Paranormal: Simply Escapist Fiction? Or Much More?

Escape. I love the etymology of this word because of the picture it conjures. Escape comes from the Latin ex + cappa. Cappa means head covering or cloak. I envision the cloaked figure glancing back over his (or her?) shoulder before slipping into the shadows to get away from approaching footsteps. Already my mind is conjuring a story to go with this mysterious figure. Escape.

We do our escape acts all the time – usually minus the cloak. There are seasons and reasons to escape. After a long day in the real world, we settle down to an iPad or DVD or CD or book in whatever format, and we escape for a few hours. In general all stories can be a form of escape. In particular the Paranormal can be an escape if we need time off from the Normal.

But for me, reading and writing Paranormal is not escape. I walk through the wardrobe in order to return with a shield of courage and a sword of insight. When I choose to write fantasy, it’s because I want to explore human nature in a setting that exposes and challenges the raw basics, the depth and breadth of life. For me that’s best done in a world where the rules are different. The world of the Paranormal wakes us up, forces us to think, keeps us on our toes. You can’t take a fantasy world for granted.

The Paranormal allows us to cross barriers, to go beyond, to challenge taken-for-granted beliefs. The Para serves to shake us and shock us out of our ruts so we can grasp truths we may not see otherwise. We humans need to cross barriers, to go beyond, to be challenged. We need to attempt the impossible, even if only in our imagination.

And sometimes what we imagine comes to pass. I once read that in 1900, people scoffed at the idea that New York City might grow to contain even a million people. Why? Because there were not enough stables to stall all the horses they would need. People in 1900 couldn’t imagine streets filled with cars. But somebody imagined it. When I was growing up, the comic strip character Dick Tracy wore a watch he could talk into – a marvelous, imaginary device back then, but not curious at all now. A few months ago, I Skyped my son in L.A. at the same time his father-in-law from Japan Skyped in on another laptop. My son turned the two laptops to face each other, and we had a spontaneous three-way conversation – which is amazing to a person who didn’t grow up with computers. Those of you who did, are yawning. Right?

So sometimes the Para becomes Normal. If our imaginations DARE. Sometimes we DARE only in books. Sometimes we DARE because of books. Next blog: The Dare and the Otherwise.

Meanwhile . . . Happy Reading! Happy Writing!

© 2013 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Photo courtesy morguefile.com

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Why is Paranormal Popular? – Part 2

“When your mother says there are no monsters, sometimes she is wrong.” – Maggie Stiefvater, YA fantasy author

In my last blog, I listed three of my theories about why paranormal novels are so popular with today’s readers.

1. Our postmodern age ushered in a renewed interest in the spiritual.
2. As we go global, the issues are huge, and paranormal embraces that scope.
3. Our society emphasizes image; many paranormals are about revealing/hiding image and character.

Here are three more reasons for the surge of interest in the paranormal genre.

4. The paranormal is therapeutic, according to Maria Tatar, author of Enchanted Hunters. G.K. Chesterton had a similar opinion. He wrote, “Mysticism keeps men sane. As long as you have mystery you have health; when you destroy mystery you create morbidity. The ordinary man has always been sane because the ordinary man has always been a mystic. He has permitted the twilight. . . .The whole secret of mysticism is this: that man can understand everything by the help of what he does not understand.”

5. The paranormal is a way to get to the heart of truth. What makes a paranormal story truly effective is the normal part, the universal struggles and emotions we can identify with. We know that while the story is unreal it is not untrue.

Maggie Stiefvater, a writer of some of today’s best YA paranormal understands exactly this point. She explains, “I write about magic in my novels because I want to write about the truth. To me, these are the things that are true about the world: there are heroes and there are villains. Great power comes with terrible consequences. The hardest battles are fought in your own head. Money shouldn’t change who we are or how people look at us, but it does. When your mother says there are no monsters, sometimes she is wrong . . . As a fantasy author, I’ve heard rumblings of folks who complain that all teens read these days is fantasy. Novels about magic. Novels about myth. Novels about things that aren’t true. But I’d argue that you can’t get much truer.” (from an interview in The Guardian)

Bruno Bettelheim, in his classic book Uses of Enchantment, wrote, “The unrealistic nature of these tales . . . is an important device, because it makes obvious that the . . . tales’ concern is not useful information about the external world, but the inner processes taking place in an individual.”

