.png "Dancing Vampires Cornelia Amiri Genre: Fantasy Romance Publisher: Cornelia Amiri Date of Publication: April 30, 2017 ISBN: 1545309116 ASIN: B06ZZS5S8R Number of pages: 422 Word Count: 111,673 Cover Artist: Kyra Starr Tagline: Remember when you were having the best day ever and, in a flash, it turned into the worst one?")
Samhain—Halloween’s
Alluring Ancestor
Samhain, (sow-in) is the Celtic New Year, and it falls from October 31st to
November 1st. It was also a magical day. The ancient Celts believed that since
Samhain fell between the old year and the new, it was a day without time. That
diminished the veil between the earthly and the ethereal (the worlds of mortals
and immortal—the dead and the living).
We get many of our modern Halloween traditions from ancient Samhain lore.
To celebrate the new year, the ancient Celts feasted on freshly picked turnips,
apples, and hazelnuts, and left plates of delectable food, mead, and treats out
for their ghostly kin visiting from across the veil for Samhain.
Let’s talk about those turnips. The ancient Celts also masterfully sculptured
mangel-wurzels, a hearty turnip, to look like skulls, and placed candles inside
to light them within. Sounds like the modern-day tradition of jack-o’-lanterns,
doesn’t it?
And those apples. They were as big a part of Samhain as today’s caramel apples,
candy apples, and bobbing apples. But on Samhain, you had to keep your apples away
from pucas. Those mischievous, shapeshifting fey would spoil any apples left
after the feast. Even now, I’d think twice before biting into an apple plucked
post-Halloween. A sneaky puca might be lurking around.
And what about hazelnuts? It was believed they gave wisdom and vigour to anyone
who ate them. Maybe I should eat a handful of two on Halloween to seek ancient
insight.
But the ancient Celts weren’t vegetarians, a big part of the Samhain feast was
boiled and roasted meat. As autumn bid farewell, livestock not fit for winter’s
chill met their fate, ensuring a table heaped with rich meats. And to wash it
down? Nothing less than the most intoxicating ale or mead.
But the feast was just part of the rowdy Samhain festival. The Celts also
celebrated with lively games, from thrilling hurling matches to exhilarating
horse races.
The main event of the evening was the massive, roaring bonfire. In Ireland, the
druids ensured that each year, when the sun went down on the hill of Tlachtga
(Hill of Ward) about 12 miles from Tara, they ignited the grandest fire—its
flames reaching out to the inky night freckled with sparkling stars and crowned
by a silver crescent moon.
.png "Dancing Vampires Cornelia Amiri Genre: Fantasy Romance Publisher: Cornelia Amiri Date of Publication: April 30, 2017 ISBN: 1545309116 ASIN: B06ZZS5S8R Number of pages: 422 Word Count: 111,673 Cover Artist: Kyra Starr Tagline: Remember when you were having the best day ever and, in a flash, it turned into the worst one?")
“What?” Mordak asked. Me? Love a human? Of course not. “By
the goddess, you’ve lost your minds. I just want this one’s blood for myself.
Run along, get your own. We’ll meet at the portal before dawn.”
“See you back at the cairn.” Fuamnach tilted her chin in
the air and vanished.
Aithbhreac disappeared as well.
Mordak shifted her eyes back to the mortal. His mere
presence commanded attention. What would be wrong with having a tryst with him?
Goddess Morrigan has affairs with humans all the time.
I thought they’d never leave. She fixed her gaze on the
tall, striking man, and swinging her hips in a saucy fashion, she sauntered
toward him. As she “drew near him, she batted her eyelashes and flashed a smile
to draw him in. Dancing with him would be even more fun than usual.
A noisy, whoosh-like, shaking sound caught her attention.
What now? She gasped with shock. This cannot be.
Three women descended from the ebony sky with the wings on
their bronze helmets flapping like a bird’s.
What is happening? She hadn’t drunk any heather ale today.
“The vanilla-blond women landed smoothly on their feet, the wings stopped
flapping and laid back on their helmets, now totally still. All three women
glared at her with glacier blue eyes.
