Night Terrors Part I

Trace slid back into consciousness and was aware of pain.  Like a knife in his back, radiating out to the rest of his body.  His mouth tasted like blood.  He moved his head, but the pain was so bad that he lay still for a time.  The sound of his own breath scared him.  And there was another sound too, like the dripping of a faucet, except thicker.  His jeans were slick with his blood.  The light from the streetlamp shone on the denim fabric. 

He rested with his forehead on the steering wheel, eyes open, watching the blood trickle over his jeans.

He raised his head again, slower this time.  The lonely country road was deserted.  He thought about the cell phone he kept in his pocket.  Retrieving it seemed like a monumental task.  If he could get the cell phone out, he could call for help.  But what for?  This was his fault.  Seeing him covered in blood would only excite the killer instinct inside them.    

He knew they’d be happy to see him like this.  Bleeding and broken, whimpering like a run over dog. 

He didn’t have the strength to reach into his pocket, but he wanted to so badly that he thought it was in his hands.  But then he opened his eyes and he was in the same position as before.  Drool gathered in his mouth.  He knew he was about to vomit.  When it came it sprayed out forcefully, and he began to mewl like the cat his brothers had set on fire when they were kids.  He tried to reach for his cell phone again, but he still couldn’t get himself to move. 

“Hello?  Can you hear me?”

There was a woman tapping on the window.  Trace stared at her.  She looked worried for some reason.  Trace tried to talk, but his words came out as a slurred mess. 

She pulled at the door, but it had been crushed. 

He watched her put her fists in front of her mouth.  She turned away and scurried up the side of the road.  Distant headlights outlined her figure.  He saw her turn away from the light, with her cell phone pressed to her ear.  She was gesticulating wildly, and behind her the headlights were growing brighter. 

When the truck finally arrived, her back was still turned.  He watched her body explode.  Blood spattered the windshield and the top half of her body landed forcefully on the hood of his car. 

Smoke began to fill the interior of the car.  Dimly, Trace saw a man standing in the place where the unfortunate Samaritan had stood.  Flames began to lick the dashboard, coming closer to him. 

Trace screamed as terror unlike anything he’d ever known overcame him.  He clawed at the windows, making hand prints on the soot that clouded him.  The burning smoke made him gag and cough, but he could still feel the flames charring his skin.  He smelled his own flesh roasting.  In his panic, he broke the small bones in his hands in his desperate attempt to escape.    

Eventually, he stopped struggling and submitted to the pain.  When they opened the car to remove the remains, there was a moment of silence as they saw the charred body, curled in on itself.  Then the older patrolman recovered himself first.

“Look at that.  This one crashes, and this lady gets herself killed trying to save him.  No good deed goes unpunished,” he joked. 

The newer cop went into the bushes and vomited.

The Ancient Werewolf: Wolves and Wolves who Walk on Two Legs

In the dark of the night, the moon casts a light that seems to freeze the camp. A man adds wood to the fire as he watches the herd of horses, cattle, and sheep. Every whinny or bleat makes his head shoot up as cold sweat makes him shiver. He has reason to fear, because as he well knows, werewolves and wolves are watching. They are hungry. They wait, as they have for thousands of years. They wait for the slightest lapse in attention. His dog puts its great head between its paws and sighs. The man thinks about it. His myths tell him that long, long ago, before the creation, the good spirit, Ahura Mazda dwelled in the land of light. The evil, stinking spirit Angra Mainyu dwelled in darkness. One day he spied Ahura Mazda’s light. He wanted it. He wanted it not to enjoy, but to destroy. Ahura Mazda, being wise, asked his evil enemy, the devil Angra Mainyu, to come and rule in the light, with him.

Of course, the devil refused, saying that he would take all, and lay waste to it, for he only desires what is unprofitable.

Wanting to limit the destruction by the Evil One, Ahura Mazda began to create the world. He created time so that his battle with Angra Mainyu would be limited. Now, Ahura Mazda had the power to create matter, but the Evil Spirit did not. Ahura Mazda decided to share the matter with him, for had he not, the creations of the Evil Spirit would have been non-corporeal. They could attack without humans seeing them.

As the good God Ahura Mazda began to create beings, the unimaginative Evil Spirit created the evil counterpart to each of his creations. When Ahura Mazda created the dog, who is to help humankind, the wicked Angra Mainyu created the wolf and the werewolf. As the good dog watches over his flocks day and night, so do the wolves watch, but like the Evil Spirit, they seek only to lay waste to anything they see.