6. We adults are expressing our own adult angst. Most of the writers of YA paranormal are adults. As I reported in a blog last fall, according to a study by Bowker Market Research, over half the buyers of YA books (for ages 12-18) are 18 or older, and most are 30-44. (For my theories about that, see my blog, Adults Reading YA.)

The paranormal is a venue where writers can face their own questions and fears, their hatred and their love. It’s where they can search for meaning in the meaningless, hope in hopelessness, and justice in an unjust world. In our stories the evil, the darkness, and the villains exist to get us to grace, light, and all that’s right. I believe that the best novels reveal chaos in order to get to calm, fear to get to courage, hatred to get to love, vengeance to get to forgiveness, despair to get to hope. That’s what most of us want. It’s what we need. It’s what we find in the best of the paranormal.

So there you have my theories. Next time: Paranormal in all its versions is often called “escapist” fiction. Is it? Or is it much more?

Meanwhile . . . Happy Reading! Happy Writing!

© 2013 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Photo courtesy morguefile.com

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Yes, They Dare: the Para and the Normal

Have you ever read Stan and Jan Berenstain’s picture book The Spooky Old Tree? Three bear siblings set off to explore the inside of a gnarled tree full of dangerous obstacles. As they approach each risk, the book asks, “Do they dare?” The answer is always, “Yes. They dare.” And off the bears go – with the shivers – to conquer the unknown. This is Paranormal for the preschool set.

We rarely stop to think that our children’s first books are paranormals, but it makes sense to start there. Preschoolers live in their imaginations. Big Bird is real to preschoolers. At night as far as they know, teacups and saucers escape their cabinets and dance as they do in Beauty and the Beast. In picture books, animals often talk, wear clothes, eat at a table, and even go to kindergarten. “Don’t let the pigeon drive the bus” wouldn’t be funny if kids didn’t believe he could. At least in the book.

Around age five, children begin correctly distinguishing between the real and the imaginary – the normal and the paranormal. Reality, the Normal shows us “what is,” while the Para stretches our imaginations. Author Holly Lisle points out that fantasy, the Para, “entices you to envision how life could be – more, better, deeper, wider.”

Paranormal is perhaps the most ancient of story types, from creation myths to monster tales. Paranormal is the horror of Odysseus spearing the Cyclops in his one eye. It’s the chilling sacrifice of Iphigenia. It’s the treachery of Chronus’s cannibalism. For the ancients, Paranormal gave meaning to the Normal. Normal people took courage from the resourcefulness and faithfulness of Odysseus. They took warning from the web of consequences that resulted from a bad decision made in fear, as in the story of Iphigenia. Even today we can look up from reading the tale of Chronus and ask, “Do we still devour our young – in ways less extreme but just as damaging?”

We readers have flings. As the literary pendulum swings from time to time, different genres gain popularity and then swing out of favor. Not too long ago we had a fling with high fantasy, then vampires. Dystopia and steam punk are popular. Zombies are alive and well, and I hear aliens are gaining ground. The paranormal is surging in popularity today, and it comes in all shapes and sizes: dystopian, steam punk, horror, magical realism, high fantasy, sword and sorcery, sci-fi . . .

Why is paranormal so popular? In my next blog, I’ll serve you my opinion in five reasons. (At least I’ll begin the five. Depending on space, I may have to split them into two blogs.) So stay tuned! Should be interesting.

Meanwhile . . . Happy Reading! Happy Writing!

