Author: JLfromNH

Back Stories for Gods

Goddess Athena

Writing about characters who are gods includes noting something about their backgrounds. A problem which quickly crops up is that how the ancients viewed their divinities doesn’t really sit well with modern audiences. Zeus with His endless peccadillos and Hera (who’s His sister!) as the perpetually jealous spouse is one example. The late poet Robert Graves pointed out that one of the functions of myth is to justify an existing social system so the ancient myths say far more about the ancient Greeks than they do about the gods Themselves.

The simplest solution is of course rewrite the myths so they are more palatable for today’s readers (and make a little more sense). The tale of Semele, Dionysus’s mother, asking to see what Zeus’s true form was and getting fried as a result, with Dionysus subsequently being incubated in Zeus’s thigh has been changed to her dying in childbirth and Zeus’s son being given to Silenus to foster. The image of Athena popping full grown out of the head of Zeus after He swallowed Her mother Metis just to evade the prophecy of Her giving birth to a son that might overthrow him always seemed to have an element of the absurd about it. So I gave that a major rewrite in the following section from my book in progress.

……………………………..

They were known by many names; the Moirai, the Parcae, the Sudice, the Norns. They existed in a place that was not a place, in the Otherworld yet not of it. Seated on a great dais suspended in the Otherworld mists, looming even mightier than the primeval Titans, They sometimes had the appearance of males but the majority of the time They were female, either taking the form of young or old women. An colossal tapestry inched its way out from Their hands, colors both worldly and unworldly spun with inconceivable intricacy, stretching out into the amorphous distance, even beyond Athena’s ability to see. So They had been weaving even before the beginning of time. They drew out thread, wove, adjusted, rethreaded and snipped implacably, seldom speaking, never stopping. When She came into Their presence, They rarely acknowledged Her.

It was a conceit of humans that the Moirai governed every moment of each human’s life from birth to death. To a certain extent that was true but Their constant weaving and reweaving ensured the coherence of the ever shifting universe. Because of that, mortals could freely choose the course of their lives within the confines of the laws of the material realm. Events affecting both mortals and divinities went into the tapestry, creating a pattern so complex even Athena for all Her wisdom could not fathom it. In Her early efforts to probe the essence of the Fates work, She once had a vision of the mighty tapestry reaching out into the measureless distance, merging with other tapestries woven by other Fates forming a thread which still mightier Fates took and wove with yet other threads into vaster tapestries in Their turn.

She had begun a tapestry of Her own in the hopes of counteracting Her Brother’s actions. But She had to be careful it did not work to cross purposes to anything the Moirai were creating. Sometimes She could catch a brief glimpse of the underlying harmony contained withing Their weavings. It finally occurred to Her that anything She did would simply be incorporated into Their own work. Better to save Her worries for what Her half-Brother meant to do. But She couldn’t shake Her anxiety.

“I weave to derail His plans.” She said, more to Herself than the Moirai. “But I have to be careful not to counteract what You are doing. He’s so certain what He’s doing is right. He doesn’t understand that events work themselves out of their own accord. It doesn’t need to be pushed or manipulated. We only need to work with what happens.”

The Moirai continued Their work on the endless tapestry, seemingly oblivious to Her. But She suspected They were listening. Her Father said They heard everything. At one time He had stood where She did, attempting to consult Them. He had returned with a scowl on His face. Either They never answered Him or the answer was not to His liking.

But Zeus had gone ahead with His War against the Titans so many ages ago certain He was doing the right thing, Her Mother Metis pushed aside when She attempted counseling against it. The schism this created between Them never healed. Athena watched sadly as Her Mother quit Her throne and left Olympus eventually Transcending, leaving Her Helmet, Shield and Great Owl for Her Daughter. The chaos set off by the overthrow of the Titans and the ending of the Golden Age took several millennium to stabilize. Hera became new co-ruler of Olympus with Zeus but the peace of the Golden Age was gone, replaced by a brittle calm. It would not always remain this way. There were Great Cycles within Great Cycles. The ancient harmony of old would return but in its own time and way. Her Brother’s efforts to rush it based on the signs He was convinced were there would only prolong the Age of Iron, not end it.

“He won’t listen.” She said quietly. “I’m the voice of the past. He thinks His is the future. What can I do to ensure His failure?”

She hadn’t expected any response from the Moirai. But one of the veiled figures, Clotho, suddenly turned towards Her and threw a spool of thread to Her. Although startled, She caught the spool deftly.

