trapped in a 2121-era cathedral with your fellow believers and surrounded by armed men who give absolutely no indication of why they’ve just taken you hostage.

I think I gave in at that point. The man thought, but didn’t say aloud, a bad word. It slipped into print. It may have to slip back out, of course.

But already I’ve found that loophole for sci-fi anyway. Many bad words are different, newer, and nastier by then, and have no negative connotation whatsoever now. There’s the rub: these terms are in no way evil of themselves, but they represent evil thoughts, visualizations, desires. And those elements are already in Christian speculative fiction anyway.

Should we then not, somewhat inconsistently, shy away from bad words as well? and perhaps use them in small doses?

That might depend on the reader, most of all. Some people are prone to swearing, and including the words won’t help them break the habit at all. And yet others are prone to violence, or so we hear from those commissioned studies about video games — and that doesn’t result in a Christian genre that’s free of shots, knife-slicing and things like that.

V is for violence

Author Penelope Stokes in Writing and Selling the Christian Novel wonders in chapter 15 why editors and readers aren’t more bothered about violence in fiction.

I agree with her that no reason exists to detail graphic interactions as if we’re Mel Gibson outlining just exactly what bodily substance or organ spills where for his latest uber-slasher flick. However, at this point we are somewhat trapped in a disgusting world too.

If all Christians tried to avoid violence, we’d have no inner-city pastors, no soldiers, no police officers; no Christian wardens, Secret Service members, SWAT teams or even politicians. Similarly, in our workplaces, in public, and in many of the movies most of it like, we have Bad Words aplenty. We can’t avoid that — though some Christians have tried and as a result withdraw from the very world that needs their presence.

Does that mean we should keep including violence in our speculative, sci-fi and suspense novels? I would maintain the answer as yes, a bit more strongly than I would the notion that some more bad words might help present a more realistic picture of our flawed human characters.

Violence-aversion seems a thing of the past for Christian thriller novelists anyway. Peretti, Dekker and the rest actually do sometimes detail graphic interactions. And Stephen Lawhead’s portrayal of a demonic horde in The Paradise War is one of the most disgusting and cringe-inducing descriptions you could ever see for a gaggle of bad guys. Lawhead has bad words, too — and in these books, in a Christian bookstore, just a letter away from those of Karen Kingsbury.

Exceptions and conclusions

Even if most readers may be able to tolerate in-print inclusions of swearing, beheading and the like, I may speak frankly, at least for the honest guys here, about what the TV ratings system abbreviates SC — sexual content.

Perhaps someday I’ll encounter people who sincerely claim opposite, but thus far I can insist that if you as a guy claim the SC doesn’t bother you even a little then you’re either lying or, shall we say, wired a bit different.

Ergo, I see no reason to lower the current seeming censorship of disgusting SC in Christ-honoring stories. Meanwhile, Stokes maintains probably the best way to handle legitimate SC in a Christ-honoring story:

[W]hereas “good Christian characters” don’t (or perhaps shouldn’t) swear, good Christian characters do have legitimate sexual desires and acceptable ways to fulfill those desires. The key for the Christian writer is to allow characters to be human without demeaning or exploiting the holiness of sexual union.

That sounds slightly difficult — hinting toward those elements without exploiting anything. But perhaps it can be done. Consider this: the Christian moviemakers have an even tougher job with this one. Not once in The Second Chance did Smith’s character and his fiancée kiss or hold hands, and despite all the inner-city ugliness, you barely saw any SC. Only that seemed a bit unrealistic for the movie.

Yes, Christian storytelling is a form of escape. But that depends on what the reader hopes to escape from. Is it the nastiness of everyday life, or the artificial comfort-zone and even monotony Christians often undergo? A place exists for both types of escapists on our shelves. And well-written realism in speculative fiction can only continue to help monotony “escapists” enjoy their time spent in the fortress of imagination — and then inspire them to get back out there and fight in the real-world war.

Heya, I know I was going to start talkin’ about my writing journey for Chamber of Origins this week, however it has gotten pre-empted by Blog tour responsibilities, and what you get is much sweeter.

Below is the entire first chapter of Trackers by Kathryn Mackel. So grab some cocoa and settle in for a fun read. And once you’re done be sure to see Becky’s post from yesterday with the links to all the other participants.

——

One

Timothy crouched in the grass, his heart hammering as he crept toward the Wall of Traxx. His attention was fixed on danger, but his heart was intent on Dawnray, the lovely village girl on the other side of the wall—held captive in the royal palace. He was ready with a plan and had almost accumulated what he needed to make it all happen.

One thing stood in Timothy’s way, and it wasn’t the deadly wall of thorns that surrounded the stronghold. The voice of his camp leader, Brady, who was off somewhere with fellow outrider Niki, nevertheless nagged at him in his head.