© 2013 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Photo courtesy morguefile.com

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Happy Halloween! – First Scene: Throat of the Night

Wagons carrying the wounded rolled into Redcliff, along with trudging clumps of refugees. Without waiting for her bodyguards, Melaia ran toward the main gate, hoping Trevin was among the returning warriors. She got no farther than the first wagon, which creaked to a standstill, blocked by gawking townsfolk. Guards barked at the crowd, and it ebbed back as Melaia elbowed through.
Before the wagon could pull forward, she hoisted herself in. A half dozen wide-eyed children scooted back to make room for her. Other than dirt and scratches, they appeared to be fine. Beyond them a pale, disheveled old woman cradled the head of groaning man. As a death-prophet, Melaia could see the flicker of his spirit bordering his body, but appeared firmly attached; he would live. The bloodied woman lying behind him was another matter. Her spirit swirled and writhed in its death throes.
Melaia jerked off her cloak and pressed it to the woman’s belly wound as the wagon crept ahead. The crowd surged in again, craning their necks to see, asking what happened.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Melaia snapped at them. “Let the wagons through.” She glanced around for Trevin but turned back when the woman moaned. Melaia refolded her bloody cloak and placed the clean side against the wound. The woman’s spirit swirled around Melaia’s hands, and then detached and billowed out, shrouding Melaia in a dim mist. Melaia’s vision dimmed, and she felt her own spirit drawn into memories, but they were not her own. A young child was torn from her arms. Her fists pounded the broad back of a man who then whirled toward her and shoved his dagger into her belly.
Melaia lurched back, her hand to her stomach. Who was the man? She had only glimpsed his face, but there was something familiar about him. As she blinked the vision away, she heard the children shift behind her, and
A hand rested on her shoulder.”Melaia?”
She turned and leaned into Trevin. “Thank the Most High, you’re all right.” Then she pulled back. “You are all right, aren’t you?” Dirt and dried blood streaked his face.
“A scratch here and there.” He brushed back loose strands of his hair. “We sent the Dregmoorians running or left them worse than your friend there.” He nodded to the woman. “She was the tavern maid. We were too late to save her – or the rest of Drywell.” He motioned to the refugees. “These are the only survivors.”
Melaia eyed the three wagons following them. The king had expected Dregmoorian attacks to intensify with the return of warm weather, but he insisted that fighting would be confined to the east along the Davernon River. The attack on Drywell had upended that prediction.
“Drywell is less than a day’s ride away,” Melaia said. “That’s too close.”
“The raiders attacked with a fairly small force,” said Trevin, “but they had the advantage of surprise against an unprotected town. They’d never have dared to strike Redcliff.”
“Even so, it’s much too close.” She turned back to the tavern maid, but the woman’s spirit was gone.

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Scene 14: The Ancient Book of Tobit

Tobit sat cross-legged under his fig tree, leaning his head against the trunk, his eyes closed. Why he bothered to close them, he didn’t know. Open, closed, it made no difference. He saw nothing. But somehow closed eyes and rest went together. Force of habit. And, by force of habit, when he heard a knock at the gate, his eyes flew open.

“Hannah,” he called. “Are we expecting anyone this time of day?” He heard her sandals scuff from the direction of the house into the courtyard.

“No doubt someone with a torn robe that needs to be rewoven. By this evening,” she muttered.

The knock came again, this time accompanied by a voice. “Father? Mother? I’ve returned.”

Hannah let out a cry, her sandals clipping at a run. Tobit rose, fumbling for his walking stick. “Tobias?” he shouted. He heard the gate open. Tobias and Hannah both talked at the same time, Hannah in a scolding tone. Tobit caught the words smell and wash at once, but there was joy in her voice.

“My son!” Tobit headed toward them, wishing with all his heart that he could see.

“Father!” Tobias’s footsteps sprinted across the yard. He smelled of fish.

Tobit laughed. Had his son come back by sea? A foolish, roundabout way to come home. But what did it matter now? He opened his arms wide, but instead of enjoying his son’s embrace, he felt Tobias slather ointment on his eyes. The vile stuff stank like fish and stung like fire.

“Gah!” Tobit pushed his son away and rubbed his weeping eyes. They felt scaly. But the scales were sloughing off like shedding snakeskin. “Light!” he whispered. He saw light. He rubbed and blinked and wept until he saw his son, taller, bearded, tanned, and richly robed. “Is it really you?”

“It is.” Tobias grinned, wiping his hands on a rag.

Tobit didn’t wait for Tobias to toss the rag aside. He embraced his son long and hard.

“I’ve returned with your money,” said Tobias. “And a wife.”

Tobit drew back and scanned the courtyard. Hannah – beautiful, white-haired Hannah – stood beside his son’s tall traveling companion. “Where is your wife, then?” asked Tobit.