“Use or do not use. It is Your choice.” It was Atropos the Unturning Who spoke. The enormous figure resumed Her snipping and re-threading. It was the first time Athena had heard more than two words from any of Them.

The thread was darker than night. The spool would have fit in the hand of a human but was so heavy a half dozen would have been needed to lift it. Athena shuddered when She looked at it. Thread this dark could only have one purpose. But the Moirai said it would be Her choice. With the constant morphing of the vast tapestry under Their hands, nothing was truly carved in stone. Did this mean She could still turn events? She felt a scowl not unlike Her Father’s beginning to furrow Her brow. She relaxed Her face. Her father had no doubt received a similar enigmatic answer which would have infuriated Him. He preferred certainty to ambiguity. But Athena was more comfortable with uncertainty. She tucked the spool into her pouch.

Do not use. That would be Her goal. Stubborn like Their Father, Dionysus would plow ahead. Her task was to stymie his actions with so many obstacles, His plans would fall apart. Turning, She left the place which was not a place, through the Otherworld, back to Her pavilion, where a great loom awaited. She had the warp threads strung. Now for the weft. She pulled yarn out of the great ball beside Her seat. After hesitating, She took out the spool of black thread and after looking at it a moment, set it down beside the ball of yarn. Just in case. She thought. Just in case.

……………………

The Character of Gods – Part 2

Several months ago I posted an excerpt from my novel-in-progress, introducing the character Xipe Totec, an Aztec god, who decides to go into the service of Dionysus in an effort to regain some of His former strength. Another divinity decides to ally Himself with Zeus’s son as well but with motivations that are decidedly more mixed than Xipe Totec.

The God Marduk

In the Age of Dionysus, Marduk is a genuine god, not some alien from another planet as some recent rather puerile books have tried to portray Him and His fellow Annunaki. As with Xipe Totec, Marduk has fallen on hard times and yearns to regain His former status.

…………………………………………………….

Marduk hunkered down in a ruined pile once a Babylonian temple dedicated to Him. He kept it hidden from nosy archaeologists with a simple glamour giving it the appearance of a nondescript rock pile infested with scorpions, vipers and other unpleasant vermin. There He recreated a small altar dedicated to Himself, decorated with a dragon image, and brooded over lost glory. He often took the form of a flickering lightning bolt, but when He physically manifested Himself in the ordinary world as He did now, He looked like a huge squat human, with a curly black beard and glowing embers for eyes. Dressed in a royal purple fringed shawl wrapped about His body and held in place with a golden belt, He could pretend He was still the mighty Lord some called Baal and others Moloch. But a quick glance outside His ruined temple always shattered that illusion.

The Golden Age had collapsed when Zeus and the Olympians broke the power of the primeval Titans. Marduk Himself came into being during the following chaotic times humans insisted was a Silver Age. He supposed it was for them as they learned large scale agriculture and husbandry replacing the simple hunting, gardening and gathering of more idyllic times, built small towns which began growing and became more centralized. The child of a minor water goddess, He took advantage of the humans increasing desire to have a powerful divinity which would overshadow others.

His brethren Annunaki, all Children of the Silver Age like Himself, had similar ambitions so a struggle ensued. Decade by decade, century by century, He clawed His way by sheer might to eminence, defeating any god or goddess who opposed Him. Not surprisingly humans copied the behavior of their divinities by engaging in warfare. This in turn increased the need for a potent god reflecting the humans’ perceptions of themselves. It was a role Marduk was happy to fill. He smiled broadly at His memories of the rise of the Bronze Age as human towns expanded into cities and populations boomed, fed by the rich bounty their crops yielded. The raids of conquest his followers conducted under His aegis brought in great wealth. Mighty temples had been raised to Him. Hymns sung to Him, stories composed about Him. Yes, that had been a good time.

But His mistake was forgetting about Zeus. The Olympians had seemed remote and disinterested, Their sacred mountain shifting in and out of the ordinary world in an almost whimsical manner. But Zeus must have had His eye on the up and coming rival growing to power in Babylonia. As Marduk’s worship began spreading around the Mediterranean, the wily Olympian finally made His move. It had caught Marduk by surprise. A vicious strain of smallpox broke out, spreading throughout the lands decimating populations, even penetrating the royal house of Egypt coupled with a time of prolonged drought bringing the additional scourges of famine and chaos. It didn’t take long for Marduk to realize this was the meddling of Zeus but while His own powers over the rain kept the drought from completely wiping out His worshipers, the work of a minute virus was beyond His ability to touch.