The man shivered again, and then went stiff when the long, eerie howl rent the air.

I have written on ancient Indo-European myth, and here we see how the ancient Iranians conceived of evil entities. They actually believed in werewolves, awful demons who crept outside their camps, ever watchful for the opportunity to tear a human or animal to shreds.

Indo-European Folklore and Myth

Zeus, who was quite loose, and Indra, who was equally promiscuous, were two early Aryan gods; the former from Greek myth, and the latter from Vedic myth. The early Aryans (a linguistic term) were the source of gods and goddesses, myths and tales from many of the areas where these nomadic people settled. They carried these myths with them in languages that came to be known as Indo-European after 18^th century linguists such as Sir William Jones, studying Sanskrit in India, realized that most of the European, many of the Indian languages, and some Middle Eastern languages were closely related. Not only were the languages related, but these cultures shared many myths as well.

These myths speak of war loving people, whose gods mirrored their lust for life and the pleasures that came with it. Their myths still inform our lives as we see the themes occurring in stories we enjoy today. The myth of the lost prince who grows up in poor circumstances, but rises again to his position is one of these. I use this in the Fire Chronicles.

As a scholar of languages and folklore, I seek to reclaim myths for people to enjoy. The academic endeavor is often sadly selfish. Scholars write to impress each other with little regard for what services they can provide for the general public. As a graduate student, I came to realize that my insights would be seen only by a few. I understood that academic writing was largely a game where people tried to outdo each other in their complex and sometimes meaningless jargon. I respect scholars like Wendy Doniger, who writes in such a way as to reach a wider audience. While making devilishly ingenious arguments, she also manages to bring the world of scholarship to life for all. This, I believe, is the duty of a true scholar. I wrote my latest academic book with this in mind, but I also feel that these stories can come alive in fiction. The storytellers of yore did just this. In my coming series, The Sorcerer Chronicles, I make use of many Indo-European myth themes.

I believe you might enjoy the story of how Indra, the king of the gods, is cursed to have genitalia sprout all over his body. Well, I don’t tell his story exactly, but I do use parts of it!

My Favorite Demons and Monsters, Part 1

I draw from world mythology to create demons and monsters in my stories. Zohak is such a demon. His myth begins deep in antiquity in the tales of the early Iranians. When we look at these myths, we have to be aware that there are many variants, and that a myth develops in time.

Zohak is the villain in the Fire Chronicles (Son of Fire, Trial by Fire, Burned Dreams, and Banner of Fire), as well as the Fire Demon Chronicles (not yet published.) His story is one pieced together from the Indo-European dragon mythology. Azhi means a dragon or dragon snake in Old Iranian. The dragon was often depicted as hoarding water in mountains, causing drought.

Azhidahaka (Dahaka is a shortening of his name, and Zohak is a later spelling) is a three-headed dragon in Iranian myth. I use Dahaka as the name for Zohak’s wizard father). This dragon tries to steal away the Royal xwarnah, (in later Persian Farr).

Azhi Dahaka’s myth tells about how he ruled after the first king, Yima (Jamshid). He rules for 1,000 years, during which time he experiments with breeding half human, half demon creatures, and works sorcery of all sorts.

He is finally chained in Mount Damavand until the end of the cycle, when he will break out and terrorize the world, eating a full third of humans and animals in existence.

In the Fire Chronicles, I combine these motifs. Dahaka, the evil wizard brother of the Firestarter Anacharsis, wants glory and kingship, but he doesn’t have the power to overcome his brother. He steals Anacharsis’ love, Queen Cunaxa the Pure, and produces a son, Zohak. Anacharsis later has a son by Cunaxa, Atar, who is destined to be the next Firestarter and king of the Seven Kingdoms. Throughout the books, a giant boar with golden hooves and tusks follows Atar, whose name means fire. This boar represents the royal Farr, or power of kingship granted by the gods, in Persian myth.

Zohak covets power and longs to gain the throne, but finally, he does so only by selling his soul, unwittingly, to the demons. In one Persian myth, Zohak is an Arab who has as a mentor the Devil Iblis. Zohak starts out as a good son, but he has an evil seed in his heart. Iblis appears to him as a lovely boy who steals his heart. Zohak is irritated with his father, Merdas, who has a generous heart, and gives too much to the poor. Iblis councils him to kill his father, but Zohak can’t stand the thought of it. Iblis does it for him by digging a hole in a garden path Merdas takes in the predawn hours to pray in his garden. When the poor man falls in, evil Iblis buries him alive.

