Winter Solstice Book Sale

Season’s Greetings! I hope you’re all well, hanging in there and finding what peace you can in this unhinged world. By way of preserving my own sanity, I’m drinking coffee, listening to Seether turned up rather loud, and watching the sun descend into the trees at all of 2:30 in the afternoon, a hallmark of the upcoming winter solstice in this northern clime.

Winter Moon Raven, by F.T. McKinstryAside from the comforting idea of the sun emerging from the primordial darkness, one of the things I appreciate about the earth’s cycles is consistency. Whatever is going on, the sun rises, the sun sets, the moon waxes and wanes, and the solstices and equinoxes continue to mark the seasons. Barring some scifi cataclysm, this is something we can count on. It’s cold, it’s dark, but spring will come.

Our ancestors celebrated this, and so do we, in whatever way. Deep in our bones, we feel it. What better occasion for a book sale? Today through December 22nd, all five books in the Chronicles of Ealiron are on sale for $0.99 each. These books stand alone as individual stories that happen in the same world with some protagonists appearing throughout. Each book includes a map and a glossary.

Book One: The Hunter’s Rede. A swords-and-sorcery tale of one warrior’s transformation by the forces of war, wizardry, betrayal and love. In this tale, Lorth discovers his destiny when his homeland is occupied by a cruel warlord with no respect for the deeper powers of the world.

Book Two: The Gray Isles. Some fish stories should be taken seriously. Very seriously. In this story, Lorth sets off on a routine mission and is drawn into the cataclysmic fate of an Otherworld being that rules the sea.

Book Three: The Winged Hunter. An immortal hunter, a gardener, and some very naughty wizards. In this story Lorth must use his darker abilities to help two powerful wizards protect a maiden from a diabolical immortal predator bent on fulfilling a curse.

Book Four: The Riven God. His greatest challenge yet, Lorth falls afoul of a backwater monarchy stained by evil, a wayward princess, and a dark order of warlocks wreaking ruin. When the wizards declare war, the northern seas churn with unrest and a war god keeps his secrets.

Water Dark. In the calm, deep waters of the mind, the wolf waits. A tale of desire and deception told on a fairy-tale landscape of arcane texts, herbal lore, visions and disasters at the hands of the powerful. Water Dark is a standalone novella with a cameo appearance of Eaglin of Ostarin, a protagonist in the Chronicles of Ealiron.

These books are also available in paperback and on Kindle Unlimited.

Little Tree, by F.T. McKinstry

The following excerpt is from The Hunter’s Rede, during a winter solstice celebration in the great forested hall of Eusiron. Lorth, a.k.a. the hunter, our deadly protagonist, uses the wild and beautiful occasion as the ultimate distraction from a dark agenda indeed. You know, it only takes one asshole to ruin it for everybody.

The hunter padded through the forested hall of Eusiron, circling to the north, light and darkness merged to unholy intention as he blended with the trees.

Beautiful and strong, graceful as a hind, the Mistress ascended the dais in the center of the Ofthos. The hall fell silent, awaiting her. She raised her face to the sky twinkling with the constellation of Laerstroc, opened her arms and spoke in the Dark Tongue. The words summoned the stars, caressed the heavens and lay like a yielding lover beneath the loins of a hungry god. The hall grew winter-still as the night fell into the darkness of the longest night, the death of light and the silence of a dormant heartbeat. Then her voice changed and suddenly shifted. Gasps, sighs and smiles rippled over the hall as everyone felt the rebirth of the sun. As the Mistress’s voice echoed away, the top of Lorth’s head grew warm, as if light shone on it from the inside.

The hall erupted into cries of celebration. Deep, drumming music shook the floor. The priestesses spun away from their places and began to dance, moving like clouds of smoke. Many of the guests had left their seats and stood mingling and watching the dancers.

Setriana stood with Barenus near an ash tree on the northwestern corner of the Ofthos. In his altered state, Lorth no longer saw her human features; she wore the face of the Destroyer in full. But she was no match for him, friend to the wolves and child of the mountains. She had made her last mistake by crossing into his territory.

Calculating the distance between every face, hand, cloak, goblet and tree, he descended into the darkness of his heart, through the sinuous movements of women, fire, smoke and the rush and cry of music and voices. He went deeper, until he wept Leaf back to life, Setriana into a muddy grave and Barenus to his sword; he cast the Faerins from Os and the Tarthian-Anglorean war into a steel-slime wreckage of blood and dirt; he descended until he forgot Leda, her ivory breast and hollow eyes until finally, he settled like frost on Icaros, his hands clutched over the rastric bite on his heart.