Marduk’s fury at the memories made His hands dig into the altar leaving imprints. At least He hadn’t been stupid enough to invest all His divine strength on the adulation of humans but still the sudden drop in population had been sufficient to break His power, reducing Him to a shadow of His former self. Zeus quickly moved Himself into position when human cities began rising again, blocking any effort by Marduk to regain His former glory. While His worship was rebuilt among the various tribes around the Twin Rivers, it never again achieved the unrivaled might He had know before. Zeus had simply become too powerful. All the erstwhile Storm Lord could do was wait. All things change but whether they would change in His favor was debatable. Even after the Olympians had moved permanently into the Otherworld, Marduk’s attempts to renew His worship were upended by the shocking rise of monotheism.

The ruins about Him suddenly shivered. An earthquake? He extended His senses searching for an epicenter. No, it was not a motion of the ground but rather of the mystic energy patterns which spread like an invisible web through the ordinary world. Some major shift was underway. Casting His vision further, the image of the Great Bull leapt into focus. It was not an astral image but a real physical manifestation. Dionysus! The son of Zeus! But what was He doing?

And how had He become so powerful? Marduk always remembered Him as a minor god, favoring intoxicating wines and ecstatic celebrations. He had gone into the Otherworld when Zeus had pulled up stakes and withdrawn from the mortal sphere in preparation for Transcendence. Now He was back? Marduk realized He had been spending too much time lurking in His self-imposed bitter isolation. Straightening, He strode out into the brilliant sunshine and began searching for one of the minor desert spirits inhabiting the area. A wandering goat herder spotting Him, threw himself to the ground terror-stricken, praying to Allah for protection from what was clearly a demon while his charges bleated in fright. Marduk ignored the mortal wretch as He walked.

Ages of cultivation combined with warfare left the surroundings a sorry hardscrabble mess. If He had still been in the fullness of His power, He could have done something to correct that but at the moment His capabilities were still too attenuated. After a brief search, He came across an ancient stone well. Peering down into it He could see the faint glimmer of water.

“Are You still there, little water-spirit?” He bellowed down the shaft. “Marduk would have speech with you!”

“Marduk the forgotten?” came the prompt reply. “Marduk the disregarded? I thought You Transcended long ago. Are you still gnawing on that altar You built for Yourself?”

“Enough!” growled the Storm Lord. “I can tell You’re not doing so well Yourself! I see the water table has dropped again.” He lifted His hand, electricity arcing finger to finger. “I’m not so feeble I couldn’t dry up Your fly-spot realm if You annoy Me too much.”

“Ah, once and future mighty Lord, that will not be necessary.” The water-spirit formed in the pool at the bottom of the cistern, a vaguely female form with snaky legs, Its voice becoming unctuous. “Pardon My rudeness. I quite forgot My manners. It’s been so long since any humans did ceremonies or even tossed in a coin for Me.”

“The monotheist lunatics would more likely fill Your well with stones and offal if they knew You were down there.” Chuckled Marduk. “They would ruin a perfectly good drinking source just to rid themselves of any reminder of their past.”

“Truly.” sighed the water-spirit. “So what brings You here? May I hazard a guess it is the Advent of Dionysus?”

“I want to know why a third-rate Son of Zeus has returned to the ordinary world and is revealing Himself! Does He really think He can take His father’s place?”

“Ah, You need to listen to gossip more. Dionysus made His appearance posing as a mortal over a year ago. His purpose, and He has made no secret of it, is to bring an end to the Age of Iron and inaugurate a new Golden Age.”

Marduk guffawed in derision.

“He’s been drinking too much of that sacramental wine He brews if He believes He can do that!”

“I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss Him if I were You. Our Son of Zeus is a sly one. He waited until the humans’ civilizations have begun quaking as their precious oil diminishes and the ravages they have committed on the land rebound on them to their detriment. The chaos sure to follow will be their undoing. All He needs to do is speed things up a bit. He has already acquired many followers among the humans, all madly devoted to Him. Have you bothered looking outside what’s left of Your domain to see how many humans there are now? They rival any locust swarm ever generated. Our Mother Earth groans under their combined weight! Is it any wonder the Lord Dionysus has grown so strong and will grow stronger yet?”

Marduk scowled as He listened to the water-spirit. He had noticed the extraordinary boom in population and wondered if He might make use of those numbers to rebuild His strength. But when He had tried posing as Jibra’il, an angel the local monotheists revered, His efforts had quickly and unexpectedly been slapped down by none other than Al-lat, the Desert Mother Herself. He had been stunned by the unexpected appearance of this latest aspect of Sekhmet and even more by the power She wielded. Humiliated and injured, He retreated to His ruined temple, nursing His wounds and stewing over yet another setback.

