Fiction: The Lake

                                                 The Lake.
                                           By John A .Ryan

“You boys really thinking of doing the Six Lakes Swim?” The old bar owner at the Lodgepole Inn deposited our breakfasts in front of us. He had a long nosed ungainly lank-limbed melancholic air that reminded me of a moose. The Lodgepole was not the ideal venue for a pre-swim breakfast. It's grimy wood paneling, flickering neon beer signs and clientele that appeared to be mostly left over from last night identified it more as a seedy small town dive bar than a place to get a good meal. It was however, the only eating establishment in the tiny town of Barrelhead

“I am” replied Dave starting in on his buckwheat pancakes “Tim here is my support team. Right Tim?”

I paused Monster Push on my tablet and looked up “That's right. I follow along in the canoe in case he gets in trouble.” I took a sip of my bitter coffee and hungrily contemplated the mountain of greasy eggs and bacon that was my Lumberjack Special


“Not many make it all the way through”the bar owner mused aloud


“We aren't many” Dave grinned and took a swig of orange juice “I've already beat Juniper, Monroe and Wolf lakes.


“Tuurngait is the breaking point for folks. Four miles of glacial run-off against a headwind. It claimed that Sorrel girl last summer and that fellow from Whisper Falls” he gestured with the coffee pot towards a wall of yellowing newspaper clippings. “You city boys might find it more than a match for you”

“They said the same thing about Monroe, didn't they, Tim?”


I mumbled affirmation through a mouth full of toast “We broke the old record”


“Take my word, friend Tuurngait Lake is the tough one. It'll change you. If you make it out the other side, there's no saying you'll be the same person as dived in.”

“You sound like you're speaking from experience” I said


“Back in '73” he confirmed with a nostalgic smile“Sooner or later everyone round here tries the Swim”


“What happened?” asked Dave


The Barkeep chuckled through the mists of recollection
“I never left. I'm still here, aren't I?”
With that he stalked through the swinging doors to the kitchen.


* * * * * * * * * *


“Do you think it's some sort of local past-time to try to freak out tourists?” Dave asked me as he downshifted the pickup


“They have to do something. You can't even get a decent radio station this far north” I flicked a twig goblin causing him to explode into a cascade of leaves and earning a hundred points


Dave clicked his tongue
“What is it with you and that game? You've been glued to that screen for the whole trip”

“You need to try it. It's seriously addictive. You travel through the Magic Woods looking for treasure and try to push the hidden monsters away before they grab you. ”


“Christ, Tim! We're surrounded on all sides by pristine wilderness and you're ignoring it to bop invisible monsters! We just drove under an eagle's nest and you didn't even notice. How can a digital forest possibly be better than the real thing? Just promise me you'll leave that thing in the truck when we're out there okay? I need you focused.


“Have I let you down yet?”


“No, man, and I really appreciate you doing this for me. I'm just a little on edge”


“Don't let that old coot from back in Barrelhead get to you, Dave. It's like you said. They have nothing better to do than to try and scare people. You'll make it fine and we'll have a celebratory dinner in his bar and be off to Pinetop in the morning. Just like we planned, right?”


“Right” he relented “Could you do me a favor though and turn that off? It's making me nervous”


“No problem”


I traded my tablet screen for the windscreen. Dave was right. The view was spectacular.


************************************




“Isn't it weird the way the mist hasn't burnt off yet? It's already 11:30 ”


The mountains keep the cold air trapped down here. Makes the water nice and brisk” Dave grinned as he zipped up his insulated wet suit “ I wouldn't have it any other way. Just look at this place! If it were warmer it'd be teeming with tourists”


I had to admit he had a point The snow cloaked peaks rose like spires into the clouds appearing in places to bleed into them. armies of deep green conifers ascended the mountainsides from the lake shore accented here and there with highlights of crimson and gold from the occasional maple or birch that had already begun to turn, even though August wasn't even halfway through. In the distance a loon's clarion call rang over the ghostly waters. As I stood on the rocky lake shore with my friend it felt as though we were the only two people in the world .


Watching Dave go through his series of leg lunges, knee bends, and shoulder stretches I contemplated how we had come to be here. Most men going through a divorce would sink into despondency and drink. Dave, for reasons known only to himself, threw himself into the idea of open water swimming with a frightening zeal. We had known each other casually for a few years. Like most of our circle of friends, I had viewed Dave's aquatic pursuits with a mixture of admiration and detached amusement. Then Bethany left. After four years of gradually growing apart, she finally decided that she'd had enough of my antics. Even though I was devastated, I understood. If I were honest, I had to admit I wasn't a particularly boyfriend. Brooding over my fate one night at O'Malley's I ran into Dave fresh off a triumphant race. Several rounds later he confided that he wanted to try longer swims but he needed a spotter. He surprised me by asking me to take on the role. To my further astonishment I found myself agreeing. That was eight months ago. In all the hours of training, long drives, and poring over topographic maps, we rarely discussed anything personal, but a friendship born of the bonds of shared purpose and mutual heartbreak.


“Here's the plan” he announced, shaking me out of my reverie “We'll take it nice and easy today. Once we get about 50 yards out, I'll do my plunges. From there I'll check in every twenty minutes for a breather. That should be every half mile or so. I reckon we'll make the other side in about two hours. You ready?”


I nodded my assent


“Fantastic” he said, snapping his goggles over his eyes “Lets go swimming”

Dave marched intently towards the water. With his beard pushed up into a sharp peak by the rim of his wetsuit hood and his jaunty swaggering gait he looked like a fugitive from an early animation. I scanned the cargo of my candy-apple colored canoe one last time to make sure everything was in order and pushed her nose into the lapping waters.