He stopped with a breath. The Princess of Tarth appeared through a gap in the trees, her arms folded over her belly. Her wolfish face seemed to grin, causing Lorth’s rastric scar to burn. She paused and turned, slowly, and met the hunter’s gaze.

Lorth’s heart hesitated on the edge, like a drop of water creeping, swelling, then moving to its fall. Take great care when stirring the waters of Maern, for you may not understand the consequences. Darkness flowed through his hand and into the knife in his boot.

Barenus looked up. So did Eaglin, his expression impenetrable.

In a flash as swift as a bat, Lorth threw the blade. Barenus deflected it with his sword, but he was not fast enough to stop the blade from clipping his lover in the arm. Setriana screamed and fell to her knees, holding her shoulder.

The hall erupted into a surge of blades and cries as the High Guard took up arms.

The Raven of Eusiron towered to the heights like a storm casting living shadows.

If you are under attack by a wizard, think nothing.

Absurd advice. Icy wind cut through the hall, and the stars swirled like water. As Lorth attempted to gather himself in the darkness, he discovered he was not alone there. He collapsed to the floor as it joined the stars and consumed him.

Stay well and enjoy the holidays.

© F.T. McKinstry 2020. All Rights Reserved.

A Small Yet Complex Universe

The Kingdom. Enter at your peril.

Next to books and cats, keeping fishes is one of my greatest passions. When it comes to my aquarium, however, I am careful not to let my geeky, insufferable excitement trip into claiming I’m anything remotely resembling an expert. This is one of those The more I know, the less I know things.

An aquarium is an ecosystem, a small yet complex universe where everything is connected and working together to sustain and create life. I’ve learned more respect for the natural world by keeping aquariums than I have any other thing. Nature is mind-blowingly smart. She makes beautiful things look easy. In an aquarium, where every parameter (and there are lots of these) is up to the keeper, the slightest deviation can throw things out of balance, often to unfortunate results. It’s magical in that you’re amazed when things work, terrified when they don’t, and in either case you probably have no idea why.

My freshwater aquarium is full of live plants and as many critters as I can give homes to without causing Mother Nature to frown disapprovingly. And here comes the geeky part: you’re getting a tour, oh yes. Do stay on the path, lest something eat you like a shrimp flake.

Haunted Castle. I’ve had this castle for quite some time. It used to be dark with red roofs. Now it’s weathered, and looks especially creepy covered in black algae. Yeah don’t get me started on black algae. (Nature: 1; Faith: 0) Thankfully, my lovely snails eat the stuff (Nature: 1; Faith: 1), leaving the castle ghostly and abandoned but for the kuhlii loaches, who have special powers and aren’t afraid of ghosts. They like to prowl around in there and wriggle out the windows.

Enchanted Mountain. The natives will warn you about this place (see, there’s one up top, and you’d best heed him). Even the black algae avoids the mountain. (Nature: 1; Faith: 2) Lurking beneath a lush canopy of Cryptocoryne wendtii, the rock face rises toward the stars, whispering just below the threshold of hearing. The aliens hear it. The cave witch too, probably.

The Enchanted Mountain

Old Forest. Here is a tangled thicket you wouldn’t want to get lost in. The water wisteria (Hygrophila difformis) is hungry, crazy stuff, sending out roots everywhere which grow into more trees. The java fern (Leptochilus pteropus) in the corner grows on a weirdly shaped piece of driftwood that forms a cave network underneath. This is a popular place for wayward fishes to skulk or hook up. Maybe both. I’m not judging. What happens in the Old Forest stays in the Old Forest.

The Old Forest

Witch Cave. Deep within the Old Forest, this is the most dangerous place of all. The witch who lives here knows all your demons, and if you’re mad enough to go see her, she’ll summon them. Those plants guarding the opening will close around you. They have teeth and eyes, you know. Fishes have been known to go into the cave and never come out. True story. (Nature: 2; Faith: 2)

Ferocious Dragon. Well, he’s not actually that ferocious, lurking there next to the Witch Cave. His name is Desmond, and he’s friends with the witch. The algae eaters keep him looking spiffy, and the toothy plants tell him stories. The snails like him, too. Desmond is an all around good guy, really. For a dragon.

 

From left to right: Bristlenose, Nerite Snail, Kuhlii

Bristlenose Catfish (Ancistrus cirrhosus). This is a beautiful, industrious little fish with a big ventral suckermouth and these gnarly, fleshly tentacles on its snout. It looks prehistoric, and probably is. It’s cool to catch the beastie on the glass, where you can see the inner workings of its mouth. If you’re into such things.