“What do the Others make of His rise?” Asked Marduk, the germ of an idea beginning to sprout in the back of His mind.

“Like You, They dismissed Him at first, though that has recently begun to change.” The water-spirit laughed. “They’ve been sitting around all this time like lazy slugs, waiting for the tidal wave of monotheism to recede. A few of Them have begun acquiring followers again but not many have made the active effort as Dionysus has done to build a power base. Now They must try and catch up! If They don’t hurry, Dionysus will become as powerful as His Father and it will take the Mother of all wars to topple Him.”

“I thank You for this, little water-spirit.”

He flicked His fingers and brought a gold coin into manifestation. He dropped it into the well and watched its inhabitant greedily snatch it up drawn by the energies of the metal. Turning He began walking back to His temple, His mind racing with possibilities. There had to be some way to turn all this to His advantage. The Others would no doubt ally Themselves, or try to, in order to oppose Dionysus. He might try offering Himself as a leader but He would likely find Himself contending with Those Who also craved power. No, He had a better idea.

………………………………….

To be continued…..

Comfort Food

watching evening news will turn you into a blobfish

I very rarely watch the news these days as it’s too depressing. Old issues thought resolved have resurfaced demanding resolution. New issues are being created out of whole cloth at times apparently just for the sake of having something to scream about. This will all run its course as human events do. One of the reactions to the turmoil of current events is to turn to comfort food. Wikepedia defines comfort food as “food that provides a nostalgic or sentimental value … and may be characterized by its high caloric nature, high carbohydrate level, or simple preparation.”

What comfort food you favor often depends on where you lived and what you ate growing up. Pizza seems to loom large in many minds. Also burgers, mac and cheese, ice cream, chocolate and hot dogs are frequent choices among Americans. Around the world, comfort food takes the form of such dishes as rice puddings, herbed flatbread, moussaka and pierogies.

It seems to be something deeply embedded in us that prompts us to seek out food of this nature during times of stress. A scientist was being interviewed in a documentary by Nova about the violent eruption of Mount Pinatubo while he was at Clark’s Air Base. He described the harrowing situation as the volcano grew more and more violent. Noticing one of his fellow scientists had made up a batch of popcorn and was avidly devouring it, he expressed astonishment asking him why he was eating popcorn. “I always eat popcorn at this part of the movie.” was the response.

Popcorn is definitely one of the go-to foods when things seem to be getting out of hand whether it’s the result of an irritated volcano or rioting humans. My own personal favorite is of course ice cream. Fudge ripple, plain and simple, frequently shows up in my freezer in spite of its negative affect on my waistline. Popcorn sits up in the cupboard waiting for an appropriate moment to pull out the kettle, add ghee, pop it up and slather the results with butter and salt.

During the winter, the old stock pot will often come out and whatever chicken, turkey or beef bones I saved up in the freezer get hauled out and turned into broth.

stock pot

Along with veggies I also add pasta, particularly when it’s poultry. The shapes vary according to my mood; spirals, bowties or alphabet. While not essential for good soup, they add a little extra something transforming it into excellent winter comfort food. Add a few saltine crackers and absolute perfection is achieved.

Pasta itself often serves as comfort food. Once in a while I will purchase large egg noodles, boil them up, add butter and salt and sit back with a large bowl. They get cooked the same way my late mother used to cook pasta, which is to say twice as long as the box calls for. I grew up eating pasta like this, thinking nothing of it and so got a bit of a shock the first time I ate it ‘al dente’. (Gah! They didn’t cook this enough!!)

spaghetti goulash

An old family favorite is spaghetti goulash. According to my mother, when she originally began making this as a quick dish when my two older brothers were very small she used a canned tomato sauce for the base (either Franco-American or Chef Boyardee, I forget which). It went over well but she ran into a curious problem. Often, though not every time, one of my brothers would get sick to his stomach afterwards. Never both together and sometimes not at all. After this happened more than a few times she began to suspect the tomato sauce was to blame. So she switched to Campbell’s Tomato condensed soup with a few tablespoons of ketchup added. The issue vanished, so apparently the commercial sauce was a bit too spicy for my brothers delicate stomachs.

