A fitting post for today, so I share it with my readers. If you don’t know this blog or its author, and if you’re fascinated by unknown historical details about New York City, check it out. There’s always something new here.
Happy Christmas to all, and best wishes for the coming year.
Thanks to Chris’s hard work (and a bit of my own), and to all the guest bloggers, readers, commenters and other participants, we’ve reached the end of another Witch Week. Over at Calmgrove, Chris provides a wrap-up for #WitchWeek2023, including an announcement of next year’s theme, one that should get everyone excited for next year’s event.
But before you go: one last spotlighted book, Philip Pullman’s 1982 orphans-in-jeopardy romp, Count Karlstein. The villain is dastardly, the heroines quirky and brave despite their fears, and the six narrators hand off the story to each other as niftily as runners pass the baton in a relay race.
Orphaned Lucy and Charlotte live with their wealthy great-uncle, Count Karlstein who, along with a household full of creepy (and drippy — quite literally) servants, barely tolerates their presence. Karlstein is rapacious and sneaky, even described by one of the narrators as “a lean, wolfish, twitchy sort of individual, with a gnawing look about him” (exactly as I picture Shakespeare’s Cassius, with his “lean and hungry look”, which I’m certain Pullman had in mind as he wrote those lines).
All Soul’s Eve approaches, and the Count must fulfill a bargain made, a decade earlier, with the Demon Huntsman (Zamiel in this tale west in the Swiss Alps, but you might know him better as Herne the Hunter). Zamiel expects the Count to complete his part of the bargain by providing the Huntsman with human prey. The Count, of course, plans to hand over the two girls living with him.
Oh dear! What can they do?
Imagine a plot inspired in equal parts by Charles Dickens and Joan Aiken, and you’ll end up with something like this tale. Pullman is clearly having fun here, drawing on familiar tropes (lost heir, wise governess, shooting contest, and girl-in-the-tower, to mention just a few) but keeping it all fresh and funny — with the con-man Doctor Cadaverezzi taking first prizes in cleverest name, most outlandish costume and most complicated tool.
Once more, and for the last time this year, I’m sending you along to Calmgrove, to allow him the final word. And once you’ve seen the theme for #WitchWeek2024, you’ll understand my choice for today’s book spotlight.
First up, Bulgarian National Embroidery, collected by Rossitsa Choukanova and published in Sofia, 1957, features geometric and botanical designs, but an occasional beast appears, such as these:
Turtles? Snails? Camels? Horned spiders?
The combination of colors, shapes and patterns makes me want to pull out my silks and linens and start a new project.
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Next, I give you Heinz Edgar Kiewe’s Charted Folk Designs for Cross-Stitch Embroidery/From the Countries Along the Danube (1975). In this collection are scores of geometrics and botanicals, but also a large number of beasts, including ones that are specifically fantastical. The variety of patterns shows the influence of not just local tastes, but also designs borrowed from Western Asia. In the Introduction, Kiewe explains that “the migration of Islamic cross-stitch designs can be attributed to three causes, Pilgrimage, Pillage and Piracy, and to these we can add a fourth, Fascination.” Designs from Germany, Austria, Romania, Hungary, Italy and various regions of the former Yugoslavia fill this book. Three images suitable for Witch Week show peacocks, dragons, and a bird that is probably a rooster, but its dog-shaped head makes me want to call it a cockatrice.
Cockatrice, Transylvania
Sinuous dragons, Magyar design
Peacocks, with Tree of Life
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And finally, Kiewe’s 1964/1977 book of Charted Peasant Designs from Saxon Transylvania teems with magical beasts. I suspect that many people, when they hear “Transylvania”, think immediately of Count Dracula (tied, I hope, with Dr. Frank-N-Furter). In a helpful move, Kiewe provides this map showing migration routes for various influences on the designs. Looking at this map makes me wonder if Kiewe should, perhaps, add a fifth reason for the migration: conquest.
You can spot the Islamic, Persian and Magyar routes; reading beyond the edge of the map, there could be influences coming from even further east. But whatever the source of inspiration, these designs are glorious. In order of appearance in the gallery below, here are a dragon, two dragons at a fountain of life, a forest demon, a demon locust, and two gryphons “rampant”.
Once again, I have to fight the urge to start another sewing project. I particularly love the sense of humor that inspired someone to carefully sew a pattern of demon locusts onto her skirt. Embroidery to ward off evil!