Now when Zohak goes to Iran and conquers the region, Iblis appears again in a different guise, as a comely young cook. He corrupts Zohak further. Zohak does not eat animals, for at this time, people were more civil. First Iblis introduces eggs into his diet, then meats of all sorts until Zohak is hopelessly hooked. Zohak is most pleased and offers Iblis a boon. Iblis asks only that he be allowed to kiss Zohak’s bare shoulders.

When he does so, a horrific snake-dragon breaks through each shoulder. They demand the brains of innocent humans as food. So, Zohak goes from being ambitious, to being a monster himself. Eventually, the only way to stop him is to chain him up in a cave in Mount Damavand, where he still lives today, waiting to be released.

The Fire Chronicles follow Zohak as he goes from being a jealous brother to a demi-demon who can’t be killed. He is a tragic figure, because he is tricked by the Devil, but only because he has the seed of evil in his heart.

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The Army of the People rises under Atar and Kava, but they are faced with an Imperial army now composed of full and part blooded demons, sorcerers, and wizards. Their only hope is the power contained in the body of Atar, the Firestarter, but he must first find a way to activate it.

A Tribute to Tigran and Pompom

The life of a graduate student is arduous and stressful. I worked ceaselessly, and sometimes I even envied the laborers who worked on the Harvard grounds. A graduate student has no holidays, no weekends. The responsibility to study and to excel blots out all else in life. At least that’s how it is for many a student. I was feeling as if I had no friends and no life, when a tiny, tawny creature entered my life.

A neighbor, who must have been in his eighties, had a Lhasa Apso female and a Pomeranian dog. The male was at least eighteen years old at the time, so the man thought it impossible for him to breed, but he did.

The man offered me a tiny female puppy. I didn’t have the time, but I took her anyway. I named her Tigran. She loved me. She waited for me to come home everyday, and cried out in bliss when she saw me. I fell in love. I carried her wherever I went, whenever I could. She slept next to my face and licked me awake in the morning. One day, when she was a puppy, I felt her tongue and became convinced that she had a fever. I rushed her to the vet, and there I learned that dogs have a higher temperature than humans.

I read every book I could get my hands on, learning passionately about dogs. I taught her how to give me her paw for a treat. Then I taught her how to give me two paws. I was so foolishly proud that I brought her to my advising professors to show off her skills.

As she grew, she became ugly and lanky. I wanted her to have long hair like the Lhasas in the books I read. Her light golden blonde hair stood out straight, but I loved her all the same. Little did I know that in three years, she would be the picture of Lhasa perfection, although she was a half-breed. Her hair was magnificent, and I took altogether too many pictures of her.

One day, while returning from study, I imagined how hopeless I would be if she ever left me. I cried, hiding my face from people.

When Tigran was two years old, the elderly man next door had another brood of puppies from Tigran’s mother and father. I wanted one, but the man refused. He was selling them to a pet store. On the day after Christmas, I heard a knock at the door. I opened it to find a crumpled paper sack containing a tiny soiled puppy. Apparently, one of the puppies had become gravely ill, and the man had left it there. As it was below zero that day, it was a good thing I was home. Many vet visits later, Pompom, Tigran’s brother, became part of our household. He grew up to look like an elegant red Pomeranian, but his flopping ears gave his Lhasa half away.

He was so tiny that I used to keep him in the pocket of my coat. He needed a lot of attention, so I used to smuggle him into the huge Harvard library in my pocket. I obtained a box for him, and I used a piece of pine branch to entertain him as I studied. I would wave it and he would chase it like a kitten. Of course, I stayed in a deserted area, not wanting to be kicked out of the library. As he grew older, he began to leap out of his little box to confront any intruders. Soon he barked at people, and I knew his Harvard library days were over.

When I walked them in Cambridge, they looked like two matched ponies, although they were so different. Tigran had long, blonde hair and a rich tail she carried over her back, while Pompom was so red, with the thick hair a show Pomeranian would envy. They were alike in all other respects. They were the same sizes, and their faces were remarkably similar. They had huge, soulful brown eyes and similar voices.