“Raphael and I ran ahead. She’s on the way with . . . just come and see.” Tobias drew him toward the street.

Tobit strode confidently alongside Tobias to the city gate, marveling at the buildings, fountains, donkeys, birds, trees, men, women, children. And –

“Sarah,” said Tobias as a beautiful young woman bowed before them.

* * *

That night Tobit, his son, and Raphael sat around a brazier in the courtyard. After Tobias recounted all that had occurred on his journey, Tobit looked across the brazier to Raphael, who sat on the other side. “We’ve not paid you enough,” he said. “You are responsible for my son’s good fortune. And for my eyesight.” He blinked away a blur and felt a tear slide down his cheek.

“I am well paid,” said Raphael. “When you said your first prayer as a child, Tobit, I was with you. As you raised your son, I was with you. When you left your wife’s fine dinner to bury the dead, I was with you. You prayed, as did your daughter-in-law, and I brought the remembrance of those prayers before the Holy One. God sent me to free Sarah from the demon and to cure you from blindness.”

Tobit stared at Raphael. “Who are you?”

Raphael stirred the coals in the brazier. “I am one of the seven holy angels who offer up the prayers of God’s people and enter the presence of the glory of the Holy One.”

Tobias prostrated himself immediately, but Tobit bowed slowly in awe, his newly restored eyes feasting on the sight of an angel in his courtyard.

“Don’t be afraid. Give your thanks to God.” Raphael rose. “I must leave now, but know that I am with you. Peace.” The angel grew taller and thinned like a rising mist until he vanished.

Tobit hosted a seven-day wedding feast for his son, so for a second time, Tobias and Sarah joyfully celebrated their marriage. Then they settled into a normal family life with Tobit and Hannah. Tobit lived to be 158 years old, and Tobias gave him a splendid funeral. A few years later Hannah died. Tobias buried her beside Tobit. As for Tobias, he and Sarah and their sons returned to Ecbatana, where they inherited Raguel’s property. There, at the age of a hundred and twenty-seven, as Tobias lay on his deathbed, he heard a familiar voice call his name. There stood the tall angel Raphael, his hand extended. “One more journey,” said Raphael.

“One more,” said Tobias. He reached for Raphael’s hand and felt as light as air.

- the end -

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Tobit, circa 200 BCE. Illustration courtesy

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Scene 13: The Ancient Book of Tobit

“Ah, Nineveh!” Raphael pointed to the dark rectangle on the horizon. “We’ll arrive before nightfall.”

The thought filled Tobias with fresh energy, and he lengthened his stride. “Home!” he called over his shoulder to Sarah on her donkey. Her two maids rode beside her, followed by a wagon of goods trailed by herders and drovers with sheep, goats, oxen, and cows.

Tobias laughed at the sight. He had left home a boy on an errand with one companion; he returned a man with a wife and an entire caravan. What would his parents say? As he looked again toward Nineveh, his smile faded. What indeed would his parents say? They had no idea he was returning. He could hardly show up at their gate unannounced and expect them to host the whole entourage with no notice.

Raphael cleared his throat. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking? We should let your father know you’re returning.”

“We’ll send a runner with a message,” said Tobias.

“Better yet, you and I can run ahead,” said Raphael. “Do you still have the fish gall?”

Tobias glanced sidelong at Raphael, who after all these weeks still seemed in many ways a stranger. The man obviously had unusual powers and insight, but this fish business was weird. “Fish gall,” Tobias muttered, digging into his waist pouch. “I still have it.”

“Keep it in hand.” Raphael shot him a challenging grin and sprinted ahead.

Tobias broke into a trot, careful not to squeeze the packet, which to his dismay, he could now smell quite well. Fortunately when they reached Nineveh’s massive walls, the odor mingled with scents of the city. He and Raphael shouldered through crowds swarming through the main gateway, a grand tunnel that echoed with shouts and calls and clattering carts.

By the time they reached the street where Tobit’s house stood, the matter of the gall had retreated to the back of Tobias’s mind. But as he headed for his father’s gate, Raphael tugged him aside and spoke in a low, serious voice. “Remember how I instructed you to get rid of the demon?”

Tobias nodded. “With the fish heart and liver.”

