MEDDLING WITH THE MASTERS

(Guest Blog by my friend Dax Varley, who also has a new YA book out.)

Long before my favorite new show, “Sleepy Hollow” aired—-long before it was even pitched—-I came up with an idea for my own Sleepy Hollow. Something I thought was fresh and unique. A retelling from Katrina Van Tassel’s point of view.

But with great ideas come great problems. Like…uh…what now? Ideas don’t usually come with built-in plots. That’s up to us. I wrestled with it a while, then…

The hard part. Actually writing it.

        Historicals = lots of research x limited word choices.

            Ugh.

But…
    Great idea conceived. Check.
    Plot plotted. Check.
    1793 historical voice. Check.

Retelling classic literature is a slippery slope. I knew there would be purists who’d look at my creative license like it was a fake I.D. But thankfully those were few and far between. Here are a few ways I twisted Washington Irving’s tale:

*(These are comparisons of characters NOT prose. I’m not that stupid!)

Irving’s Ichabod:

He was tall and exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, and feet that might have served for shovels. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.

My Ichabod:

Then I saw him, ambling toward us. My heart danced like never before. This young man was eons from the warty old toad we’d imagined. He couldn’t have been more than three years older than us. And with his waistcoat unfastened and shirt rolled at the cuffs, he hardly seemed the teacher sort. Though he did carry what looked like a small journal and a lead pencil in his hand.

[snip] Up close proved even better. His dark hair fell in wisps, framing his angelic face. His smiling lips accentuated a dimple on his cheek. And his eyes—Those eyes!—as green as our meadow, shimmering with morning dew.

Irving’s Katrina:

She was a blooming lass of fresh eighteen, plump as a partridge, ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and universally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might be perceived in her dress. She wore ornaments of pure yellow gold to set off her charms, and a provokingly short petticoat to display the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round.

My Katrina:

(Upon endeavoring to dig up the Horseman’s bones)

Near four in the morning I dressed, wearing no stays or petticoats to hinder my work. I slipped into a shift, then a simple woolen dress. Both could easily be knotted at the hem. I put on two pairs of wool stockings for warmth, and tied my hair back with twine instead of ribbon. My slippers would get me as far as the stables, where I’d placed a pair of Father’s sturdy boots. To fit, I’d tucked rolled linen into the toes. My cloaks kept me sufficiently warm, but their hems caught easily on my heels. So I took one of Father’s overcoats too.

Irving’s Brom:

He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic; but had more mischief than ill-will in his composition; and with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong dash of waggish good humor at bottom. He had three or four boon companions, who regarded him as their model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles round.

[snip] Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, and then exclaim, "Ay, there goes Brom Bones and his gang!"

My Brom:

“Brom, I don’t have those feelings for you.” Even if I did, I could never put up with his endless brawling and half-witted stunts. He, along with Marten and Garritt, were always up to some foolishness—especially after an evening at the River Song tavern. Where there was mischief, Brom was involved—-be it cockfights, racing, or ridiculous pranks like upending an outhouse or stringing wire to knock a rider from his horse. I would be marrying a child.

Irving’s Horseman:

Just then the shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and with a scramble and a bound stood at once in the middle of the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful frame.

My Horseman:

Within moments, I saw him—a headless outline of black within a gray cloud. As though sensing my eyes upon him, he slowed his phantom steed, circling once. The horse reared, pawing the haze. The Horseman quickly drew his sword and sliced the air.

[snip] His hand reached out—beckoning…inviting …bewitching me. A gray breath of evil played upon my neck, and my name wafted through the mist.

Irving’s setting:

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day; the sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden livery which we always associate with the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make their appearance high in the air; the bark of the squirrel might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory-nuts, and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the neighboring stubble field.

My setting:

We finally came to a halt at my favorite part of our property—-a lush knoll that overlooked the Hudson.

The autumn leaves had scattered like pirate’s gold. Ships and scows drowsed along the river. Gulls circled the winking whitecaps. The smell of pine nuts and the sighs of lapping water were an elixir for the soul. Because of its serenity, I had secretly named it Bliss.

Irving’s twist:

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered.

[snip] Brom Bones, too, who, shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin; which led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter than he chose to tell.

My twist: ???

    Spoiler Free. Check.

Amazon link to Severed: http://amzn.to/1jypOyH

Dax Varley is the author of Severed, Spellbound and Determined, and the Oracles novelettes. She lives in Richmond, Texas with her husband and a half-dozen imaginary friends. Real or imaginary, you can find her at:

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DaxVarley
Twitter: https://twitter.com/daxvarley
Tumblr: http://dax-varley.tumblr.com/
Website: http://www.daxvarley.com

Werewolf-what? No, Rugaroo.

A few months ago I began a series of articles concerning the various mythological and myth-based creatures I use in my two series: Seraphym Wars for YA and Stardust Warriors for MG. Today I’m discussing a monster new to me. I was watching one of my favorite shows the other morning, Supernatural, and the boys had to confront something called a Rugaroo. I immediately jumped onto Google to investigate this scary, intriguing creature. Here's what I found out.