These two saintly souls supported me in the long, cold evenings and lonely nights I spent during my graduate student days. When we got our Ph.D. they were there to celebrate and to take those first, hesitant steps into what people call the “real world.” They were there through the trying days of work, and they greeted me everyday with happiness and unflagging love.

We had birthday parties for them, and opened many gifts of toys and bones.

One day, when she was thirteen-years-old, my lovely Tigran dragged the bed I had gotten her for Christmas off the low shelf where it was kept. She wanted to be held. Her little soul departed as I cried and prayed to the gods to keep her well for me. The ancient texts of which I was now a scholar say that if you feed a dog with love every day that it will wait for you by the Bridge all souls must pass over. It will greet you and lead you across, even if you have been a little sinful. I prayed that she would be there for my poor, wretched soul. I missed her so much that I could only weep, while Pompom did his best to comfort me.

We lived together, Pompom and I, and I resolved that I would give him all the love I wanted to give Tigran. Pompom was so special. He loved sweets. He would watch me with great attention for any sign that I might sneak a bit of candy or nuts. He liked Jordan almonds, but he would wait for me to suck the candy halfway, then it was good for him. Similarly, he liked Raisinettes, but they had to be from my mouth. He had his own seatbelt, and we would travel long hours. He hated driving, except that he would be excited when we stopped to pee and get gas. He always knew they sold beef jerky at the gas station.

He was my comfort for the next two years, but then he had a seizure. I was terrified, but although the vet said he had to be put to sleep, I nursed him back, feeding him with an eyedropper and holding his weak body as he tried to walk. He recovered and I was so happy. For the next year he had a few fits, but he seemed happy. I delighted that he was able to be his sassy self, barking and kicking his back legs at me when annoyed or just happy.

On the night before Easter, the epilepsy returned with a vengeance. He began to cry loudly. I roused the vet and we sat over him for a few hours until the medicine began to work. On Easter morning, he began to cry again. I rushed him to the vet, who told me there was nothing more he could do. I said goodbye to the friend who had shared so much of my life with me. I put him in his usual seat and petted his velvety ears as we drove home one last time. My heart broke as I picked out some fine cloths and made a shroud for him. He was fifteen. I buried him next to Tigran. Now both my angels are in heaven, and I live with the hope that they will be there at that fabled Bridge, wagging their bushy tails in greeting. Until then, I remember you, my dear friends.

Historical Fiction or Fantasy? Herodotus: the Father of Lies

Some of my books are hard to classify. The Fire Series are not entirely what one might call historical fiction, and not totally fantasy either. They are set in the world Herodotus, born c. 490 BCE, the Greek historian describes as Scythia and ancient Persia. He describes Scythia as a wild place dominated by equally wild horsemen. These tribes traveled in wagons and on horseback. They were impossible to conquer because they knew the wild lands and could hide, blending into the landscape. The Persians tried, with their huge armies, to subdue the people, but they never could.

The Paralatae tribe, to which the royal brothers Zohak and Atar belong, was described as being a “royal” Scythian tribe, the descendants of the great mythical king Colaxais. Herodotus describes the Scythians as very strange because men and women enjoy equality, something very rare in his day.

Some of their habits are quite interesting. For example, they made cups out of the skulls of their defeated enemies, coating them with gold. They also made nice cloaks out of the scalps of their enemies. A warrior was very proud of such a cloak, and it grew in size as he or she fought and defeated the enemies, which were many. Enemies could be anyone they happened to meet.

In the second part of my “Fire Series,” King Melik is murdered. The ritual I describe is derived from Herodotus’ account. When a king or family member with a high standing died, a herd animal was slaughtered and its raw flesh was mixed with that of the dead human. This was passed around in a pot, and each member of the tribe would eat some of the raw flesh. The object was to recycle the person’s power back into the remaining people of the tribe.

The Demon of Death

As I am a historian of ancient cultures, I know the intricacies of the belief systems too. In the Sorcerer’s Secret, which was set in ancient Persia, I found it difficult to convey the ordinariness of the belief in the Demon of Death. People believed that when a person died, a demon immediately possessed the body. The demon was stronger in relation to how good the person had been in life. In other words, the more virtuous a person, the stronger the demon. Why? The Avesta, the Zoroastrian scripture explains that the demons can’t attack a good person while he or she is alive. They want a person’s soul, but at the time of death, a good person is taken to Heaven. When the demons eagerly enter the body, they find it empty, and like an enemy army that lays siege to a city and then finds that the king has escaped, they rage about in anger. When the demons enter the body of a bad person, they find the soul, the “king,” and they are satisfied.