The recipe is as basic as it gets. Spaghetti gets boiled up (yes, twice the time the package of Prince spaghetti calls for), then three quarters pound of ground chuck gets fried up. I don’t add any butter or oil. The pan is heated medium high and the ground chuck gets stirred constantly until fully cooked. Then the tomato sauce with ketchup gets mixed in. Finally last but not least the cooked spaghetti is added. Nothing else gets put in and that includes any spices, much to the horror of an Italian girlfriend one of my brothers brought one time to dinner. ( No basil?? Gasp! No oregano??? Arghh!!). She disappeared after a while. Oh well.

The household I grew up in was largely spice and onion free as my father was adamantly opposed to them. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that the source of America’s eternal struggle with dyspepsia was those infernal spices. Onions were his bete noire (or so he claimed). So he refused to tolerate them. My mother would sneak in some onion when she made up beef stew, maybe a pinch of thyme in the turkey soup but that was about it. Nowadays, I am an avid onion user and generously toss in thyme and parsley into my chicken soup.

So whatever your favorite source of culinary comfort is, whip up a batch and sit back while eating. It will make the maddening crowd seem far away.

partridge berry

The Character of Gods

So far on the posts for my novel in progress, I have introduced a number of gods from different cultures. There are the Greek gods Dionysus and Athena, the Norse god Odin, the Celtic god Manannan Mac Lir as well as the Trickster Coyote and the Inuit goddess Takanaaluk. Other gods and assorted divine beings also show up here and there throughout the novel.

Given that gods aren’t human there comes the challenge of portraying them in a way that shows they are not human and yet have characteristics we can relate to. The ancient Greeks often ascribed many human motivations to their gods such as jealousy, compassion, desire, anger, sometimes to the point that their divinities came across as mere petty often heartless humans who just happen to be immortal and very powerful. Unfortunately being only human ourselves, we can only relate to beings who share something in common with us. Make them too cosmic and they become abstract and unreal. So in portraying divinities in the story, I had to give them understandable motivations. They are larger than life, embodying aspects of nature, time and human ideals.

Ancient gods were never viewed by their worshipers as pure good or pure evil. That peculiar innovation only popped up with the advent of monotheistic religions. A being that’s pure good or evil would actually be rather boring to read about, not unlike the two-dimensional Sauron from Lord of the Rings who wants to conquer Middle Earth, though it’s never quite clear why he hates its denizens so much. So the divinities who show up in my story are a mix of good and evil in varying measure.

Some divinities are a little tougher to do this with than others. One example already introduced is Santa Muerta, an old Aztec goddess who’s reinvented herself for a new age. She’s the goddess of the dead and has become oddly popular in recent years largely among drug cartels and other elements of the criminal world. Her dark nature appeals to those steeped in violence and bloodshed. While I don’t want to sugarcoat her, I tried not to portray her as pure evil but as an individual with logical motivations that move her to assist Athena and her companions.

Another god being introduced into the narrative is also an Aztec god; Xipe Totec. This guy is really a toughie.

statue Xipe Totec

The above picture is actually one of his priests wearing the skin of a sacrificial victim. Xipe Totec himself is known as Our Lord the Flayed One. But I picture him looking much like this. He was the god of vegetation, agriculture and springtime and some distinctly gruesome rituals were conducted in his honor by the Aztecs. Thankfully that’s all gone by the wayside but the idea in the story is that he’s lost his former status as a major god and wants to make a comeback. So the goal is to portray this being as being understandable if not really very likeable.

……………………………..

The orange glow of the torches lighting the cavern fluctuated with the air currents. The soft rainfall-like patter of dripping blood falling into the receiving bowls under the altar echoed back and forth. Xipe Totec raised the human heart He had just extracted from its owner’s chest. The organ beat weakly for a few seconds then stopped, releasing its istli which He absorbed before it could dissipate. Reverently He placed the heart on a miniature stone jaguar. Now came the part which in ancient days would have been done by the priests but now He had to do Himself.

Using an obsidian blade, He carefully made incisions and gently scraped, peeling away the flesh from the sacrificial victim, a woodcutter who had ventured near the cavern searching for firewood. Once the flaying was complete, He would place the skin in yellow dye, afterwards wearing it in celebration of the equinox. True, it was well past that time, but luring a potential victim into the cavern had been difficult this year. While a glamour hid the entrance from mortal eyes, the disappearance of people was probably giving the area a bad reputation so humans had begun avoiding it. He would have to move again.