Nerite Snails (Neritina natalensis). These interesting creatures move very slowly, when they move at all (they actually sleep), creeping along over everything and keeping it clean. They have powers of teleportation. No kidding, you can be watching one snailing over the glass in the corner, look away for two minutes and swoop! that sucker is clear on the other side of the tank and you’ve no idea how it got there. Sneaky.

Kuhlii Loach (Pangio kuhlii). How I love these critters. The kuhlii looks like a little eel with gills, fins and tiny, beady eyes. They are shy, peaceful creatures, and have no scales as such, making them sensitive to changes in the aforementioned water parameters (Nature: 3; Faith: 2), but this gives them their special powers. They are bottom feeders, and slither around beneath the plants and driftwood, and in the caves. They are also known to hang out in the Witch Cave, where they snack on demons.

The rest of the fishes, I love dearly of course, but I won’t wear out my welcome like an introvert at a party who gets started talking about books or scifi horror movies or something. So I’ll swim away for now. May you all stay well, and don’t overfeed the fish (Nature: 5678042; Faith: 2).

© F.T. McKinstry 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Forests and the Art of Metaphor

Forest at Twilight, Gustave Doré

And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul. ― John Muir

I recently saw an image of a tangled forest and thought, “Wow, that feels like the inside of my head.” Then I started to think about that.

The forest is a rich and venerable metaphor for the unconscious, a wild realm where the sun and moon cast shadows indiscernible from the shapes to which they belong; where sound travels strangely and without reference; where creatures can be of this world or the other. Storytellers figured this out a very long time ago, and psychology took it from there, recognizing the nature of forests in the human psyche, complete with predators, hungry roots and vines, mist, vanishing paths, will ‘o the wisps, terror and awe.

Silvery Trees by F.T. McKinstry

The fantasy genre, one step away from fairy tales, if that, is the singular province of the dense, hoary wood. Having written fantasy in one form or another for the better part of my life (and I’m not young), I don’t think I’ve ever written a story without a forest in it somewhere, filled with whispers, prowling things, assassins, spies, fugitives, hidden temples, witches, immortal predators, goblins, phooka, draugr and the like. The forest symbolizes the infinite and inscrutable realm of the unknown, assuming one is brave — or daft — enough to venture in. Of course, there’s always a price to pay for such heroics. But who listens? Fairy tale protagonists are notoriously foolish — as are we all, innocent one moment and facing the monstrous forces of the soul the next.

The rule of thumb is, one finds in the wood what one brings there.

Just the wind…

Psychologically speaking, everyone knows the spooky forest. You can’t be human and not know this. When your life falls apart, when trauma or grief plows into you and shatters your general sense of who, where, or what you are, when you lose your bearings in the unsettling twilight of change, it’s like being lost in an old dark forest, the domain of shadows, tricksters and things that don’t have your best interests in mind. Unnerving enough by day but unthinkable at night, the forest will convince you that there’s no way out. It is a living, breathing being in which you are a tiny thing.

The spooky forest metaphor happens at the collective level, too. Let’s take 2020. For whatever reason — and there’s a fucking Halloween bag full of theories about that — this year was a perfect storm of unfortunate events all tangled up together for the seeming purpose of bringing out the worst in humanity — and I mean all of it, whatever side you’re on. It feels like a bleak, old haunted forest where everyone is lost, confused, and thoroughly pissed off, darting and stumbling around screaming and pumping rounds into anything that moves. Like all fairy tale forests, this one has no gate, no path, only shadows and mirrors. And the only way out is to face down both within ourselves. Put another way:

If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is in you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you. – Gospel of Thomas

The Fairy Pool, ca. 1850 by Narcisse Virgile Diaz de la Peña

It’s not all gloom and doom, of course. If you’re clever, curious, brave and respectful (rude fairy tale protagonists always get their comeuppance), you might befriend an owl or a fox who knows all paths, or be helped by an old witch who decides the trolls don’t need a snack today, or you might step into a golden ray of sun that finds its way through the canopy to give you hope.

Whatever you do, don’t go waving around an axe or a torch. Because, you know, Fangorn.

© F.T. McKinstry 2020. All Rights Reserved.

Summer’s End Book Sale

Omnibus Cover

This weekend only! Through August 23, 2020
Chronicles of Ealiron Omnibus on sale for $2.99!
Get four books for the price of one.

Winter is coming. I like saying that at this time of year, when the shadows feel weird, the days get shorter and the nights get cold. Winter is a serious affair, here. So what better time for a book sale? The wolves know.

