I celebrated Elvis' birthday in 2020 by completing my first Tale of the year, "Hrafns", a short little (2,611 words) yarn that took me quite far in places I had not planned on going. I would go on to spend the rest of the year waiting to prove that which I had learned in the research that went into this Tale, the primary focus of this examination springing of natural course here in these mountains, only to be disappointed by, you guessed it, 2020. Yup, with an almost complete lack of rainfall... the worst I have seen in my life and I'm and Arizona native with more than a half century racked up... well, let's just say the ground is dry and none of the fungus the forest animals rely on sprouted this year... not even those pretty ones you used to see in old-timey Christmas cards.
There were a few things which led up to the writing of this story. First, there were the multiple deaths that took place the night of December 24, 1871 and one of them was known to be a woman lodged in the upper branches of a tall cottonwood overhanging the then under-construction Baptist church. Ever since that story, "The Woman in the Tree", and its follow up, "What it Feels Like to be Hunted", there has been an injustice of ravens which have fluttered around on the edges of my thoughts. I needed to find out who this woman was and I was pretty sure I had a delivery system in place to get her into those high branches. I just needed to figure out how to do the impossible and when weighed with such stakes, it's always best to hallucinate (or just smoke a gentle bowl and get busy).
Since these Tales seem to have brought me into a permanent semi-hallucinatory state through their intrusion into my near every thought, I figured I'd go that way (with help from a gentle bowl) and began to run down who this woman was and where she came from. Having an affinity for those two ravens who flew for Odin, his Thought and his Memory, and having that association appear in my head whenever ravens cross my mind, that was the first to where my own thoughts went if memory serves. From there, and being that Christmas had just passed and the imagery was on my mind when this story was conceived and began, that Christmas mushroom, the anamita muscaria or fly agaric, became a vehicle of natural choice.
Now I'd known of this mushroom for many a year and its history and legacy. The lore associated with it and those in the furthest reaches of Scandinavia for its mystical properties and symbolism is a rabbit hole I was well comfortable in visiting... again. I had never conceived of consuming it though and had to understand its preparation, particularly with the limited means this character would have available to her, and did quite a bit of reading. Turns out you could just bite the damn thing but that seems too crude and if this is a person who is familiar with this as a sacrament and the preparation thereof, some form would be needed. I took a deep dive on this one, both with this mushroom and the associated culture.
Have I mentioned there were no rains this year and no "experiments" rose from the forest floor?
As for that associated culture, when it landed upon me where this woman must be from, I needed language adjustments because I can't just use, and this is a common thing, words available to the reader but anachronistic to the character unless there is a bridge of sorts. I needed as well to find a name and there is always a fun dive. I ended up trying (and failing) to match her name with the same region I used with some of the word choices used and I know that there is a mix. I hope the casual reader will not fault me and those of this particular culture realize I did as good as I could with what I had.
As for who this woman is, she is representative of a particular element found throughout all cultures in all times... someone we recognize when their faces are splashed on the evening news and we ask each other what happened to that person. She is an aberration common to all. Why choose to write about someone such as that? I can hear certain family and friends say. Well, because writing about an ordinary person doing ordinary things does not a Weird Tale make. Also, I never liked reading about ordinary people doing ordinary things. It is more fun, and this is a selfish reflection as the Writer, to find such an aberration and then wind it up and let it loose. Taking that ordinary person doing ordinary things and then thrusting upon them extraordinary challenges is another way to look at it. Taking a horrible character (ethically) and putting them in extreme situations is just fun. Remember, I like Slavers 'cause they are a character class that you can pretty much pull the toes off of one by... hang on, making a note elsewhere...
Now here's another thing that I've found is fun as the Writer and that is taking a person who is horrible and hiding that little fact. Instead, what I find before me is a woman so far from her lands of ice and snow, so far from the traditions she never thought she'd miss, and putting her in the most desperate straights. I mean, from the far north of Finland to the deserts of Arizona for Christmas Eve, 1871? That though was also one of my big problems that lay before me. I am pleased with the execution of this in this Tale with that method of delivery discovered allowing methods for further deliveries to be made. Trust me, it makes sense.
As for who she was... well, she's a stranger in a strange land, barely conversant in the language and the one who brought her here from her frozen home dead in the desert heat of Phoenix. It is desperation and desire to escape the heat of that desert which brings her the final leg to the mountain town of Baird's Holler, a place where the desperate go to die and often much worse. It is when scrounging in the forest following the rainy season next that she spies a familiar spotted cap. She is lonely, she is hungry, she is desperate... she just wants to travel home one last time and fortunately, there is one way she just might.
Okay, I did have fun with her name. As I go through lists of names available that I could find in such situations, if I am not looking for something of a particular meaning, then I'll just keep reading until one either sounds right speaks out to me. With Násti, well, um, I was just reading along and looking at meanings associated, I could not help noting the mixed-message that would cause with a speaker of English and not a tiny population herding reindeer in the Arctic wastes. That was already a plus because throwing the Reader a bit off is always fun. Let their own mind construct from the sound the hear in the their heads, meanwhile "Star" will be busy preparing a nice, safe place from which to leave when Yule thins the veil.
I had originally, in my notes, referred to this Tale as "Night Flight" but, well, you know why right now, don't you? Yeah, you're checking your playlist to makes sure you have Physical Graffiti in there, right? Yeah, that's just not the vibe that fits this story though. I went with "Hrafns" because, well, that's kinda what the story is about and I always like that spelling. If I ever own a black horse... (p.s. I never will, but I suspect the next midnight cat to claim me will hear that when I beg attention)
"Hrafns" advances further yet the Christmas of '71 collection of Tales bringing to my knowledge now four of the six to perish that night revealed and named. This collection will grow further by the end of this short-story writing season (since I switched to a novel late in the year) and I refuse to apologize for what is coming. I had way too much fun.
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