Her palms were damp with sweat, she felt shaky. The
earthly realm was such a crazy place. Why did she send her sisters away? She
needed them now. Whoever or whatever these tall creatures in plate armor
corselets, flimsy white skirts and fur-topped boots were, they weren’t smiling
at her.
She noticed the human checking out the women from the rear
and glancing at her as well. He had a huge grin on his face, as if his dreams
had come true. Mordak, however, faced a nightmare.
The statuesque blonde in the center tilted her chin in the
air. “The man is mine.”
“Yours?” Anger pulsated through Mordak’s body. “He’s not
yours.”
People couldn’t just fly down from who knows where and
claim the man she liked. Mordak schooled her face into composure and met the
woman’s gaze. “Just who or what…are you?”
“Randgrid.” The tallest of the blondes didn’t break her stare,
not even one blink. “I am a Valkyrie.”
With a thin, tight-lipped expression, she set her hand on her hip. “Be gone,
baobhan sith.”
“Me. No, no…you’re the one in the wrong place.” Mordak
shook her hand at the Valkyrie. “This is Scotland, not Denmark or Valhalla or
wherever you think you are.”
“He’s a Gunn.” Randgrid jerked her head toward the man.
“So, he is ours.”
“Of Clan Gunn?” She glared at the silly woman in the
winged helmet. “The word clan is the whole point. He’s Scottish. He’s mine.”
Randgrid and her two sisters said together, “Gunn is the
point. The descendant of a Viking hero is ours.”
Dracula
and His Creator
You can never go wrong with a vampire costume for Halloween. It’s an all-time
favourite. And the popular ones are always Draculaesque versions.
As writers and readers, let’s think about that for a moment. Bram Stoker died
in April 1912, so, over a hundred years ago his fictionalized
character—Dracula—is still the most famous vampire in history. And there has
been a lot of competition, especially in the 21st century—Wrath, Lestat, Bill
Compton, Edward, the brothers: Stefan and Damon, as well as others.
So, why does this character, written over 100 years ago, still stand strong? He
was villainous to the core, but we are still drawn to him. Why is that? What
did Bram Stoker put into Dracula’s character work to make this monster tick?
Did Bram put some of himself into Dracula? Do we see some of ourselves in the
monster as well?
Let’s do a few comparisons between Bram and Drac.
Many Stoker biographers reported he died of syphilis. It’s easy to see the
similarities between vampirism and a disease like syphilis and imagine the
guilt and concern Bram was burdened with over possibly infecting his wife.
Bram Stoker married actress Florence Balcombe in 1878. She was previously
engaged to Oscar Wilde. From all accounts, she and Bram shared a deep love for
each other. We see those intense emotions written into Jonathan’s feelings for
Mina.
Also, Bram Stoker tied his own Irish heritage into his character and the story.
Since Dracula is Eastern European, you may not have noticed the author’s Celtic
roots in the story, but I assure you they are there. Stoker actually wrote his
first draft of Dracula while he was a guest at Slains. The Slain Castle in
Aberdeenshire Scotland, is often considered an inspiration for Dracula’s castle
in the book.
On his mother’s side, Bram Stoker was a direct descendent of ’Manus O’Donnell
(Manus ‘the Magnificent), the Irish clan chief, who led a rebellion against
Henry VIII in the 16th century.
So, Dracula’s backstory of a man with a great past as a warrior and ruler, now
displaced by the passage of history, living in the shadows, is also the
backstory of Bram Stoker’s ancestry.
It has been said that as a little boy in Ireland, Bram Stoker’s mother often
told him stories, including scary tales. They must have included Irish folklore. There are many tales of dark vampiric fey in Celtic mythology. These dark
fey are often extremely beautiful and seductive. The vampiric fey, the baobhan
sith, always roamed together as sisters. In Dracula, Bram Stoker’s description
of the three sisters in the vampire’s castle seems similar to dark Celtic fey.
Two were dark, and had high aquiline noses, like the Count, and great dark,
piercing eyes that seemed to be almost red when contrasted with the pale yellow
moon. The other was fair, as fair as can be, with great wavy masses of golden
hair and eyes like pale sapphires. I seemed somehow to know her face and to
know it in connection with some dreamy fear, but I could not recollect at the
moment how or where. All three had brilliant white teeth that shone like pearls
against the ruby of their voluptuous lips. There was something about them that
made me uneasy, some longing and, at the same time, some deadly fear. I felt in
my heart a wicked, burning desire that they would kiss me with those red lips.