An ancient hierarchy of wizards. Votaries of the old powers. Warlords, fiends and shadows. Introducing the Omnibus Edition of the Chronicles of Ealiron, where the otherworld is alive, nature is sovereign and balance is kept by the sword.

These tales are driven by an assassin named Lorth of Ostarin, a complex character with a bent towards bringing things to their darkest ends. Following his redoubtable exploits, each book stands alone, happening in the same world with Lorth and some of the other characters appearing throughout.

The Omnibus Edition includes Books 1-4, maps and glossaries.

“The main character Lorth is a masterpiece.” – Customer review, Amazon

1060 pages
Maps of Ealiron

Amazon
Barnes & Noble
iTunes
Kobo

Book One: The Hunter’s Rede. A swords-and-sorcery tale of one warrior’s transformation by the forces of war, wizardry, betrayal and love. In this tale, Lorth discovers his destiny when his homeland is occupied by a cruel warlord with no respect for the deeper powers of the world.

Book Two: The Gray Isles. Some fish stories should be taken seriously. Very seriously. In this story, Lorth sets off on a routine mission and is drawn into the cataclysmic fate of an Otherworld being that rules the sea.

Book Three: The Winged Hunter. An immortal hunter, a gardener, and some very naughty wizards. In this story Lorth must use his darker abilities to help two powerful wizards protect a maiden from a diabolical immortal predator bent on fulfilling a curse.

Book Four: The Riven God. His greatest challenge yet, Lorth falls afoul of a backwater monarchy stained by evil, a wayward princess, and a dark order of warlocks wreaking ruin. When the wizards declare war, the northern seas churn with unrest and a war god keeps his secrets.

The individual books in The Chronicles of Ealiron are also available in paperback and on Kindle Unlimited.

© F.T. McKinstry 2020. All Rights Reserved.

COVID-19 and the Art of Suffering

John Singer Sargent – The Hermit

“No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell.” ― Carl Jung

Introvert, Empath, HSP, INFJ. Ten years ago I had no clear idea of what any of that was. I’d come to think of myself as a tormented artist, “complicated” or, for lack of anything specific, fucked up beyond redemption. Suffering became an art form, a spiritual practice, a Dark Ages approach people sometimes adopt to give meaning to their lives, if not redemption. After way too many years of this, I decided the suffering-is-holy thing is crap. Spin. Like believing that sinking (or floating) in water proves you’re a witch — until the erudite town elder tells you to stop being a moron.

There is nothing especially holy about suffering. There is no backup, no rescue. Suffering is life, consciousness, and as such meant to be fully experienced. We have to go through to come out; we have to release old things to give new things a place to grow. Nature understands this (I rarely do, until I’m buried in shit). Like a virus, chaos runs its course with or without us and when we emerge, we’ve changed. Or something like that.

Enter the 21st century. Energy sensitivity no longer falls into that nebulous gray area between psychology and airy fairy woo woo. Those aforementioned enigmatic terms are all over the place now. We have books, articles, studies, and Facebook pages full of platitudes and self-identification mantras. “I’m an empath. I see this and feel that. Be nice to me, I’m sensitive. Watch out, I’m reading your shallow ass.” The INFJ ones are even worse. My inner curmudgeon is easily irritated by and properly skeptical of that nonsense. In true INFJ fashion, I scowl thinking that splattering those claims out there insults and defies the very thing. Don’t mess with my shadows. Leave my scar collection alone. Get off my lawn.

Having said that, I also have an intimate, if not compassionate appreciation for that basic human need to be seen and understood. Well, sometimes. On my terms. Ok never mind, you get the idea.

What I do have reverence for — and to be fair, the memes have a place in this — is information and understanding. Science. Research. Clinical studies. Open-mindedness. Awareness. Everything is energy; everything is connected; we are all part of the whole. No matter where on the radio dial you are, we all know the natural terror of feeling we’re at the mercy of something we don’t understand, and I think the terror comes because everything is connected, and not the other way around. How would you know there is a bigger picture unless something seemingly “out there” came along and sucker punched you out of your comfort zone? Interconnection isn’t a theory anymore. Those 10,000 year old shamans had this figured out, and science is catching up.

Enter COVID-19. When this broke open and fear swept over the planet, I started having panic attacks. I was abysmally depressed, physically weakened, freaked out, spun up for no reason, bursting into tears, my whole body fighting a deluge. Then I realized that while getting information and trying to make sense out of things, I had opened all my circuits and got fried. Finally, I remembered what I had learned in my extensive travels through hell. High-pass filter: ON.