What most annoyed Timothy was not that the outrider’s voice was imaginary, but that it told the truth.

What’re you doing, mate? Can’t go off on your own like this.

Timothy argued in his mind. But Alrod’s holding her prisoner, and he intends her for his own use. You know what that use is, Brady. She needs help.

We can’t rescue everyone, Tim.

But we save some. That’s part of why we’re here. You’ve led countless rescues, and you’ve taught me how to do it.

Why this girl and not some other? Is it because she’s lovelier than the serving lass in Alrod’s kitchen?

“It’s because I love her,” Timothy whispered, more to assure himself than to convince the voice in his head. Easier to sneak through a wall thought impassable than to deal with a leader who wasn’t even here.

A patrol of Alrod’s strong-arms approached, and Timothy ducked out of sight, though the strong-arms never looked his way. Two of these patrols guarded the wall, riding its perimeter from opposite sides, but Timothy knew they spend more time trading barbs and spiced rum than searching out intruders. They assumed that no intruder would dare try to breach the dreaded Wall of Traxx. But Timothy knew the wall wasn’t impassable. He’d been through it several times just this past week.

Twenty paces high and a hundred deep, the Wall of Traxx ringed the stronghold with a vast stretch of flowers and thorns. The flowers bloomed on the outside—tiny but profuse blooms of roses, lilies, sunflowers, daffodils, and flowers even an experienced tracker like Timothy couldn’t name, all infused with intoxicating fragrance. But beyond the blooms lay a maze of thorns the size of a strong-arm’s lance and briar thickets that a mogged rhinoceros couldn’t pass through. Many men—indeed, full armies—had been fooled by the wall’s enticing exterior, only to be impaled by the thorns and die tangled in the briars.

Timothy waited until the patrol was out of sight, then ran up to the wall and began to sing.

Can you hear the distant thunder?
Can you feel the tremble of the earth?

In response, a bent-over creature shuffled out of the flowers, black eyes staring out of a leathery face. Timothy’s heart ached for the little fellow—born as a man, but transmogrified by the sorcerer’s potions into a turtlelike slung, destined to spend his life inside this wall. Like his many brothers, he feared open spaces and had only one love—music.

“Bask! Thanks for coming.” Timothy sang the words, and the little creature’s eyes narrowed with pleasure at the sound. “May I enter?”

The slung’s answer was to turn and push into the flowers. Grabbing the back of Bask’s rock-hard shell, Timothy followed him, singing the whole time. To stop singing was to be abandoned among the thorns.

To be abandoned here was to die.

Within three paces, the flowers gave way to woody growth. With ease, the slung broke thorns twice his size and flattened tangles of bramble that could kill any invader foolish enough to try to breach this wall. Timothy ducked low and followed closely, feeling new thorns and brambles already growing in behind him, lingering occasionally to fill his bag with globs of sticky resin that dripped from the thorn vines. The slung didn’t seem to mind, just pressed on steadily. Timothy followed through malodorous muck that sucked at his boots and offended his sensitive tracker’s nose—it was always a challenge to keep singing but not gag at the smell. All day and all night, the slungs lugged in buckets of manure and moldy vegetables to feed the living wall—and it was said that Baron Alrod fed this wall with the guts of his enemies as well.

Sheltering behind the slug and longing for the moment he broke through into the fresh air and sunlight, Timothy sang to survive.

But when he finally reached Dawnray’s window, Timothy would sing his love . . . and more.

*

Dark thoughts. A place where of the master sorcerer of Traxx was quite at ease.

But today a void haunted Ghedo’s mind—a dream he could not achieve, an accomplishment beyond his grasp. Anyone could wreak death. All it took was a sword, a knife, a rock, even a hard fist or an iron skillet. Slash, jab, slam, whack, and death had its way.

Death was simple.

But how long would the secrets of life elude him?

As he trailed after his warlord employer, Baron Alrod, even this glorious day mocked him. The plains of Traxx were with lush with summer grasses and blooming wildflowers. A profusion of life that came in its course whether Ghedo willed it or not.

To speak birds into flight and to call men back from the dead was surely not out of the reach of the greatest sorcerer who had ever lived. But how could he grasp the goal when the baron kept wasting his best efforts?

On these plains, for example, Ghedo’s greatest achievement now rotted for all to see. He had finally succeeded in transmogrifying cobblers and farmers and fishwives into great, hulking gargants—an unstoppable army of giants. Just a few weeks ago, he’d presented his gargant troops to Alrod, who quickly turned what should have been an amazing triumph into a military debacle.

The gargant corpses now lay scattered for leagues, their limbs almost picked clean by buzzards and their bones bleached white by a blinding sun, a ghastly memorial to Ghedo’s prowess and Alrod’s folly. And Alrod, ever resourceful, had used the massive ribcages as gallows, stringing their ribs with his own failed strong-arms as easily as a woman might adorn her ears with dangling jewels. Rather than hanging them from their necks, the baron had ordered them bound tightly around the chest. They would bake in the hot sun for days until death finally came.