“That night you were afraid enough to try anything,” said Raphael. “This time you are not afraid.”

“Should I be?”

“I’m talking about trust. You trusted me last time because you were afraid. This time you must simply trust.” Raphael nodded at the packet of gall. “Open it and smear it on your hands.”

Tobias hesitated, but Raphael’s eyes searched his. Trust. Tobias swallowed his protest and untied the smelly packet. A bitter taste swelled in his throat.

Raphael nodded his approval. “As soon as you see your father, rub the gall on his eyes. It will sting.”

Tobias eyed Raphael warily as he smeared the fish gall on his fingers. Then he approached his father’s gate, humiliated. Over the past few weeks he had been bathed, perfumed, and robed in silks. Now he was to present himself to his father, smelling like a fisherman returning from a year at sea. He shot Raphael a glance of disgust.

“Trust me,” said Raphael.

Tobias knocked.

- to be continued -

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Tobit, circa 200 BCE. Illustration Tobias and the Angel by follower of Andea del Verrocchio, c. 1470-5 courtesy Dover Books, Angels.

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Scene 12: The Ancient Book of Tobit

A ruddy-cheeked magistrate robed in layers of silk eyed Tobias as he set a golden bowl before the newlyweds. Tobias and Sarah smiled, bowed and spoke their thanks. “So many guests!” Tobias whispered.

“You know why,” said Sarah, offering an admiring smile and a flutter of long lashes before turning to a woman decked in coin necklaces, who handed her a fine alabaster jar.

Tobias did know why. And it wasn’t just because Sarah’s father, Raguel, was known for his lavish entertainments. People had come from far and wide to gawk at the groom, the demon-slayer. Women in roving groups cast furtive glances at him as they chatted with each other. Some of the men gazed at him openly and saluted with their cups. Others were more reserved, but Tobias could feel their stares.

He scanned the crowd for Raphael, then reminded himself that this was only the first full day of the wedding celebration, much too early to expect Raphael’s return. If he returned at all.

That night Tobias entered the bridal chamber again with dread. Sarah was much more relaxed. He could tell she trusted him to banish any demon that might appear, so he made sure the incense was burning. But he had no more fish heart and liver. Only the packet of gall remained, so he set it beside the incense just in case.

But the demon did not return that night. Neither did Raphael.

On the fourth day of the celebration, as Tobias sat by Sarah among the guests feasting on peacock, honeyed fruits, and Persian wine, he looked up to see Raphael at the door. The man fairly glowed as he nodded at Tobias and took a seat at the table. Soon a servant slipped a small scroll to Tobias. On it was one word: “Success.”

That night when Tobias examined his father’s money bags, he found their seals unbroken. His spirits soared, thinking of his father’s joy at his successful return. For the next ten days, Tobias held his eagerness in check. But the morning after the festivities ended, he approached his father-in-law, who had returned to his customary place on a cushion in the garden, where he was sipping pomegranate juice.

They exchanged pleasantries as a servant handed Tobias a cup. But before he drank, Tobias blurted, “I must go to my father now, or he will give up on me. I’ve been away far too long.”

Raguel waved away the comment. “Stay. I’ll send a message to explain.”

Tobias sipped the tart juice, then squared his shoulders. A bit of haggling was to be expected, but he was not of a mind to skirt the issue. “Thank you, but no. I ask that you send me to my father – with your blessing I hope.”

Raguel grunted and called for his scribe. While Tobias stood by, Raguel dictated a writ bestowing half his property – slaves, cattle, and money – on his new son-in-law. With each addition to the list, Tobias’s jaw dropped further and his eyes widened until he felt like a fool who might drool at any moment.

With a flourish Raguel signed his name to the scroll and said, “May God give you prosperity before I die.”

Tobias closed his mouth. God just had.

- to be continued -

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Tobit, circa 200 BCE. Photograph courtesy morguefile.

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Scene 11: The Ancient Book of Tobit

While Tobias worried that he had foolishly lost his father’s money, his father and mother worried that they had lost Tobias. Each morning, blind Tobit ran his fingers over the marks he had scratched on a wax tablet, counting the days. Each evening, he took up his stylus and scratched one more mark.