Once the flayed skin had been placed in the dye vat and the heart burnt to ashes, He intoned prayers celebrating the arrival of spring. After finishing He then walked to another part of the cavern where the Helm of Ares sat gleaming on an altar slab. It had been a constant fixture in His existence ever since the Catastrophe which extinguished so many of His brethren. The shocking invasion of the monotheists from Europe with their diseases and weapons surged like a dark tidal wave overwhelming the societies He and the Others had grown so dependent on. The temples ruined, the priesthood destroyed, the sacred Day Count of the holy calendar year, all lost or neglected. Xipe Totec Himself barely managed surviving by doing His own sacrifices. But the Others for the most part perished with one or two fleeing into the Otherworld in a desperate effort to survive. Whether They had succeeded or not, He never knew.

Too weak now even to return to the Otherworld though He could see it flickering out of the corner of His eye, He eked out His feeble existence using the Helm as a lure for bringing victims close enough to cast a glamour over them, capturing them. The Helm had been discovered by the Aztecs before the Catastrophe and hidden away as a sacred object, displayed only at certain times of the year. Some of His priests had moved it to a cavern, in an effort to hide it from the rapacious Spaniards. The priests disappeared, never to return. Xipe Totec found the Helm useful for attracting sacrifices. He had even managed capturing a few of those vile conquistadors. The feeling of satisfaction in claiming their istlis did little in changing His situation. He knew it was a pathetic way to live, unworthy of the divinity He knew Himself to be.

But now a glimmer of hope had appeared. The advent of Dionysus made clear a new order was on the way. Xipe Totec meant to take advantage of that. Occasionally He contacted the sacred quetzal bird in an effort to monitor Dionysus’s progress. It was one of the few birds which would still speak to Him, the other birds, particularly the eagle, snubbing Him as no longer of any importance. The day before He took the woodcutter, the quetzal brought a precious tidbit of information. Dionysus was searching for the fragments of Ares’ Armor. He ran His fingers over the Helm. Parting from It would be difficult but Dionysus would make better use of it than Xipe Totec could. Serving the Olympian would help regenerate His own power. If Dionysus was a generous master, and He had no reason to suspect He wasn’t, He could reestablish His own worship under His aegis.

But how would He manage getting to the Son of Zeus? If He had been stronger, He could have just journeyed through the Otherworld bringing the Helm with Him. He could send a message but needed someone to carry it. Rummaging through His collection of tanned hides, both human and animal, he pulled out a section of deerskin and set it out flat on the stone altar with the Helm. He brought over pots of pigment and brushes. Meticulously he brushed glyphs of His own name and that of Dionysus. Then with delicate strokes He painted an image of the Helm. Writing in Nahuatl, He briefly made His offer, then sat back waiting for the inks to dry. Dionysus would be able to divine the meaning of the script. Now all that remained was finding a messenger.

A male resplendent quetzal came in answer to His summons but shook its head at His request.

“Too far for me.” The bird replied. “Only the eagle could and he has already made many rude remarks about You. I don’t think he will help You.”

“But there must be someone.” Said Xipe Totec mournfully. “I don’t have the power to get the message to Dionysus Myself. Is there no one you can think of?”

“There might be one.” Said the quetzal thoughtfully. “But I haven’t seen him in a while. Do You want me to go look for him and ask?”

“Yes, whoever it is. I’m not too proud at this point. Even if it’s just a wren.”

The quetzal flew off. Xipe Totec sat waiting, pondering what other options might be available. There were still minor spirits here and there. But He doubted any of Them would help. He began regretting His association with the other Aztec gods. At one time He had been a minor vegetation god but quickly joined the Gods of the Thirteen Heavens when They invited Him, rising to great power but in the process forgetting the lesser divinities He had once been allied with. Now in the aftermath of the Catastrophe, He was left a weakling, scarcely worthy of the name god. Dionysus was His only hope of getting any power back.

He blinked as a great shadow momentarily blotted out the sun. The quetzal flew into the clearing. Behind him came a gigantic condor, far larger than any of the ordinary ones still living, nearly the size of a cessna. It was the messenger bird of the Inka gods. Unlike the Aztec, the Inka divinities had Transcended, avoiding the loss of power which came with the collapse of the Native cultures. The condor, not being a god, remained behind, perhaps waiting for a time when Someone would have need of him. Was he willing to carry the message?

“This one time, I will carry a message for You.” grunted the condor. “Others are beginning to call for me as Dionysus grows in power. If One Who is opposed to Him takes me into Their service, I will not help You again.”

“I understand.” replied Xipe Totec. “It will be for this one time only. I thank you for your help.”