Like many of my kind, I no more worried about social distancing than a fish would worry about being banned to water. Just another day in my weird universe. But then this other thing happened. Scanning my social networking threads, I began to feel a deep connection to people. Normally, I swing like a pendulum between this brilliant sensation of oneness with humanity — and a full-on belief that people are shit and a Deathstar would the best fucking thing that ever happened to this forsaken planet.

Ahh, but this breakthrough put those extremes into balance, didn’t it? Suddenly, my ridiculous and often crippling sensitivity became a vehicle, a bridge joining humanity in all its glory: fear, malcontent, anger, insecurity, suffering, abandonment; but also love, empathy, compassion, cooperation, appreciation and humor.

Ergo, I feel less alone than I ever have.

Stay safe, and hang in there. We’ll get through this.

© F.T. McKinstry 2020. All Rights Reserved.

In Praise of Yule and the Winter Warlock

Winter Light

Winter Light


Merry Yule!

I confess, Christmas didn’t mean much to me as a kid. Family issues, religion and commercialism left me disillusioned. Ironically, my sensitive tendencies made me an accomplished shapeshifter when the need arose, allowing me to wear a happy kid face on the surface of a shadowy river of sadness. It wasn’t all bad, of course. I liked the music and the lights. But something was missing.

This was before the internet and the mainstream resurgence of things like Wicca, the old gods, and honoring one’s ancestry. I don’t think anyone ever explained the winter solstice to me, let alone its meaning in a spiritual context. I grew up in Houston, it was hot, and every day looked a lot like the next. A spark flickered in my heart when I touched the pagan roots of this season, even if it was only a Christmas classic about places that had snow, reindeer and spruce trees. I loved those stop motion animation specials like Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town, with the snowy mountains, elves, little friendly helpful animals, the Winter Warlock, the monster trees, the Burgermeister Meisterburger and the 1960s swirly stoner graphics. I wanted all the stories about love and light to be true, even as I buckled under the stress that came with the very thing.

So I left home first chance I got and came north. Over the years I continued my emotional salvage operation, even after I had abandoned religion, turned to the natural world and amassed a library of books about things that kept the spark alive and helped me grow into my nature like a rooting tree. But I soon discovered that many “pagan” systems, while engaging, were missing something too.

Dark Mountains

Everyone wants to be a witch until it’s time to do witch shit. I’m not talking about setting up altars, growing herbs, gathering magical tools and praying to the old gods. That’s all cool, it creates a space, an atmosphere, a place to focus one’s intentions, much like going to church is to others. It has a purpose. But I still felt empty. I wanted connection. I wanted to be the thing and lo! oh dear if that desire didn’t put me right into the shadowy river of sadness. It was still there, sapping my light, even as I gazed into a candle on Yule to honor the return of the sun.

Then I learned something. It began with the idea that everything is connected, a popular idea now. But it’s easy to blur an idea like that into something nebulous, even impracticable, because it has such far-reaching implications. I came into December this year on a leaky raft of depression and doom that no holiday cheer could lighten; wave after wave of it, as if something had tuned my radio dial into all the sorrows of the world and the seeming hopelessness of another long winter. I cried a lot. I wanted to die. The darkness was crushing me. Until, at some point, remembering myself, I stopped and said, Where is this coming from?

Then I realized I was riding a wave that had its roots in my blood, in the bark of spruce trees, snowflakes, bears, wolves and love too, binding it all together even as it drew me into the void along with every sad and toxic pattern in my heart, my body, the projects I’m too afraid to start, some heartbreak or another, a belief in worthlessness, the white hair in the shower drain. All flowing down into the darkness of the longest night, one of the countless, elegant ways nature releases the old to the new. The rebirth of the sun. It’s one thing to celebrate that as the beautiful thing it is; it’s another when the shift is happening in the self, inexorably, in sync, as if beckoned. Everything is connected.

Witch shit happens.

Wishing you and yours all the love and light of the season in whatever way you keep it. Blessed Be!

 
 
© F.T. McKinstry 2019. All Rights Reserved.

The Stories We Tell Ourselves

My demons are clever…because I help them.

I can turn anything into a story. I wander around here muttering to myself, spinning past, present and future events into stories like an old spider in a web. I make them beautiful, awe inspiring, and terrible. Some of it wanders into books I’m brooding on. Some of it I torment myself with. And some is just debris rushing down a swollen tidal bore. It’s creative, and it’s therapy. Stories reveal the essence of a thing, frame it in such a way or that, and help us to cope or understand.