All these designs should have put you in the mood for today’s Witch Week post, by Ola and Piotrek (of Re-Enchantment of the World), in which they examine mythical beasts in Slavic tales, with a particular focus on Andrzej Sapkowski’s Witcher series. You’ll find it here. Enjoy!
Before sending you to Calmgrove’s blog, I give you today’s spotlighted book: Lawrence Durrell’s 1947 novel, The Dark Labyrinth, in which a group of tourists hiking in a remote area of Crete enter a cave and can’t escape after a wall collapses behind them. The group, armed with torches (that soon die) and very little food, separates into couples and trios, each following different paths in their search for an outlet. Not all succeed.
It’s easy to guess which fabulous beast is featured here: Crete…. Labyrinth…. Humans….
So obvious, right?
But we never see the beast. At most, we hear its roars echoing down passageways. Or is that the sea crashing against the island?
Now that you’re in the mood, check out Chris’s review at Calmgrove of Brent Stypczynski’s analysis of werewolves in literature.
Endpaper banner (partial) with 2 trolls and 1 princess East of the Sun, West of the Moon by Kay Nielsen (1914/1976)
Today I’m all about trolls, the favorite baddie of Norse tales. The introduction to my edition of Kay Nielsen’s East of the Sun, West of the Moon explains that
Trolls can assume any shape, can be for instance many-headed, and terrible things can happen to them without the reader or the hero suffering qualms of conscience. In the folk consciousness, Trolls are synonymous with the blind forces of nature, with danger and ignorance, but with enormous strength and magic powers. In the process of their defeat and destruction, anything goes …. (p. xiv)
Over at Calmgrove, as part of our #WitchWeek2023 celebration, you’ll find a discussion of Victor LaValle’s The Changeling (2017), which puts a troll in New York City. LaValle’s descriptions aren’t as pretty as Nielsen’s illustrations, but then, they aren’t meant to be.
Illustration from “The Three Princesses in the Blue Mountain” Kay Nielsen (1914/1977)
Kay Nielsen (1886-1957) was a Norwegian artist who created some of the most beautiful Art Nouveau illustrations for children’s books. He was eventually drawn to Hollywood to work for Disney (the “Night on Bald Mountain” sequence from Fantasia is his work). You can learn more about Nielsen here.
But, back to the land of trolls: For one of the great comic fright movies, try to find André Øvredal’s Troll Hunter (Trolljegeren, 2010).
Today, a story for you. This comes from Memory of Fire: Genesis, Vol. 1 of Eduardo Galeano’s 3-volume history of Latin America (translated by Cedric Belfrage, 1985). The first section of Memory of Fire comprises Galeano’s versions of South American origin myths. Here is “The Jaguar”.
The jaguar was out hunting with bow and arrows when he met a shadow. He tried to catch it and couldn’t. He lifted his head. The master of the shadow was young Botoque of the Kayapó tribe, who was near death from hunger on top of a rock.
Botoque had no strength to move and could only just stammer a few words. The jaguar lowered his bow and invited him to a roast meat dinner in his house. Although the lad didn’t know what “roast” meant, he accepted and dropped on to the hunter’s back.
“You’re carrying some stranger’s child,” said the jaguar’s wife.
“He’s mine now,” said the jaguar.
Botoque saw fire for the first time. He got acquainted with the stone oven and the smell of roast taper and venison. He learned that fire illuminates and warms. The jaguar gave him a bow and arrows and taught him to defend himself.
One day Botoque fled. He had killed the jaguar’s wife.
He ran desperately for a long time and didn’t stop till he reached his village. There he told his story and displayed the secrets: the new weapon and the roast meat. The Kayapós decided to appropriate fire, and he led them to the remote house. Nothing was left to the jaguar of the fire except its reflection shining in his eyes.
Ever since then, the jaguar has hated men. For hunting, all he has are his fangs and claws, and he eats the flesh of his victims raw. (pp. 21-22)
And now, off you go to Calmgrove, where you’ll find today’s guest post from Mallika (of Literary Potpourri): an exploration of the Yeti in Tibet, in the footsteps of Tintin and Snowy. I hope you’re dressed warmly!