The condor accepted the message bundle, holding it firmly in his claws. A mighty stroke of his wings launched him into the sky where he circled once then headed north. Xipe Totec watched him until he was out of sight. Now He would have to wait. The quetzal watched also, then turned to the Aztec god.

“If You are successful and come back into Your power, You will remember me?”

“I shall. You will have a favored position unlike the eagle who I will only sneer at!”

The quetzal laughed and flew off. Xipe Totec sat down. The condor was a very fast flyer. He was confident it wouldn’t take long for an answer.

………………………………………………..

Will Xipe Totec succeed in his quest? Only time will tell……

resplendent quetzal

Developing Characters – Charlotte

Creating a protagonist who is sympathetic can be difficult as the goal is to create someone people can empathize with. If your character is too flat, readers will not be able to connect with her. Negative characters are a little easier but here one has to portray an individual who’s not that likeable but still has positive elements which humanize him or her. Here you have to show them as people you might meet every day. Make them too dark or evil and you run into the risk of having readers lose interest because again they are too flat. In an odd sort of way, you need to write about someone people can empathize with. Make them too evilly evil and they just won’t seem believable. The character of Charlotte Sinclair is such a person.

…………………………………………………………

A memory from her Oregon childhood kept popping up in Charlotte’s mind. Fourth grade and the teacher had asked the class to write an essay describing their house. She remembered cringing at the assignment because she lived in a trailer park. Seriously? She lived in a crummy trailer and she was supposed to write something interesting about that? The worst part about it was that the teacher usually had them stand up in front of the class and read their work. Charlotte didn’t mind being the center of attention but she knew what would happen if she read her paper. The kids that knew her would start snickering, whispering her last name; Kettle, Kettle, making up mocking variations of it. The ones who didn’t know her would look down their noses at her. Trailer trash. She couldn’t lie about where she lived because she would get outed by the other kids and probably get a failing mark for the assignment.

So there was nothing for it but to write the truth. And it all happened just as she knew it would. She had tried to gloss over the fact it was a trailer as much as she could, describing her mother’s flower garden in meticulous detail. But she could hear the faint snickers, especially from Donna Devito. The smirks. The nudging. The B minus she got was okay but nothing could make up for the humiliation.

Divorce court had been like that. In place of the teacher Mrs Hudson, there had been the judge. Instead of Donna Devito, it was her soon-to-be ex-husband Peter, a faint smirk on his face, while the papers she was supposed to sign were handed out to her. She had to sign them, too. Peter had caught her red-handed, fingering the gold coins in that pouch he kept in his work safe. It did no good to explain she was only looking and didn’t intend to take any. It was either divorce or he would press theft charges. Either way the marriage was over and Charlotte had lost her stepping stone to the next level. She ground her teeth. The bastard had probably been planning to dump her anyway and the money had just been a good excuse.

It was all about status and nobody could tell her any different. Her transition into high school had seemed uneventful at first. It all looked like a dreary repeat of grade school except now she had to wear a bra. But it was her cousin Nancy who steered her in a different direction. She grabbed Charlotte one day when she came to visit.

“Did anyone tell you you’re a hot ticket?”

“Oh Jesus. I wish you wouldn’t needle me…”

“No, no! Listen to me. You need a makeover.”

“A makeover?” She looked at her cousin like she had grown two heads.

“Yes. I’m going to beauticians’ school next year. You wouldn’t believe what a difference a little makeup will have. And your hair – I definitely need to work on your hair.” Nancy was dragging her into the bathroom. Hair styling curlers and shampoo bottles were piled on the sink. Her cousin popped open what looked like a briefcase revealing more makeup than she ever saw before in her life. Charlotte stared bug-eyed for a moment but then allowed Nancy to have her way. After an hour getting her hair set and her cousin meticulously painting her face, she was finally allowed to look in the mirror.

She didn’t recognize the girl staring back. After a stunned minute, she turned to her cousin.

“Show me how to do that.”

The dramatic change in her appearance changed the way everyone treated her. At least the boys anyway. Now they followed her around. Getting dates was suddenly easy but breaking into the girl cliques proved a lot harder. She prowled through thrift shops turning up enough nice looking stuff so she finally didn’t look like she was wearing an older siblings hand-me-downs. But the red-neck tag kept haunting her. It wasn’t enough to buff up her appearance. She needed to change her surroundings as well. Go somewhere that the trailer trash label couldn’t follow.