Dead bodies were thought to be teeming with evil spirits. The Demon of Death was so powerful that it could enter the body of a living person who approached or touched a dead body. The only way to stop it was by the use of specially trained dogs. Dogs had the power to dispel the demon by their vision. This was called “sag-did,” being seen by a dog. Persians believed that dogs had an extra set of eyes by which they could see demons and cast them out. I will write more about dogs later.

The body thus teeming with evil, could not be buried into the earth, or burned by fire, as these were holy elements. Instead, they were placed on the “Towers of Silence,” or daxmas, elevated platforms where hundreds of vultures waited to devour the flesh of the dead. This could be accomplished in a matter of minutes, depending on the number of birds. Being accustomed to feedings of human flesh, these birds waited expectantly. I have actually seen this sight and believe me, it was quite like I described it in my book. Again, truth can be stranger than fiction.

Writing Hints for Authors—Creating a Believable Character

An author is an observant person. How does one create a believable character? By observation! I keep a notebook with me at all times, although it is advisable to wait to jot down personality quirks one sees. In my new book, Impossible Promise, the character Roscoe is a man who is obese, but he sees himself as “big.” Most women admit to being overweight, even when they aren’t. Not so with the bulk of men (a good pun as well). In one scene, Roscoe contemplates his lunch. He has eaten several sandwiches, Twinkies, a diet cola, and lastly, he has added yogurt. Why? Because a woman at work said that she eats yogurt to lose weight. Roscoe doesn’t get it. Believe it or not, I actually heard a man say this, and sure enough, I jotted it down for future use.

Another character in the same book argues that a two-year degree is an “undergraduate” degree. He has applied for a job, thinking he has the qualification because, as everybody knows, if you didn’t finish the four-year degree, it is an undergraduate degree. If you finish the four years, then you graduate, making your degree a graduate degree. Folks, I simply could not make that up. Yes, I heard this from a hapless interviewee.

I also jot down the endless Mississippi country expressions, such as one I used in Impossible Promise. I heard a man at the feed store comment about a politician, “He’s slimier than two eels fucking in a bucket of snot.” Ugh! What a priceless image.

Even the way people move is important. How do they carry themselves? Another thing to note is the way a place looks. It is important to describe a place realistically, which is easier to do if you can remember details. Details make a scene real to the reader.

Pterodactyls, Bird-Insect Matings, and Imagination

People often ask me how I come up with stories. I have thought about it, and perhaps the most important thing is to be able to imagine. People say that when one grows up, the power to imagine goes away. That isn’t always true. I don’t know if one has to cultivate imagination, or if it comes to some. Maybe it is that imagination isn’t the issue. It may be the ability to see alternate worlds.

Once as I walked around my garden in March, the azaleas were in full bloom. It is a wonderful Mississippi sight. I stood still so that the hummingbirds flew madly about me, drinking the nectar of the cup shaped blossoms. Suddenly I saw a hummingbird that was different. Instead of a long, thin beak, it had a thread-like protuberance that curled at the end. Instead of feathers, it had an odd sort of fur. I watched it as it flew with the other hummingbirds. It hovered, as they did, and it was then that I noticed that unlike the hummingbirds, it had not two legs, but six or so. I stared speechless for a long time, then I called my friend.

“Yes, I saw it up close. It had to be a cross between an insect and a bird. Uh…yeah, but that’s what I saw. Maybe it is one of those creatures we simply haven’t discovered yet…No, damn it! It’s only ten o’clock. I haven’t been drinking. I saw what I saw. Fine, well, I just thought you’d like to know.” That was my side of the call.

That wasn’t the last creature I saw that was weird. One day. While walking deep in the woods, I heard a horrible screech. From the ground, a strange creature reared up, flapping leathery wings. It was fleshy and had a beak too big for its size. It was indeed, a young Pterodactyl, although my friend swore that it had to be a nestling buzzard. He is no fun at all, but again, I saw what I saw.

When I write, I figure I can use these experiences. At least nobody will say I’m crazy, since after all, it is supposed to be fiction. But dear readers, now you know that the truth is stranger than fiction. Next time I might tell you about the foxfire left by aliens (I did see their hovering ship).

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