Cloaked and veiled, Ghedo was forced to stand with Alrod and watch the hangings. In his thirst for vicious revenge, the baron had not grasped this irony: by executing what was left of his army by hanging them inside the remains of a greater army, he was advertising his monumental defeat for all to see.

After the last strong-arm had been strung up, Alrod walked briskly to the command tent, a good league away from the killing fields. Ghedo followed, breathless with the exertion. He preferred his underground lair to the open sky. His gifts were not of a physical nature.

The baron was the warrior. His lean frame was muscular, his jaw hard, his eyes hungry. That his hand rested on his sword told Ghedo that the execution had not slaked his thirst for revenge.

Alrod’s valet Sado met them with mugs of mulled cider. An holdover from Alrod’s grandfather, the ancient retainer was bent and gnarled, with a constant moist wheeze that set Ghedo’s nerves on edge. As with a beloved dog, Alrod would not put him out of his misery.

“I need meat, Sado,” Alrod said. “Spiced and roasted, but with the juices still running.”

The servant shuffled out. Ghedo locked the door behind him. He slipped off his cloak and veil so he could breathe freely. Only Alrod had ever seen him without the cloak—or had even seen his face. Ghedo avoided the entanglements of the flesh that the baron thrived on, even women. Celibacy had its virtues—a clear mind among them. And the cloak was a key to his power—almost as important as his cache of transmogrifying potions.

The purple cloak was the most feared—and thus revered—symbol in the stronghold. When Alrod ascended the throne, Ghedo had seized the cloak of the master sorcerer from his father. It was now embroidered with entwined snakes, fangs ready to strike. One symbolized his late grandfather, the other his deceased father.

There would never be a third snake—another memorial to a deposed father by an upstart son. Ghedo had no sons, no need for the kind of immortality men seek by fathering children. He had successfully transmogrified the wall of thorns so that it could regenerate itself immediately, and he had recently achieved similar results with a worm. Surely the regeneration of human life—even his own self—was within reach.

If he could keep his energy up. Ghedo was bitterly tired of cleaning up after a man who could not control his fury. “Alrod.”

The baron slumped onto a stool and tugged off his boots. “What.”

“The army is running thin. We need every strong-arm that still breathes just to protect our borders. I’m speaking to you as a friend—perhaps you could cut those men down after a couple of days and restore them to the army. Your anger is understandable, but perhaps you would be wise to vent your frustration on the commoners.”

Alrod was on him in a flash, the tip of his dagger against Ghedo’s throat. “Perhaps I could spare the commoners and vent my wrath on the friend who betrayed me.”

Ghedo held himself motionless. “How have I betrayed you?”

“By your incompetence.”

“I would die for you.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“After all these years? All I’ve done for you? After all we’ve done together?”

“If you continue to disappoint me, what choice will I have?” Alrod’s voice cracked as he lowered the dagger. “I need a sorcerer with the skill to match my ambition.”

“I am that sorcerer, as I always have been. You know that.”

“Do I, Ghedo? Do I really?”

The bell clanged. Ghedo shrugged on his cloak and pulled his veil into place before he freed the latches to let Sado in.

A sudden burst of light exploded behind the servant, followed by a blast of frigid air that sucked the door shut. Before Alrod could grab his sword, Ghedo had flung his knife into the intruder’s heart.

The man didn’t even flinch.

Ghedo grappled for his sword, but Alrod stayed his hand. “Were our visitor a threat, we’d both be dead by now.”

The intruder bowed, a strangely formal gesture given the knife in his chest. Cloaked in a shimmer of gray and gold, he too hid his face behind a veil. Beside him, Sado stood as a statue, tray in hand and mouth open. The valet’s chest did not rise, and yet he did not fall over dead. Had he been struck with a fast-acting potion that turned him to stone?

“I am honored to be counted worthy as an adversary. But I come as a friend.” The intruder’s voice was deep but not harsh, with an odd accent that lowered in tone at the end of each phrase.

“Friends do not come masked,” Alrod said. “Show yourself.”

The intruder unlatched his veil and dropped his hood. Ghedo swallowed back shock at seeing his own face on the intruder. “A trick,” he muttered. “Some sort of mog.”

“Baron Alrod has suffered a very costly defeat,” the intruder said. “To emphasize this point, I wear the face of the genius who engineered the debacles.”

Cold snaked through Ghedo’s ribs. “Very clever. You must be very popular in many courts. The baron, however, has plenty of jokers at his.”

“Are you sure you know your master’s mind, sorcerer?”

“That is my privilege and my joy.”