One morning Tobit heard the footsteps of his wife, Hannah, crossing the courtyard. At this time of day she left to take mended garments to her customers. Instead, she walked toward him.

He straightened, alert as she sat beside him and took the waxed tablet from his lap. “What is it?” he asked.

“The days required for a journey to Ragae have long passed,” she said. “Is it possible that Gabael refuses to release your money?”

Tobit nodded thoughtfully. “It’s possible.”

“Perhaps Gabael is dead, and Tobias petitions someone else.”

Tobit nodded. “It’s possible.”

“Perhaps Tobias lost the receipt.”

Tobit nodded. “It’s possible.”

Hannah lowered her voice to a whisper. “How well did we know his traveling companion. What’s his name?”

“Raphael.”

“Perhaps this Raphael turned on Tobias. Our son could be lying in some ditch mortally wounded. Or . . . or . . . dead for all we know.”

Tobit nodded. “It’s possible.”

“Is that all you can say? It’s possible?” Hannah dropped the wax tablet into Tobit’s lap and rose.

He heard her sandals slap halfway across the stone yard. Then she stopped and wailed, “My child has perished! Oh, my child! Do I not care because I let you go, you, the light of my eyes!”

Tobit huffed. It was the light of his unseeing eyes that was gone. “Calm yourself, Hannah,” he said. “Tobias is young. This is his first journey away from us. Give him a few more days to discover the world.”

“Discover the world? Small comfort that is. He may choose to take the money and never return to us.”

Tobit leaned his head back against the wall. “It’s possible.”

- to be continued -

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Tobit, circa 200 BCE. Photograph courtesy morguefile.

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Scene 10: The Ancient Book of Tobit

Tobias left the frenzy of festive preparations at Sarah’s house and wove through Ecbatana’s busy streets toward the bazaar, accompanied by a muscular young man named Phineas. Raguel had appointed Phineas as his son-in-law’s personal guard, though Tobit suspected the guard’s main task was to make sure Sarah’s husband didn’t leave town.

An errant goat loped their way, chased by a shouting girl, and Tobias sidestepped. He had to admit he was tempted to leave town – just for a day or so to retrieve his father’s money from Gabael in Ragae. On the other hand, he didn’t want his new bride to think he had abandoned her, and if she couldn’t go with him . . . well, that’s where Raphael might come in. If he could find the man.

Tobias edged into the milling crowd of shoppers, where the odor of spices and leather and sweat mingled with a tinge of garlic. Over the clamor he called to Phineas. “You’d recognize Raphael, wouldn’t you? Tall. Brown hair with reddish streaks. A leather band across his forehead.”

“I saw him when he arrived at the master’s house, sir.” Phineas craned his neck, eying the swarm of people. “There he is!” He pointed over a sea of heads.

Tobias tried to wedge past shoulders and elbows.

“Let me, sir.” Phineas bulled his way through.

Tobias followed at his heels, admitting that a personal guard did have its benefits. He sidled up to Raphael.

“Ah, Tobias!” Raphael handed him a light blue cloak, finely woven, edged with gold embroidery. “Your appearance is timely. I thought you ought to own something nicer for your wedding celebration.”

Tobias fingered the soft fabric, fit for a prince. “I can’t yet pay –”

“A wedding gift,” said Raphael, counting coins into the merchant’s glad palms. Motioning for Tobias to follow, he headed through the crowd to the far end of the bazaar, where curls of smoke drifted into the air along with the scent of meat. “You have to try the lamb,” he called over his shoulder. “Unusually spiced.”

Soon they were seated on a mat shaded by an awning, while Phineas stood guard outside. A jowly serving woman plunked a plate of sizzling lamb cubes before them. Raphael speared a bite on the tip of his knife, blew on it, then plucked it off with his fingers and popped it into his mouth.

Tobias slipped out his own knife and did the same. Over the juicy mouthful, he said, “You knew I’d live through the night?”

“I didn’t know,” said Raphael. “You might not have followed my instructions.”

“But I did.”

“And I . . . ” Raphael stabbed another bite. “. . . let’s just say I sensed the demon’s departure. I believe you sent him all the way to Egypt.”

Tobias chewed slowly. Egypt. He speared a cube of lamb. “Did you know that Sarah’s father wants me to stay for a fortnight of celebrations?”