I love my therapist. She has wild, white curly hair, an ornery laugh, and a dark side worthy of a crone in a fairy tale. Whenever I present one of my well-crafted descriptions of some personal demon or other, she grins and says, “That’s quite a story you’ve got there.” And we laugh, because I’ve given my demons an identity, a kingdom, power of attorney, and then carved my story in stone like a gargoyle on a cathedral roof. I’d be better off going in there with a finger up my nose. Because as any writer will tell you, no story is cast in stone.

So what’s real? If neuroscientists and quantum physicists would have their say, it’s not what you think. My therapist recently told me that when we experience something, the details of that experience begin to shift and fade in our memory after 20 minutes. Then our imaginations step in to fill in the gaps. Think about that. Twenty minutes. Now slap on a decade or three. What’s real now? Not that old memory, I don’t think. But the emotion around it convinces us that the story is real. Well. Yes and no.

Painting illustrates this nicely. Years ago, I was out in the woods and saw a trout lily blooming near the path. A beautiful thing. So I took a picture for something to paint. When I started the painting, I didn’t bother with the photo, I just went with how the experience felt. The result has nothing to do with that photo; it contains infinite impressions from somewhere else. The same is true of my memory of totaling my truck on a creepy wooded road in upstate NY, drunk and stoned out of my fucking mind. Or that argument I had with my mother about her meatloaf recipe. Just stories. I’ve long since lost the photos.

Trout Lily, by F.T. McKinstry

Trout Lily, by F.T. McKinstry

We live in an infinite sea of stories, alive and breathing, independent of time and space. It’s an open system, always in motion, always seeking balance. I read fantasy novels as a kid that changed the trajectory of my life and saved me from becoming a teenage suicide statistic. Were those stories “real?” Depends on who you ask. To me, they were. Not only that, those stories mean something different to every person who reads them — and they are just as real.

Middle Earth

Map of Middle Earth by J.R.R. Tolkien

Point is, if you can write a story, you can change it. And if you listen, the story will often rewrite itself…and then healing happens. I’ll end with one of those.

Little Tree, by F.T. McKinstry

The Rosemary Plant

Once upon a time, in the spring, when my heart yearns to grow things, I spotted a pack of rosemary seeds in a nursery. Lovely. I brought the seeds home and planted them.

Rosemary BloomsWell, for some reason, the rosemary seeds did not start easily; it took time and effort to get them to sprout. But they did, and one of them got strong and began to grow. It’s cold here, and my gardens are no place for a rosemary plant, so I brought it inside for the winter and put it in a sunny window. In late spring, I took my new baby back outside to bask in the warm, fresh air for the summer.

So it was for many years, and the rosemary got big, with long gnarled limbs and bark like a tree. It bloomed a few times. In summer, it lived on the back porch where it was greeted each morning by the rising sun. In winter, it took up the whole bottom half of the window. It had a soul, my rosemary plant, like sun, wind, river stones and healing mysteries. When I talked to it, it talked back. Sitting outside in the morning, we discussed all kinds of things. Beautiful things.

Last summer’s end, when the shadows grew long and the wind whispered of darker things, my rosemary plant grew silent. Puzzled, I brought it inside as usual, and placed it in the window. But something was wrong. As fall descended in the mountains, my rosemary fell too.

There was no discernible reason for this, as far as I knew. But I knew nothing, and never had that been so evident. I fretted, puttered, and despaired as the rosemary leaves, once grayish green, thick and fragrant, began to shrivel and turn brown. I combed the internet for everything I could learn from those who did know, and when that didn’t help, I prayed to the Soul of Rosemary flourishing in the halls of the Great Earth Mother. A comforting image with no shadow, that. It was like trying to stop the setting sun. Nothing had changed, and yet everything changed, until at last, without a word, my friend left me.

Baby RosemaryI did remember that life is infinite and her cycles never-ending, though grief doesn’t tend to care about such platitudes. Even so, I had managed to get some cuttings, which I put into water to root. In time — a long time — some of them did. Heartened, I let the pale, tender roots get strong, and then I planted the sprouts in a pot and gave them a sunny place by my desk where I can look after them. The plant still feels fragile, with strong places and weak ones, as if it’s not yet certain it wants to be here.

I know the feeling. But as rosemary taught me, some things must stay in the dark for a long time before they’re ready to come into the light.

© F.T. McKinstry 2019. All Rights Reserved.

Chronicles of Ealiron Omnibus

Omnibus Cover

An ancient hierarchy of wizards. Votaries of the old powers. Warlords, fiends and shadows. Introducing the Omnibus Edition of the Chronicles of Ealiron, where the otherworld is alive, nature is sovereign and balance is kept by the sword.