“Then surely you must know what is uppermost in Alrod’s mind?”

“To raise another army,” Ghedo said.

The intruder leaned close, his breath so sweet to be nauseating. “To find another master sorcerer.”

Ghedo spun to face Alrod. “Is that true?”

“I . . .” Uncharacteristically, the baron was at a loss for words.

“Would you replace me? The genius behind your hoornars, the master who gave you gargants, who created the wall of thorns that protects your stronghold? No sorcerer in the world has a craft superior to mine.”

The intruder laughed. “Your superior craft results in stupendous failures, Ghedo.”

Alrod’s brow creased. “It’s true. You haven’t advanced my stronghold one league. In fact, Traxx is in mortal danger—”

“—from your diminished army and loss of the hoornars,” the intruder said. “Not to mention the humiliation by those peasants with plain swords and sparkling armor.”

Alrod would normally have killed any man or woman who dared interrupt him as he spoke. But now he simply turned back to the intruder. “Who are you?”

“I would invite you to know me as Simon.”

“And where do you come from?”

As Simon smiled, his chin squared and his eyes darkened to violet, dissolving any imitation of Ghedo. “Here and there.”

“A sorcerer without a kingdom?” Ghedo sniffed back the derision in his tone. He wouldn’t be able to break head first through whatever spell the stranger cast on Alrod. Best to step back and evaluate the threat.

“I roam at will, practicing my craft the same way.”

“Cunning words but empty,” Ghedo said. “What can you do that I can’t?”

Simon looked to Alrod. “May I demonstrate, high and mighty?”

Alrod shrugged. “Why not? We could use a spot of amusement.”

Simon grabbed Sado’s jaw. Breath returned to the old man, and he struggled to get away. “Don’t fight it,” Simon said . “I can do nothing without your permission,”

“Sado, relax,” Alrod said.

“What if I could make it so that your back was strong and your eyes sharp, your hands quick and your feet swift? What would you give for the privilege of being young again so you could serve Alrod as heartily as you served his father and grandfather?”

“Anything,” Sado croaked.

Simon jerked Sado’s jaw, breaking it with a loud crack. Sado’s short scream was cut off by a loss of consciousness.

“I will have your head if you don’t restore him,” Alrod said.

Simon shoved his hand down the servant’s throat, suddenly tall enough to straighten his arm from above. Sado’s neck popped like a swift blast of thunder. More pops followed as the hump in Sado’s back straightened.

Simon would leave the old man as a bag of bones, fit only for the dogs in the street. “Stop this, Alrod,” Ghedo said.

“No,” Alrod said. “Too late now to do anything but stay this course.”

Simon was up to his armpit in Sado’s mouth now, eyes intent as if searching for something. The old man’s heart, Ghedo realized. And sure enough, Sado’s eyes filled with blood. Simon slowly pulled his arm out of Sado’s throat, his free hand caressing the old man’s face as a mother might her child’s. The wrinkles relaxed into smoothness. Simon threaded his fingers over Sado’s speckled scalp and brown hair sprouted, lustrous and thick. The valet blinked as consciousness returned, then blinked again as he became aware of his transformation.

In only mere minutes, the servant’s youth had been restored. Sado stood tall and straight, his shoulders broad and his muscles taut. The only evidence of Simon’s violent ministrations was the red surrounding Sado’s eyeballs. What of his heart? Had Simon crushed and restored it? Or had he replaced it with something hidden, something surging with new life?

Ghedo’s mind roiled with questions he would never ask. To ask was to be beholden. In his own time and his own way, he would discover the secret of Simon’s power and seize it from him.

Alrod circled his valet, his eyes sparkling with delight. “What have you to say, Sado?”

The servant bowed deeply. “I am thrilled to be serve you more ably.”

“As am I, high and mighty,” Simon said. “In any capacity you’ll have me.”

Alrod looked meaningfully at Ghedo, his intentions clear.

“No,” the sorcerer whispered.

“Give Simon your cloak.”

“Alrod, be reasonable. This is some trick. You don’t know this man.”

Alrod curled his lip at Simon. “My sorcerer says this is a trick. What do you say?”

Simon stared at Ghedo. “I say that Ghedo of Traxx will neither discover such power on his own nor seize it from me.” He turned, smiling at Alrod. “I will not beg, nor will I impose. My offer stands: I will serve you in any capacity you wish.”

Alrod snapped his fingers, a gesture meant for drudges and not for friends. “Now, Ghedo. I won’t ask again.”

Ghedo’s mind spun. Surely there must be some way to oppose—

Go quietly, Ghedo. Or become the third snake in your cloak.

Simon’s voice had bypassed his ears, gone straight for the inside of his eyes. How—

It’s a shame to waste your admirable longing, but with no throne, you are of little use to me. Still, you have served me well, so I will let you live.