Dates with boys quickly showed her the power of sex and she was astute enough to see how it could be used to get what she wanted. She sneered at the idea of having a ‘career’ the way the guidance counselor kept trying to push on her. That cost money and Charlotte wanted to marry money, not earn it. Why work her butt off when the right husband could do it for her? But the counselor finally managed to convey the idea that further schooling could open up doors for her which to Charlotte meant meeting a better class of people and in turn somebody with money. So finally she settled on modeling school, legally changing her last name to Sinclair.

Bettina’s Modeling School just outside of New York City was as far from Oregon as she could get. At first getting a decent apartment was a nightmare but she lucked out when she met Jillian West a fellow student who was looking for a roommate she could split rent with. Jillian was a bit of an air-head but easy to get along with. A tall lanky dish of a red-head, she often brought Charlotte with her when she got invited to parties. That was how she met Peter Mitchell. Head of a consulting firm, he was at a soiree along with a brunette mouse of a wife who looked bored stiff. He was cute after a fashion and being CEO of a consulting firm meant he brushed shoulders with plenty of important people seeking his services. Charlotte kept her eye on him while she circulated around the room checking out prospects.

Apparently she caught his eye as well because twenty minutes into the party, he introduced himself and offered her a drink. Obviously having his wife with him didn’t cramp his style. It didn’t take long to exchange cell phone numbers and arrange another meeting. Charlotte took her time with the affair, careful to remain on the pill and staying enrolled at Bettina’s just in case things fell through. But fortunately Peter was ready to dump wife number one and take on wife number two. Within a year came his divorce and then his proposal to Charlotte. Six months later they were married.

Now two years later it was over. She had met a state senator at one of the numerous parties Peter attended with her and things were definitely looking up in that direction. Her plans for the senator had been much the same as they had been with Peter. But she had made the mistake of pawing over Peter’s little private stash, unable to resist the sight of gold. It was difficult not to kick herself. She had forgotten how anal-retentive he was about his money.

Pacing back and forth in the apartment she got as part of the divorce settlement, she finally stopped herself and sat down on the sofa. She had to regroup somehow. Would it possible to pick up the modeling gig again? She had dropped out of Bettina’s when she got married, but she still had her looks. Would they let her start again? Jillian had gotten into a modeling agency and while she wasn’t a supermodel, she wasn’t doing too bad. Charlotte had seen her face in more than a few catalogs. She smirked to herself. That might be fun. Model for a few catalogs then every time number three wife left one open on the table, there would be his ex-wife staring back at him.

The ring tone on her cell phone started playing Beethoven. Now who the hell was that? Charlotte didn’t really feel like talking to anyone but she checked her caller ID. She recognized Jillian’s number. It could be a spoof but she had given Jillian her number. Sighing, she answered.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“It’s a party, that’s what!” laughed Jillian’s voice brightly. “I had a sneaking suspicion you needed cheering up, so I’d thought I’d give you a call.”

“Are you at a party or going to one?” asked Charlotte. Jillian could be a bubble head at times but she was so good hearted it was hard getting or staying mad at her.

“Well, going to one, of course. I haven’t seen you for a while and I know you’re probably bouncing off the walls after the divorce. Look, it’ll be a great party. It’s a recruitment drive for the Maenad Club. Lots of people will be there. There’ll be booze, sex, music, you name it. You don’t have to join if you don’t want. Just come for the fun.”

Charlotte almost wanted to say no. She had heard of the Maenad Club and thought it was a cock-eyed excuse for having a basic orgy. But maybe there was more to it than that. She had heard some odd intriguing stories. Who knows, she might actually meet someone interesting. After waffling a bit, she agreed.

“Great!” gushed Jillian. “I’ll pick you up at 7:00 tonight. You don’t need to get dressed up. It’s strictly casual. And I’ve got some exciting news to tell you too! See ya!”

“ ‘See ya’.” mimicked Charlotte after Jillian had disconnected, then laughed. Maybe it was just what she needed. Get out of the damn apartment and try having a little fun. If the party attracted a big enough crowd, there was bound to be somebody important there. Maybe even that senator she had been trying to cozy up to. She got up and headed for the shower. Might as well start getting ready now. It’s not like she had anything else to do.

…………………………………………..

Charlotte’s reminiscing about her past gives us some insight into what drives her. While we might find her narcissism repellent, we can empathize with her shame about her poverty and the cruel treatment she received in grade school which fuels her desire to escape her past. How successful she will be and whether her life will be a triumph or a tragedy remains to be seen.

Greek Play Masks