These tales are driven by an assassin named Lorth of Ostarin, a complex character with a bent towards bringing things to their darkest ends. Following his redoubtable exploits, each book stands alone, happening in the same world with Lorth and some of the other characters appearing throughout.

The Omnibus Edition includes Books 1-4, maps and glossaries.

“The main character Lorth is a masterpiece.” – Customer review, Amazon

1060 pages
Maps of Ealiron

Amazon

Banner all WP long

Book One: The Hunter’s Rede. A swords-and-sorcery tale of one warrior’s transformation by the forces of war, wizardry, betrayal and love. In this tale, Lorth discovers his destiny when his homeland is occupied by a cruel warlord with no respect for the deeper powers of the world.

Book Two: The Gray Isles. Some fish stories should be taken seriously. Very seriously. In this story, Lorth sets off on a routine mission and is drawn into the cataclysmic fate of an Otherworld being that rules the sea.

Book Three: The Winged Hunter. An immortal hunter, a gardener, and some very naughty wizards. In this story Lorth must use his darker abilities to help two powerful wizards protect a maiden from a diabolical immortal predator bent on fulfilling a curse.

Book Four: The Riven God. His greatest challenge yet, Lorth falls afoul of a backwater monarchy stained by evil, a wayward princess, and a dark order of warlocks wreaking ruin. When the wizards declare war, the northern seas churn with unrest and a war god keeps his secrets.

The individual books in The Chronicles of Ealiron are also available in paperback and on Kindle Unlimited.

© F.T. McKinstry 2019. All Rights Reserved.

A Bookish Thank You!

Happy Thanksgiving!

I am thankful for many things…a purring cat, the thriving rosemary cuttings on the windowsill, the handwritten, wax sealed letter I got from my best geek buddy. Oh, and the big wood pile on the porch (it’s -1F out). When I think about it, I can make a long list. But today, in celebration of Thanksgiving, I would like to thank everyone who has supported me in any way–following, tweeting, sharing, shouting, viewing, promoting, reading, reviewing–by offering the entire Chronicles of Ealiron for $0.99 each. First time ever.

This is epic fantasy old school: swords and sorcery, wizards, immortal creatures, gods, and a complex magical system of correspondences between trees, birds, color, sound, geometric patterns and energies deep in the earth. Votaries of the old powers work the forces of nature inherent in the cycles of life, death and transformation.

These stories are driven by an assassin named Lorth of Ostarin, a complex character with a bent towards bringing things to their darkest ends. These books stand alone as individual stories that happen in the same world with Lorth and some of the other characters appearing throughout. The ebooks include links to high resolution maps and a glossary.

The Chronicles of Ealiron is also on Kindle Unlimited.

The Hunter’s Rede
The Gray Isles
The Winged Hunter
The Riven God
Water Dark

“The main character Lorth is a masterpiece.”

“Reminiscent of Michael Moorcock in his Elric saga.”

“Without a doubt one of the best books I’ve ever read.”

“Lorth is a great character, reminiscent of such pulp heroes as Conan, Elric, and Fafhrd.”

“Wow. Gorgeous. Highly recommended.”

“Set in a world that is one of the most detailed I’ve seen in quite some time.”

“The Chronicles of Ealiron is my absolute favorite series.”

Little Tree, by F.T. McKinstry

Thank you again. And again. You guys rock.

© F.T. McKinstry 2018. All Rights Reserved.

Weighing In: LGBTQ Characters in Fantasy

I grew up in the 70s in Houston, Texas, in a relatively old neighborhood near Rice University. Across the street lived a couple named Bob and John. My mother once told me they were married. Looking back, I’ve realized that couldn’t have been true in a legal sense, but at the time I didn’t question it. Bob was a radiologist and John was an animal trainer. Their house was decorated in rich colors and full of antiques and interesting artifacts. They had an old cat, a pair of ferrets and a cockatiel, and their tiny backyard was a jungle of exotic plants. When they went on vacation, I had the honor of taking care of their plants and critters; and when we went away, Bob and John returned the favor. They were awesome and I loved them.

I ate, drank and slept fantasy novels as a kid. It was sanity; it was identity. My first experience of LGBTQ in the genre was Elizabeth A. Lynn’s Chronicles of Tornor. Many of the characters were LGBTQ, and I liked how it was presented, as a matter of fact. Like Bob and John. A big deal wasn’t made of it one way or the other.

Eaglin of Ostarin

Eaglin of Ostarin

When I started writing fantasy, I unthinkingly followed suit. I wasn’t purposefully drafting LGBTQ characters or anything. When it comes to writing, I’m one of those whack jobs who needs to take every step in darkness and see where it leads. And as any author will tell you, characters have a life of their own. They are who they are, straight, queer or whatever. I suspect trying to assign or remove identity would no more work than it would on a flesh and blood person.