I’ve never served you, Ghedo answered in his mind. I don’t even know you.

But oh, how I know you. You have served me and will continue to do so, for this is my will for you.

I will oppose you with everything in my power.

Should you do that, I will reveal your deepest secret.

No.

And under that secret, your deepest longing. Would Alrod be delighted by such a longing? Shall I ask him now?

Ghedo clutched his head. “Stop it. Stop it!”

“Give Simon your cloak, or I’ll cut it off you,” Alrod said.

“That won’t be necessary.” With a sweep of his hand, Simon’s own cloak deepened to purple, an exact replica of Ghedo’s, even down to the detail of the entwined snakes. But these snakes were truly alive, continually twisting around each other and snapping their jaws.

Panicked, Ghedo wanted to flee, but his feet were fixed to the ground. His cloak began to fade, and he feared he would fade with it.

I have use for you, Ghedo. Don’t fight me. Honor me, and your secrets are safe.

Ghedo’s cloak shimmered, no longer the glorious hue of a master sorcerer, but a radiant, fine-spun gold.

“Ghedo has worked hard for you, high and mighty. He’s due some time off to relax and restore. Time in his lair, to work his potions,” Simon said. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Ghedo?”

Ghedo nodded, his bitter frustration warring with a soaring awe. Hadn’t it always been like this for him? Mountains and rivers and plains, hawks and horses and men, wind and rain and snow. All objects of his lust, yet so far beyond his own making that he hated whatever power flung the mountains into the sky and drove horses to thunder the plains.

Simon put his hands possessively on Alrod’s shoulders. Men had been killed for such familiarity, but the baron smiled. “Shall we get to raising your army, high and mighty?” Simon continued. “Since you’ve exhausted the near-lying villages, we shall need to make a trip south to find some fresh material.”

“Indeed. But first I have something to do,” Alrod said. “Something I’ve put off far too long.”

“Indeed,” Simon echoed. “Go plant your heir in that lolly of yours. And then we’ll be off.”

The term “speculative fiction” might fit Kathryn Mackel’s Birthright Project better than any other series. Certainly Trackers, this month’s CSFF Blog Tour feature, lives up to that name.

If you visit Mackel’s site, the Birthright Project page opens with the question, “What if we finally went too far?” This is quickly followed by another “what if.” Those questions are the perfect groundwork for this science fantasy with a spiritual warfare twist.

“Science” because the story is set in this world at some future time when society has ravaged nature through endless war and through hybrid experimentation. By the way, with the advent of cloning, the kind of experimentation Mackel imagines does not seem so very far-fetched.

“Fantasy” because the endless wars have stripped the world of technology that makes life easier or comfortable, plunging civilization back into a primative Dark Ages and giving the story a medieval feel.

“Spiritual warfare” because the experimentations with nature have opened up the world to more overt demonic involvement, and this spiritual force is the one that must ultimately be confronted.

On Wednesday, I’ll be doing a complete review of Trackers at A Christian Worldview of Fiction. For now, suffice it to say, I enjoyed the book so much, I will eagerly look for Outriders, the first in the series, and would encourage others to start there as well. This recommentaion from someone not drawn to science fiction nor to spiritual warfare stories. Mackel simply lured me in, captivated me by her interesting world and intriguing characters.

If you’re interested in learning more about Mackel and her writing, I suggest you stop by Beth Goddard’s blog to read her interview with the author.

Other bloggers participating in the tour include

Do we always know why we do things?

Generally, in fairy tales and myths, yes, characters are driven by simple motives that are right there, up front. In TILL WE HAVE FACES, unknown motives (at least unknown to the protagonist) is a central theme. Think of the metaphors of bare faces and veiled faces and different identities signified by names or the state of the face (bare vs covered). Istral is Psyche. The Brute is Cupid or Ungit, but perhaps, said Orual, he is a mere man, some robber or vile kidnapper. Ungit is Aphrodite, and both a black stone smeared in blood and a graceful statue in Greek form. Orual is curdface and Maia and Queen and, yes, Psyche and Ungit as well.

So, here is one way to bring myths and fairy tales to life: Give people real human depth. We do not always admit to ourselves our true motives. We do not always know why we do what we do. We are often conflicted in our desires. We aren’t as easy to peg as a folk tale’s character.

In the original story, the sisters are jealous of Psyche’s good fortune in marrying a god and living in a splendid palace of wonders. Psyche is gullible and merely follows their advice out of fear.

Lewis will not have it.

He breathes life, flawed and complex and humane, into his retelling. Here is Psyche, not gullible, but full of grace and purpose and mercy, even as she sees exactly what she does and why. Psyche is not a fool. Here is Orual: full of a self-devouring and other-devouring love, convinced she must do drastic things for the good of the beloved ones, and finding that she brings disaster instead. But does she really know what she does? No. Orual is the most interesting of all the characters, and justifiably the protagonist, because it is she who does not know who she is, doesn’t know her face, only knows what she wants. She wants to hold on to her sister. In trying to hold on to her, she loses her.