“He told me.”

Tobias pointed his knife at Raphael. “You, sir, have interesting powers. Don’t you?”

Raphael raised his eyebrows. “Be careful where you point that knife. A man might take offense, you know. Luckily yours has meat on the end.”

Tobias lowered the blade and his voice. “Your ritual worked to rid us of the demon. Can you say a spell or conjure a vision that would persuade Gabael to bring my father’s money to me from Ragae? I can’t wait a fortnight.”

“I do not conjure or cast spells,” said Raphael. “But, yes, I do have powers. One of the most reliable is known as a long stride. I’ll walk to Ragae on the morrow and retrieve your father’s money from Gabael. You have a receipt for it?”

“I do.” Tobias dug in his waist pouch and found the small scroll beside the packet of fish gall. He handed the receipt to Raphael. “Shall I throw out the gall now?”

“No.” Raphael shot him a stern look and tucked the receipt into his pouch.

As Tobias watched Raphael arrange his cloak to hide the pouch, his chest tightened. What had he done? That receipt was the only proof of money owed to his father, and he had just handed it to a man he hardly knew. One with strange powers and a long stride and a plan to leave town.

- to be continued -

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Tobit, circa 200 BCE. Illustration courtesy Dover Angels.

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Scene 9: The Ancient Book of Tobit

When Tobias and Sarah emerged from the bridal chamber, a servant girl trotted up to them and bowed. “Your father requests your presence in the reception garden.” She bustled down the corridor ahead of them. In the mood for a leisurely stroll, Tobias and Sarah were hard-pressed to keep up with her.

It seemed that the whole household had doubled its pace. Maidservants trundled down hallways, laden with piles of cloth, armloads of flowers, or trays of food. Menservants lugged in benches and casks. They acknowledged Tobias with nods and wide-eyed smiles, while Sarah clung to his arm as if to assure herself that he was alive.

As they entered the sunny garden, Raguel rose from his cushion, saluting with his goblet. “My son! My daughter!” His personal servant handed each of them a cup. “Drink! Drink!” urged Raguel.

Son. Tobias sipped the rosy, sweetened pomegranate juice, remembering his duties to his own father.

Raguel patted his belly. “I have proclaimed a fourteen day wedding feast beginning tonight!”

“Fourteen days?” Tobias sputtered. “But I have urgent business in Ragae in Medea.”

Raguel’s smile stiffened, and he motioned to Sarah. “I believe your mother wishes to have your opinion on adornments for our celebration.”

Sarah half-bowed to her father. With a shy smile and a flutter of her long lashes, she handed Tobias her cup and swished out of the garden.

Raguel turned to Tobias. “You have business more urgent than your wife of only one day?”

Tobias shifted from foot to foot, holding two cups and feeling like a fool. “No, sir, it’s just –”

“Do you know how blessed you are to be above ground at this moment? That, in itself, is worthy of celebration. And my daughter, Sarah – would you not say she’s worthy of the risk you took?”

“Oh, yes, sir. Worthy indeed.”

“I’ve invited this entire town and all my business contacts to this celebration to meet you, the demon-slayer.”

“Demon-slayer?”

Raguel circled Tobias, looking him up and down. “You’re alive. You deserve the title, and Sarah – not to mention her mother and me – deserves the celebration.” He paced back to his cushion, rubbing his chin. “I swear that if you stay the fourteen days, I’ll grant you half my property now and send you back to old Tobit in safety. The rest of my property will become yours when I die, of course.” He looked Tobias in the eyes.

Tobias squared his shoulders and met Raguel’s gaze. Sarah was gift enough. But to be called Demon-slayer and own half Raguel’s property now? It was more than he could have dreamed. He nodded. “I’ll stay.”

Raguel rubbed his palms together, grinning once more. “A good son, you are. I’ll have to send my congratulations to Tobit.”

“A good son,” Tobias muttered under his breath. Wouldn’t a good son be on his way to Medea to do his father’s bidding? “A good son.” He drained his cup. Then he drained Sarah’s.

- to be continued -

© 2012 Karyn Henley. All rights reserved. Based on The Book of Tobit, circa 200 BCE. Photo courtesy morguefile.

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