When characters with LGBTQ inclinations do appear to me, however subtle, casual or intense–mortals, immortals, elves, warriors, prostitutes, spies, whoever–they do so without taboos or religions trying to shut them down. They might be good or evil or somewhere in between, but their sexual preferences aren’t singled out, marginalized or labeled, let alone persecuted. This isn’t to say horrible things don’t happen to them, or that some jerk won’t take a shot there for lack of something better, but that sort of intolerance is not part of the culture. Frankly? There’s enough of that bullshit in this world, and I’m not about to map it into mine beyond the throes of love, lust and heartache that everyone deals with. So you’re a man and you prefer to fuck men? Huzzah for you. Grab a sword, we have incoming.

Anyway, a protagonist will step up now and then. Here are a few mentions.

Water Dark Cover Art“Love knows all paths, where even gods and cats are blind.” – from Water Dark

My first LGTBQ character, so dear to my heart, is named Urien. He belongs to the highest order of the Keepers of the Eye, a hierarchical order of wizards who maintain balance in the world of Ealiron. Among other things, Urien can shapeshift into flora, fauna, earth, or fog, and he can cast an apparition or merge with the minds of gods. For years, he has haunted the fringe after having loved and lost a powerful male wizard on the verge of ascension. But such secrets do not hide well. When he delves into the darker powers at the bidding of a shady priestess with a hidden agenda, Urien finds himself facing the loss of everything he loves.

Fortunately, his erstwhile lover has a secret, too.

Little Tree, by F.T. McKinstry

“On soft white pads, he slipped unseen into the trees to the singing of blades and the shudder of the earth drinking blood.” – From “Deathseer”

Liros is the protagonist in “Deathseer,” a short story included in the collection Wizards, Woods and Gods. The commander of an occupying force in a foreign land ruled by the presence of a mysterious alien observatory, Liros has the ability to see the hand of Death, a secret he hides for the sake of sanity, as his commanders would stop at nothing to use it to their own ends.

When a terrible dream drives Liros to check on an outpost, his lords send his lover Thorn, an assassin, to accompany him. Liros knows him well enough keep him close. As Liros’s gift betrays him and exposes a devastating breach of honor by his men, he and Thorn must choose between duty and love, both choices involving bloody consequences.

Little Tree, by F.T. McKinstry

“Arcmael handed the charm to the sorcerer. Leofwine studied it intently, his face drawn. After a moment he said, ‘This is old magic. Very old.'” – From Outpost

Leofwine Klemet is seneschal to the High Constable of the King’s Rangers. Knowing that the quiet, watchful man’s duties to their lord involve something more intimate than those of a seneschal, the rangers suspect Leofwine is a spy belonging to a dark and ancient sorcerers’ brotherhood. So does the suspicious, vengeful high constable. After fleeing for his life on the eve of war, Leofwine becomes a friend and ally to a ranger who also gets on the wrong side of the high constable after discovering a plot behind a curtain of sorcery. Here, Leofwine’s arcane knowledge comes in handy–for he is a sorcerer, of course. And a spy. But no one needs to know about that.

Little Tree, by F.T. McKinstry

“Leofwine breathed a foul string of words, the blood on his body and the void of his lover’s death giving them form, the culmination of spit, roots, hate and tears, eyes that never closed, hunger that was never sated. A sudden gale rose up from the north and whipped the trees into a frenzy.” – From The Wolf Lords

In The Wolf Lords, Leofwine’s full potential is revealed, complete with a host of demons, torments and nasty enemies. An adept sorcerer of the Fenrir Brotherhood, Leofwine has given up espionage and now serves a hall in a remote forest as a protector of their interests. It is a thankless job but for his lover, a prince, and shelter from his enemies, both mortal and immortal.

Fenrir sorcerers tend to have long shadows, and Leofwine is no exception. When his enemies catch up to him (which enemies always do) and reveal a devastating secret involving someone he holds dearer than life, Leofwine goes berserk and summons a demon capable of destroying the entire realm in a maelstrom of blood. This redoubtable act gains Leofwine not only the condemnation of his order but also the title of Wolf Lord, a wry designation used by otherworldly beings such as demonic warlords and sea witches to refer to the servants of Loki.

And this is only the beginning of his troubles.

Little Tree, by F.T. McKinstry

The Chronicles of Ealiron
The Fylking
Wizards, Woods and Gods

© F.T. McKinstry 2018. All Rights Reserved.