It is a great tragedy, and when you read it, your heart breaks.

So, we come back to where we left off: Chapter Seven. It is the night before Psyche is to be sacrificed to the brute, and in a chapter brimming with excellent characterization and dialogue, we find ourselves with the sisters in the prison chamber, alone. Orual is damaged physically by her father’s vicious beating. Psyche is isolated, but permitted by the guard’s mercy to have a moment with Orual.

Psyche is composed and philosophical. Orual is distraught and angry and a turmoil of desperation and hurts. Orual still wants to be enveloped in Psyche’s love, but Psyche has prepared herself for leavetaking—perhaps death, perhaps a real and unbelievable joining with a god.

An important line is uttered by Psyche (with reference to Redival, their shallow, lustful, betraying sister, whom Orual curses and Psyche pities): “She also does what she doesn’t know.”

With that single, simple line imbedded in a strenuous conversation, Lewis takes us immediately to Calvary, to someone else sacrificed for the good of the people (as Psyche is about to be sacrificed), and we see the nobility in Psyche. Her ability to think of others, and not just herself in a time of great trouble. She is, in her own gentler way, preparing her sister for the separation, calling her “sister” and “friend” and referring to herself as “bride”. One could believe this is a real conversation between ancient sisters. Myth has come to life here by virtue of strong characterization.

And for the Christian, here is how to infuse Biblical life into retellings. Not by repeated insertion of verses or theological spoutings (though some of this has its place in some stories, no doubt), but by the fitting allusion at the right time. Just like that, depth is added and truth springs free.

Here is another example of truths (philosophical and theological) in Psyche’s dialogue, where she responds to Orual’s accusation that the gods are possibly real and” viler than the vilest men”:

“Or else,” said Psyche, “they are real gods but don’t really do these things. Or even—mightn’t it be—they do these things and the things are not what they seem to be? How if I am indeed to wed a god?”

We fly in mind to Job. We skip to Revelation. We understand that God, the real God, is misunderstood. And He does things to His own purposes, which men cannot fathom. And that one day we are to attend a marriage supper of the divine kind. From Calvary to the O.T. to the N.T., all in the span of a few pages, all from situation and dialogue and characterization.

Props to Clive!

Psyche is a Christ-figure, of course, and Redival is a Judas figure, but sadly, Orual will become a Judas figure, too. And Orual’s betrayal will be much worse.

At the end of this intense chapter, Orual feels their last embraced has been spoiled. Her mind is not at ease. Her love is not satisfied. She accuses Psyche of never having truly loved her, which we know is a terrible accusation to one we know loves us.

Psyche is sacrified. Orual mends from her wounds. And, as she says, she has “missed being Iphigenia” by taking her sister’s place in the sacrifice. So, she will be Antigone. So, she goes with Bardia to see if all that is left of her sister is bones, and if so, then bones she will honor with a proper burial.

But Psyche is alive, glowing with joy and regained her flesh (she has been eating well), and delighted in her marriage. But, what marriage? Orual sees no palace, no wine cup, nothing that Psyche sees as her magnificent surrounding.

And that is precisely where Lewis seriously altered the original tale to make this one work: The element of doubt that allows Orual to take the steps she will take and change all their lives forever.

Only Psyche sees the palace. Orual sees nothing but Psyche in rags in the open air. The sisters inhabit two different realities. Now, now, we have our crux. Events will not transpire due to simple jealousy over fineries and good fortune. A greater tragedy will ensue than the original. And you will care.

Exercise: Take any folk tale, fairy tale, or myth you wish, and tell me what crucial part of the structure would you knock out and replace to make the story new and complex and relevant?

Question: What would you do if your sister was Psyche and you could not see her palace or clothes or fineries, only rags and grass and air, you could only see her overwhelming health and radiant joy? Would you take it away for her own good? Any Scriptures come into play in making this decision?

Next Week: Part VII: Losing Face, Gaining a Throne, and Finding Truth

The tyrannical king had just taken over the beloved city and was in the process of profaning the place of worship. Declaring the house of the One True God now a place of worship for a pagan god, the king sacrificed an abominable animal on the altar where only holy offerings had been made and desecrated the walls of the house of worship with pagan symbols and excrement. Some of the people, fearful for their lives and those of their families, bowed and worshiped the new god—after all, had their own God not betrayed them and allowed this to happen? But some who had been commanded at swordpoint to participate in the desecration, refused, and fighting back, escaped.