It is not good to note this down, lest someday it should meet Mina’s eyes and
cause her pain; but it is the truth. They whispered together, and then they all
three laughed—such a silvery, musical laugh, but as hard as though the sound
never could have come through the softness of human lips. It was like the
intolerable, tingling sweetness of water glasses when played on by a cunning
hand. The fair girl shook her head coquettishly, and the other two urged her
on. One said: “Go on! You are first, and we shall follow; yours is the right to
begin.” The other added: “He is young and strong; there are kisses for us all.”
Because Bram Stoker pulled deep from within his own history and wrote emotion
and human pain into his book, Dracula, we connect with the horrors he created.
We can see bits of ourselves in the monster …and that is what makes Dracula the
scariest of all.
Maybe this Halloween, I’ll go as a female version of Bram Stoker. I’ll have to
get a fake beard and moustache and a short-straight-hair wig. The 1900s-style
man’s suit and tie won’t be hard to find. No one will know who I’m supposed to
be, but that might be the funniest part. I can take pictures of all the people
dressed like vampires.
All the while, I’ll be quietly thinking, Bram, wherever your spirit is, I just
want you to know your best-written character is still alive and well. You did
it. You achieved what all authors dream of. May he live on in our minds for
centuries to come.
Have a fantastic Halloween everyone.
“What?” Mordak asked. Me? Love a human? Of course not. “By
the goddess, you’ve lost your minds. I just want this one’s blood for myself.
Run along, get your own. We’ll meet at the portal before dawn.”
“See you back at the cairn.” Fuamnach tilted her chin in
the air and vanished.
Aithbhreac disappeared as well.
Mordak shifted her eyes back to the mortal. His mere
presence commanded attention. What would be wrong with having a tryst with him?
Goddess Morrigan has affairs with humans all the time.
I thought they’d never leave. She fixed her gaze on the
tall, striking man, and swinging her hips in a saucy fashion, she sauntered
toward him. As she “drew near him, she batted her eyelashes and flashed a smile
to draw him in. Dancing with him would be even more fun than usual.
A noisy, whoosh-like, shaking sound caught her attention.
What now? She gasped with shock. This cannot be.
Three women descended from the ebony sky with the wings on
their bronze helmets flapping like a bird’s.
What is happening? She hadn’t drunk any heather ale today.
“The vanilla-blond women landed smoothly on their feet, the wings stopped
flapping and laid back on their helmets, now totally still. All three women
glared at her with glacier blue eyes.
Her palms were damp with sweat, she felt shaky. The
earthly realm was such a crazy place. Why did she send her sisters away? She
needed them now. Whoever or whatever these tall creatures in plate armor
corselets, flimsy white skirts and fur-topped boots were, they weren’t smiling
at her.
She noticed the human checking out the women from the rear
and glancing at her as well. He had a huge grin on his face, as if his dreams
had come true. Mordak, however, faced a nightmare.
The statuesque blonde in the center tilted her chin in the
air. “The man is mine.”
“Yours?” Anger pulsated through Mordak’s body. “He’s not
yours.”
People couldn’t just fly down from who knows where and
claim the man she liked. Mordak schooled her face into composure and met the
woman’s gaze. “Just who or what…are you?”
“Randgrid.” The tallest of the blondes didn’t break her stare,
not even one blink. “I am a Valkyrie.”
With a thin, tight-lipped expression, she set her hand on her hip. “Be gone,
baobhan sith.”
“Me. No, no…you’re the one in the wrong place.” Mordak
shook her hand at the Valkyrie. “This is Scotland, not Denmark or Valhalla or
wherever you think you are.”
“He’s a Gunn.” Randgrid jerked her head toward the man.
“So, he is ours.”
“Of Clan Gunn?” She glared at the silly woman in the
winged helmet. “The word clan is the whole point. He’s Scottish. He’s mine.”
Randgrid and her two sisters said together, “Gunn is the
point. The descendant of a Viking hero is ours.”
0 Comments