The term Roogaroo, Rugaroo, Ruggaroo, Roux-Ga-Roux (among other spellings) probably stems from the French word "loup garou" for werewolf. According to Barry Jean Ancelet, an academic expert on Cajun folklore and professor at the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, the tale of the rougarou is a common legend across French Louisiana. Both words are used interchangeably in southern Louisiana. Some people call the monster rougarou; others refer to it as the loup garou. However, the Rugaroo is NOT just a werewolf. It has similar but different characteristics. For one, it can shape-shift at will (not just full moons) and not into a wolf form. It can take on the shape of any animal--even human.

The rougarou legend has been spread for many generations, either directly from French settlers to Louisiana (New France) or via the French Canadian immigrants centuries ago.

In the Cajun legend, the creature supposedly prowls the swamps around Acadiana and Greater New Orleans, and possibly the fields or forests of the regions. The rougarou is usually described as a creature with a human body and the head of a wolf or dog, similar to the werewolf legends. As with fairytales, it is believed that often the story-telling was used to instill fear. Supposedly, elders used the stories to persuade Cajun children to behave. Another example relates that the wolf-like beast will hunt down and kill Catholics who do not follow the rules of Lent. This coincides with the French Catholic loup garou stories, where the method for turning into a werewolf was to break Lent seven years in a row.

A common blood sucking legend speculated that the rougarou was under the spell for 101 days. After that time, the curse was transferred from person to person when the rougarou drew another human’s blood. During the day the creature returned to human form. Although feeling sickly, the person refused to tell others for fear of being killed.

Other stories range from the rougarou as a headless horseman to the rougarou derived from witchcraft. In the latter claim, only a witch could make a rougarou - either by turning themselves into wolves or cursing others with lycanthropy. As with legends passed by oral tradition, stories often contradict one another. The stories of the wendigo vary by tribe and region, but the most common cause of the change is typically related to cannibalism.

A modified example, not in the original wendigo legends, is that if a person saw a rugaru, they would be transformed into one. Thereafter, they would be doomed to wander as a rugaru. That story bears some resemblance to a Native American version of the wendigo legend related in a short story by Algernon Blackwood. In Blackwood's fictional adaptation of the legend, seeing a wendigo caused one to turn into a wendigo.

According to The American Journal of Psychiatry Vol. 134, No. 10. published in October 1977:  "Lycanthropy, a psychosis in which the patient has delusions of being a wild animal (usually a wolf), has been recorded since antiquity. The Book of Daniel describes King Nebuchadnezzar as suffering from depression that deteriorated over a seven-year period into a frank psychosis at which time he imagined himself a wolf. Among the first medical descriptions were those of Paulus Aegineta during the later days of the Roman Empire. In his description of the symptom complex, Aegineta made reference to Greek mythology in which Zeus turned King Lycaon of Arcadia into a raging wolf.

 

Folk-etymology links the word to Lycaon, a king of Arcadia who, according to Ovid's Metamorphoses, was turned into a ravenous wolf in retribution for attempting to serve human flesh (his own son) to visiting Zeus in an attempt to disprove the god's divinity.

There is also a mental illness called lycanthropy in which a patient believes he or she is, or has transformed into, an animal and behaves accordingly. This is sometimes referred to as clinical lycanthropy to distinguish it from its use in legends.

While the wolf is the most common form of were-animal, in the north the bear is common in legends. In ancient Greece the dog was associated with the belief and today the were-boar variant is known through Greece and Turkey. 

Even if when the term lycanthropy is limited to the wolf-metamorphosis of living human beings, the beliefs classed together under this head are far from uniform. The transformation may be temporary or permanent; the were-animal may be a metamorphosed person, or maybe a double whose activity leaves the real person unchanged. It could be a soul seeking to devour while leaving its body in a state of trance. Or perchance a messenger of a human being, a real animal or familiar spirit, whose connection with its owner is demonstrated through injury, by a phenomenon known as repercussion, to cause a corresponding injury to the human being.

Lycanthropy is often confused with transmigration; but the essential feature of the were-animal is that it is the double of a living human being, while the soul-animal is the vehicle, temporary or permanent, of the spirit of a dead human being. Nevertheless, instances in legend of humans reincarnated as wolves are often classed with lycanthropy, as well as these instances being labeled werewolves in local folklore.

Many Native cultures feature skin-walkers or a similar concept, wherein a shaman or warrior may, according to cultural tradition, take on an animal form. Animal forms can vary according to cultures and local species (including bears and wolves or coyotes). Skinwalkers tend to be totemic.

Author Peter Matthiessen determined that rugaru is a separate legend from that of the cannibal-like giant wendigo. While the wendigo was feared, he noted that the rugaru was seen as sacred and in tune with Mother Earth, in the same character of the bigfoot legends of today.

The Rugaroo can vary from a mild Big-foot-type creature to cannibalistic Native American Wendigos. While the lore of the cannibalistic Wendigos is prevalent throughout the Algonquian-speaking tribes in the northern US and Canada, the Rugaroo legend comes mostly from the Ojibwe and Chippewa tribes where is it considered sacred and in touch with Mother Earth, much like the Big-Foot is considered today.

To read The Wendigo by Algernon Blackwood click here.