Enraged by this insult not only to their people but to their God, a band of valiant warriors who styled themselves as “the Hammers” eventually won back not only their house of worship, but the city as well. After cleaning and repairing the house of worship, they wanted to relight the “Eternal Flame” that burned as a symbol of their God, but all they could find unprofaned of the special oil was one small flask—only a day’s worth—and the process of making the oil took eight days.

They decided to fill the great, golden lamp with what they had—and start the oil making anyway. Incredibly, after they lit the lamp, the oil for only one day lasted for eight, until the fresh was ready.

Recognize this story yet? The year was 165 BC, and the tyrannical king was Antiochus IV, the Greek who sacrificed a pig in the Temple and ordered an altar to be raised to Zeus. The valiant warriors were the Maccabees, who labored to restore their desecrated Temple in Jerusalem and set right once again their worship of the God Most High. The miracle of one day’s oil lasting for eight sparked a commemoration that spans the centuries and is known as the modern holiday of Hanukkah (or Chanukah), meaning “Rededication,” and also called the Festival of Lights.

Speculative fiction, or truth?

Roughly two hundred years later, an itinerant preacher from Nazareth in Judea pays the Temple a visit during this festival, and the event garners a tiny, but nevertheless intriguing, mention in the holy book of the Christian faith …

To be continued next week …

As I write this, I have but two more passes through a single scene to be finished with my fifth book, Return of the Guardian King, the fourth and final book in a series I began writing nearly 30 years ago. I contemplate that fact with a bit of bemusement. It’s amazing and I should feel amazed. To some degree, I do. But mostly I’m so drained, emotionally, mentally and creatively it’s hard to feel much of anything beyond cautious relief.  Coming to the end of a book is always a humbling experience for me. I think part of it is the intensity – you have to keep working, you can’t get away from the work and, as I’ve said in other places, you seem to see all of the flaws and none of the good parts. Worse, they’re flaws you know you aren’t going to be able to do a thing about because your time is up. (And with this book, my time is WAY more than up!)

So I just thought I’d take this opportunity to say, if you’re writing your book without a deadline or a contract right now, be thankful for the freedom that gives you. I’m not in any way complaining about being published — far from it! I am still struggling, after six years, to believe it’s all true, and deeply grateful for the opportunity the Lord has given me. But I remember how it was before, when I’d longed to have what I have now and failed to appreciate and enjoy what I had then: the freedom to put the work down and do something else for awhile when it wasn’t going well; the freedom to pick it up again when I was reinspired and things in my life had presented me with the means to solve the problems I had been wrestling with in the work; the time to make the notebooks and collect all the data about my created world, to work out all the characters and themes and plotlines just so.  I have hardly even looked at any of that since I started writing with a deadline. It’s always something I’ll do later. Only later never comes.

I don’t think it’s just me. I read a poll of published Christian writers asking how many of them felt that they had brought their books to a point of being “finished” by the time their deadlines arrived. The overwhelming majority said they never felt their books were really finished when they turned them in.

When I signed the contract for Legends of the Guardian King, I had, over the years, rewritten The Light of Eidon three times from start to finish. After the third rewrite I know I took at least a year off to work on the final draft of Arena. It took me about five years to write the first draft of Arena.  Suddenly, I was being asked to write the sequels to Eidon in six months. I laughed. “How about 9 months?” they asked. Ha!  “A year?” I said it would take me two years at best. They said everyone would forget about my books in that time and the series would tank.  I asked for 18 months. Nope. Too long. Especially for Fantasy, which was a hard sell. So I agreed to 12 months.

Afterward I added up all the days I had spent writing Arena and the final version of The Light of Eidon, minus the days or weeks in between that I took off to make home schooling plans, or go on field trips or clean the house, or do Christmas or Thanksgiving or take vacations, or just because I was sick to death of working on it and needed a break… if I added all those days up, they totaled, in both cases, 14 months.

Because my son was going off to college, I thought maybe I really would be able to work faster. And I think I have a little. But my first guess of when I could turn the books in was right: When I tally up the time consumed, including first draft and second, I find it took me 18 months to write each of them. And the last two have been finished very close to the time they needed to go to print. So I’ve had no time to dally.

What I’ve learned is that the time breaks I was given in the years before publication were actually helpful. Instead of being frantic and resenting them, I wish now I had embraced and enjoyed them. If you’re meant to write, you will. If you’re not, it’s just as well if the details of life can pull you permanently away from it. Because then you’ll know.

While a contract may provide some with more confidence in their writing, there’s a price to be paid: Now you HAVE to write in a way that’s probably different from the way you wrote before. Some people find this stimulating. Others find it too stimulating! Especially when you find out there are a bunch of other things you have to do that you never considered when you said that maybe, at the outer realm of possibility you could write a book in 12 months. Stuff like the rewrites of the book that came before it, like the galleys which take two to three weeks, like trips here and there to promote your book — and the time it takes to get your mind back into the book after such trips.  When I said 12 months, I meant 12 months of solid — every day or almost that — working on the book in progress. Not 10 months in a 12 month period.

