The Destroying Muse

It's been many years since I've been involved with a tempestuous beauty with a virulent temper and a wicked throwing arm, but I have always been fascinated with the archetype of the destroying muse, best known in the figure of the Leanan Sidhe of Celtic legend. Seabury Quinn's Dark Rosaleen, sharing the title of James Clarence Mangan's poem, is a good introduction to this shadowy figure, as is this song by Australian garage rock band The Screaming Tribesmen:

That Time of the Year

This is the time of the year that, to put it bluntly, kicks my ass. When the movie Thirty Days of Night came out, I joked about how it described a typical October for me, which is the busy season on the job. On a typical Saturday, I leave the house at 8AM for a volunteer gig, then hotfoot it to work, typically coming home after 1AM on Sunday. I'm not complaining, though- overwork beats no work at all.

Pure Pulpy Goodness

I picked this up at the local library's fifty-cent per pound used book sale:





It's a 1994 Barnes & Nobel anthology of stories from Weird Tales, containing more pulpy goodness than a fifty-five gallon drum of orange juice. I was able to buy it just in time for the Halloween season, when eldritch escapism is the flavor of the month.

Stolen Apples Taste the Best

Last summer, I made a resolution to forage for at least one wild foodstuff a week during the growing season. This time of year, ripe wild grapes are abundant, and apples are available to those who know of untended orchards (which are not uncommon in localities which were once farmland). This week, I was able to pick some "feral" apples:





I do not, and would not, pick apples on private land without permission from the owner, but apple-theft, or scrumping, traditionally has been common enough to earn its own verb. This crime, usually indulged in by youthful gadabouts, was referred to in the Who's 5:15:

On a raft in the quarry
Slowly sinking.
On the back of a lorry
Holy hitching.
Dreadfully sorry
Apple scrumping.
Born in the war
Birthday punching.


While I have never played Warhammer Fantasy Roleplay, I purchased the Hogshead publishing version of the first edition rulebook and have read it enough to write up a brief summary of "Scrumper" as an introductory profession within the thief class:

M __
WS__
BS +10
S__
T__
W__
I__
A__
Dex +10
LD__
Int__
Cl__
WP__
Fel__


Skills:
Concealment-Rural
Flee!
Indentify Plant
Scale Sheer Surface
Silent Move-Rural


Trappings:
Shoulder bag
Knife
15' Rope


Career exits:
Woodsman
Thief (general)
Servant
Outlaw
Herbalist
Gamekeeper/Poacher


Not an overly powerful career, but an appropriate skill set for a 16th Century apple-thief in a magic-haunted, decadent world.


To clarify that I am not, indeed, a thief, my activity, picking otherwise unused fruits, is more properly known as usufruct (gleaning is a particular type of usufruct- gleaners would follower harvesters and take the agricultural products that had been missed (the French documentary The Gleaners and I is a poignant and entertaining look at this phenomenon). For additional reading on usufruct, this thread about "guerrilla harvests" has an anecdote, from commenter "Keith Talent", which amused and impressed me to no end:

When we were kids, my mother was a devoted canner, her favourite game, (still is actually) was "lets pretend we're poor," which dovetailed nicely with her other favourite passtime (sic) "Lets save pennies." Explaining the cost of driving across town to save on tinned tuna wasn't really a savings due to gas and time did not compute for her.

Anyway, the local high security prision (sic) had a number of apple trees on the grounds, outside of the formal prison proper but within a barbed wired yard. Mom marched up to the gate, informed the gaurds (sic) on duty she was a taxpayer and intended to not see the apples fall uneaten to the ground agian (sic), she was here to pick them with her two young sons. She'd make applesauce.

Unbeleiveably (sic) they allowed it, we picked apples on the prison yard. I liked my mom for throwing nice apples over the fence to the prisoners on excercise break in the actual yard. My brother and I were completely terrified the whole time. We never went back a second time, I suspect my father probably forbid it, or maybe my brother and I whining made the apples cost more than they were worth.

Brief Thoughts on Elfses

I recently got my hands on a copy of Margaret St. Clair's The Shadow People, and it is pretty clear that it played a role in inspiring Gary Gygax' drow. Actually, the drow are closer to the traditional depiction of elves than the noble, post-Tolkien elves that have taken over fantasy literature and gaming. The aos sí of legend are a perilous group, liable to kidnap surface dwellers, or bewilder them. They are a capricious group, an ominous background presence which should be placated by wary crofters, not the wise, benevolent elder-kindred of J.R.R.T.'s Middle Earth. I would posit that the greatest lasting legacy of Tolkien's writing is this elfin make-over.

Poul Anderson (writing contemporaneously with Tolkien) portrays his elves (in
The Broken Sword and
Three Hearts and Three Lions) as amoral, soulless creatures who have no qualms about using humans as pawns, and have developed an intricate culture simply to alleviate the ennui of immortality. In >Three Hearts and Three Lions, Holger Carlsen is told that the elfish duke may help him not for altruistic reasons, but out of a desire for novelty. Anderson's elves are sophisticated, while St. Clair's are primitive cannibals with some supernatural characteristics. I'll post a more detailed review of The Shadow People when I get a better handle on the book (it's a pretty odd read, and seems "dated"). I did, however, want to post briefly about how the "dark elves" of the modern fantasy industrial complex are actually more in line with traditional elfses or faeries than the modern "high elf" or "light elf" of Tolkien-pastiche modern fantasy.

Actually, I wanted to post briefly because I have been woefully remiss about writing.

Never Gave It Much Thought Until Now

I decided to reread Poul Anderson's Three Hearts and Three Lions, and was struck by something that I'd never pondered before... the action of the novel begins with protagonist Holger Carlsen, a member of the Danish resistance, involved in a covert operation to allow an important figure to escape from Nazi-occupied Denmark. I'd never given this portion of the book much thought, but came to the realization (after seeing the excellent BBC documentary Parallel Worlds, Parallel Lives, about indie-rock musician Mark Everett of The Eels trying to find out more about his father, quantum mechanics researcher and "many worlds interpretation" promulgator
Hugh Everett III) that the operation described in the book involved the escape of physicist Niels Bohr to Sweden, and ultimately to the West. While it's never spelled out in the book, I can't imagine any other possibility, especially since Anderson explicitly mentions quantum mechanics in the introduction to the novel.

Down in the Hollow, Playing a New Game

A scary new game, if my sources are correct. This ad in Craigslist was pointed out to me by an anonymous informant. Seeing that Sleepy Hollow is the only village in the Continental United States to boast of a Headless Horseman, the residents have to do right by the Hessian horror.

The Village of Sleepy Hollow was named North Tarrytown until 1996 when a plebescite was held regarding the name change and the populace, spurred by the loss of the village's economic base when the local GM plant closed, decided to take on a name that would allow them to develop a tourist industry. The release of Tim Burton's movie three years later should have inspired the town elders to capitalize on the newly-name village's newfound cult status. Sadly, nothing was really done to do this, and the sensation-seekers who made the pilgrimage to Sleepy Hollow were greeted with indifference, if not contempt. Of course, there's a 17th-18th century plantation which boasts a working farm, staffed by farmer/historians in period garb, and an ancient church associated with a celebrated burial ground, but those attractions typically close in the late afternoon, and the sidewalks are rolled up by 5 PM. Even with the name change (which some residents, sporting "North Tarrytown Forever" bumperstickers, still refuse to acknowledge), the village has had problems figuring out what to do with their suddenly hot cultural property.

Here's hoping that this upcoming event will be a major success, and an inspiration for further creative endeavors.