But before you go, Here’s another amuse bouche to whet your appetite for terrifying beasts. One of my favorite author/illustrators is Edward Gorey, whose sense of humor has appealed to me since my mother brought me Amphigorey in 1972. One of his most monstrous stories is The Beastly Baby, about a dangerous, revolting infant with absolutely no endearing qualities. The tale begins, “Once upon a time there was a baby. It was worse than other babies.”
Note Gorey’s assumption that babies are, in general, awful things to have around. This particular baby, however, is even worse. It’s body is bloated, one foot has too many toes and the other not enough, and it has two left hands. That’s just for starters. Things get much worse, as one would expect from Gorey. There seems to be no escaping this horrid thing, but trust Gorey to find a fitting end for the Beastly Baby.
Cover image Edward Gorey 1962
And now I send you to Calmgrove, where you’ll find the interview Lory (of of Entering the Enchanted Castle) conducted with Kiyash Monsef, author of the truly fabulous, monster-filled (and infant-free) Once There Was.
Over at Calmgrove, you’ll find the main event for today, my own guest post, about my favorite type of encyclopedia: Bestiaries!
But here, I’ll recommend one of the books I considered reviewing for #WitchWeek2023, A Monster Calls, by Patrick Ness (based on an idea by Siobhan Dowd). In it, a boy named Connor is visited at night by a terrifying monster, larger than a tree and just as powerful. Connor can’t escape its relentless pursuit, and it seems intent on destroying the boy’s life.
Yet this novel is not really about monsters. It’s about how what we fear can take over our lives. For Connor, his fear is so terrifying that he can’t bring himself even to name it, can’t even allow himself to think it.
The monster here is powerful, relentless, unstoppable. His true purpose, however, is unexpected, despite the violent acts he brings about. It’s a complex story, and not a happy one. You’ve been warned.
And now, I send you along to Calmgrove to learn about other types of monsters.
You’re almost there! Today, Chris at Calmgrove (where all the official stuff for #WitchWeek2023 is happening) provides you with a menu of what to expect for #WitchWeek2023/Cryptozoo, with the main events starting tomorrow.
But before you go:
One of my favorite books about ‘monsters’ is actually a trilogy: Ruth Stiles Gannett’s My Father’s Dragon (1948), Elmer and the Dragon (1950), and The Dragons of Blueland (1951). Perfect for read-aloud as well as for young readers. I loved these when I first discovered them, and, more than 60 years later, I’m still a huge fan. 2023 marks Gannett’s centenary, so it makes sense for me to lead off this celebration of fantasy with a tip of the hat to Ms. Gannett and her classic stories.
On the odd chance you don’t know this series: Nine-year-old Elmer Elevator (I love that name) travels to Tangerine to rescue Boris, a baby dragon trapped across a strait on Wild Island. Elmer brings chewing gum, lollipops, rubber bands, and several other crucial items, and, once across the strait, outwits crocodiles, wild boars, tigers, lions and other beasts to save the dragon. In the sequels, Boris flies Elmer back home (with a stop-over to help some canaries) and, in the final book, the two of them save Boris’s large dragon family from capture. There’s no magic involved, unless you count the very existence of dragons.
And now I send you off for the schedule of this week’s events, which you can find here.
One of my daily pleasures is completing a raft of puzzles available (for a subscription fee) from The New York Times. One of those is called Vertex, a sort of dot-to-dot puzzle by Burgess Voshell, but with more than one line originating from each dot. The task is to connect the dots to create an image. I complete each one, whether or not I can guess the end result before doing so.
This one, appearing 21 October, was easy to predict:
You recognize it as well, don’t you?
It’s so fitting to have this image present itself just a few days before the start of #WitchWeek2023, which I co-host with Chris on his blog at Calmgrove. This is the event’s 10th year of honoring Diana Wynne Jones and other authors of fantasy, sci-fi, and speculative fiction, and our theme is CRYPTOZOO, looking at fabulous monsters in literature old and new. You can therefore understand my surprise and pleasure at watching the image gradually evolve from circled numbers to, well, this:
All of the above is just to remind you of #WitchWeek2023, which begins 30 October with a brief overview of the week’s events. It’s going to be monstrously enjoyable, terribly entertaining, perhaps even fantastically educational! Join us!
“Trees are an invitation to think about time and to travel in it the way they do, by standing still and reaching out and down.” — Rebecca Solnit, Orwell’s Roses
Lizzie Ross 