It takes adjusting to, and I’m still adjusting. I’m not sure how good it all is for the quality of the fiction produced, but I’m also learning more and more to make a lesser deal of that than I did when I was still trying to break into publication. From the beginning of writing my books, I’ve prayed that The Lord would make them what He wants them to be, that He would guide me in doing that and I believe He’s done so. But He’s also taught me that if He can use flawed and fallen man to bring glory to Himself, He can also use fallen man’s flawed and imperfect works to do so. And that’s an important thing to remember when you get to the end of this process, to the place where you finally have to stop, ready or not, and turn the whole thing in, knowing the next time you see it, it’ll be in galley form, all but ready to walk out the door and meet its public.

Well I don’t know how many of you have noticed how my posts have been rather short over the last few weeks. Probably everyone except for that blind mongoose in the corner over there.

I have to confess the reason behind this is because I’m feeling burnt out just a bit. Not on reading or writing sci-fi and fantasy, but in just kind of vaguely talking about the esoteric ideas and concepts. Discussing ideals and technicalities and such.

To be honest I’ve never been much of one to focus too much on exactly how something works. I much prefer to simply know that it does and let it be a bit magical.

So starting next week I’m going to begin doing something a little different. Something that will hopefully have interest to both writers and readers of Sci-fi and Fantasy. I’m going to begin chronicling my journey of actual writing. Though my motives are a bit selfish, because I enjoy talking about my own work the most, and to help keep me honest and writing.

Now maybe this is a bit foolish and dangerous. After all if I chronicle my writing thoughts and process here, what’s to keep someone from stealing all my ideas? Well at least I’ll have a documented record of them to prove that they were mine. Besides, this just sounds like a fun experiment (and isn’t totally unprecedented).

What I’m mostly hoping to do is let all of us explore together one person’s process of creation and discovery and writing. Give people an inside glimpse of how a writer goes about it. Don’t know how well I’ll succeed. But it should be interesting.

The story I’ll be chronicling is titled Chamber of Origins and is my first serious foray into the realm of fantasy. So be sure to come back next week for the first installment about how this story idea first began to germinate.

As a disclaimer, I will be entering this story into the ACFW Genesis Contest this year, so if you’re a judge who doesn’t want to know of any entrants well best hide your eyes on Tuesdays.

And finally, for those who want to see how strangely fiction and life can intermingle head over to Forensics and Faith to learn how Brandilyn Collins met fictional sci-fi writer S-man’s doppleganger in real life.

And swing by Scenes and Beans to read the latest post by Ted “S-man” Dawson (yours truly) about the weaponry of Karnian Light Infantry.

From time to time writers discuss their mode of coming up with names for their characters, and perhaps for places. SFF writers, of course, have an entire world to name. How is it done?

I suppose I’m thinking about this because I see similarities, unexpected commonality in works with little else alike. For instance, I finished Wayne Thomas Batson’s first book, The Door Within this week. One key place in the novel is Mithegard, much too similar to my own city of Mithlimar for me not to notice.

How does this happen?

Another example: Bryan Davis in his Dragon’s in Our Midst series has a character named Palin, Donita K. Paul in The DragonKeeper Chronicles has one named Paladin, and I have one named Paloh.

I know some writers like to play with words. If I remember correctly, I thought I detected word reversal in Karen Hancock’s Arena. I believe Randy Mortenson borrows from the Greek (or is it Latin? Hebrew? Aramaic? One of those! ).

Stephen Lawhead in the Albion Trilogy and Lloyd Alexander in the Chronicles of Prydain seem predisposed to names that sound as if they came from a Scandinavian source.

I have to admit, I have no particular pattern. Sometimes I take existent words or names and tweak them a bit. For example, in a recent short story, I named a country—one with an elevation that enabled them to see beyond the clouds—Tonum. Sometimes I tweak words beyond recognition (and more often then not, I end up forgetting why or how I got to that particular name). I’ve taken some names from the Bible, then altered them. I’ve also taken words, translated them to Spanish, and then played with them.

The overriding concern for me, I think, is how the word sounds. It needs to evoke in me something of what I intend for that person or that place.

It is certainly not science, because I have no rhyme for what I choose, though I usually have a reason.

I’m also not one to belabor names for any length of time. I know some writers pour over name books or develop entire languages (he-hem, naming no names, Stuart. ).

So this is what I’m curious about: As a reader, how much do you pay attention to the names of characters or places? How much do you think about the significance of the name itself? And for writers, do you put particular significance into the names? Do you have any particular pattern (you can tell us what the pattern is, or not)? Inquiring minds love to know what others think, how other writers work. Or maybe that’s just me.