****************************************
Just past the halfway point, I had fallen back into the easy paddling rhythm that had become automatic after several months. Just off the left side of my bow, Dave had switched from an Australian Crawl into his preferred Butterfly Stroke. I could see his arms break the gray surface of the water in canted parabolic arcs punctuated by the sharp intake of breath. It had become a subconscious game for me to time my paddle strokes just after these breaths. One of my first cues of trouble, should it arise, would be the interruption of this pattern. For the moment, his labored flight across the lake's surface continued unabated.


Although I would never admit it to Dave, I had come to relish these moments out on the water as rare moments of quietude. He often accused me of having a technology addiction. In the privacy of my mind, I agreed. It seemed like my entire life was bathed in the glow of screens. I like computers for their endless entertainment value and their logical nature. You could get any information you wanted out of a computer, provided that you knew how to ask. In my lifetime I had run into few things that were this simple to understand. The trouble was that so much screen time left you unprepared for the messy and illogical real world and filled your head with electronic chatter. Skimming across a silent northern lake allowed my mind to work unencumbered and made some much needed reflection possible. Of course, if I ever let Dave know this I would never hear the end. Dave is one of those people who is relentless in his opinions and advice. Conceding that he was right on a point would be inviting a ceaseless barrage of well intentioned council on every aspect of my life. Well intentioned or not, I felt uncomfortable at the thought of inviting that level of external scrutiny.


Far above my head, an osprey hovered, silhouetted on ruler straight wings against the clouds. I wondered if it was the same bird that half an hour ago glided almost within arms reach, examining me with it's mad tangerine eyes. On the near shore a mule deer doe and her twin yearlings collectively decided that my friend and I posed no threat and began to drink. Nearby in a stand of tall spindly trees-


I shook my head to clear the cobwebs, for what I saw, what I believed I had seen, could not possibly be there. A second closer look confirmed this. There was nothing among the trees. For just an instant I had imagined that there had been a figure standing in the copse of pines. It had been taller than any person could be, almost the height of the surrounding pines. I thought it was the form of a man, seemingly composed of the limbs of trees, a gangling coniferous Colossus. dark as the shadowed bark gazing out over the water with an air of infinite sorrow. It was a trick of the light conspiring with my overstimulated imagination that made the shadows of branches resolve themselves into a pine tree giant straight out of a fairy tale illustration or off the screen of Monster Push. Even knowing that it couldn't possibly be real, the impression stuck powerfully and eerily with me. I decided that it would probably be best if I took a break from that game for a few days and resumed paddling. My momentary lapse in concentration had caused me to fall an embarrassing distance behind.


I strained my shoulders for almost ten minutes behind the paddle. My redoubled efforts seemed to do little to close the distance. For fear of pulling a muscle I called out to Dave to slow down and let me catch up. He slowed his strokes to a stop I saw his grinning head turn towards me. His arm broke the surface to give me the OK signal. Dave tread water for a moment or two before, to my horror, his head vanished beneath the glassy water with barely a ripple. A shout of panic escaped my lips as I began to paddle with all my might. From the cold water rescue course we had taken, I knew that every second underwater was potentially lethal. I was still to far away to reach. Dave and he had already been under for longer than was safe. I had just reached the point where I saw him disappear when an explosive inhale shattered the silence. Dave had re emerged supported by two other swimmers. His face was drained of color except for the sickly bleached violet of his lips.

“Get him aboard now” commanded a woman's voice from the smaller figure in the pale blue wetsuit. We heaved Dave's dead weight onto the canoe. I hastily tore open the package of a Mylar blanket and wrapped it around my friend's shivering body


“We'll start a fire onshore. Meet us there, quick as you can” With that order the woman and her companion shot away swiftly and gracefully as a pair of otters.


“Cold grabbed me all the sudden” sputtered Dave “Must've hit a thermocline. Froze right through me.”


“Hold still, man. I'm so sorry! I got distracted and fell behind. It's just lucky those two turned up.”


“Yeah, lucky” agreed Dave, teeth chattering.


By the time we made it to shore, the woman was already tending the beginnings of a good sized campfire. I could see her companion's yellow and black suit clearly among the trees as he searched for more wood. She helped me beach the canoe, and lift Dave onto the shale by the fireside.


“Blankets and dry clothes in the big orange float bag” I instructed her as I peeled away the wetsuit.


We helped Dave into a dry sweatpants, sweater and draped a wool blanket over him.


“I can still move my fingers and toes. No permanent damage” Dave announced. He attempted to sound clinical, but I could hear relief pouring from each syllable.


“It's really lucky you guys showed up” I told our new companions “Do you live around here?”

The woman made a sound halfway between a laugh and a grunt.


“That's one way of putting it. I'm Megan Sorrel. He's called Quinn. He doesn't say much.”


I shook hands and introduced myself. I was astonished at how cold their hands remained even after drying by the fire. With their hoods and masks removed, I finally could get a good look at them. Megan was a handsome woman with her dark hair cropped in a fashionable short style I couldn't pinpoint it, but she looked familiar somehow. Quinn would have been a perfect specimen of a blonde breezy Californian were it not for an unusual network of facial scars and his pale skin. Both of them had skin even paler than Dave's when he was first pulled from the water and the same unusual shade of green eyes. I wanted to ask if they were related and how Quinn had come by his injury, but I felt that it might be impolite. Instead we sat for several moments in mildly oppressive silence.


“The Lodgepole man says that you have come from far away” said Megan, more as a statement than a question


“That's right. We live down towards Carson.” I affirmed. “Dave wanted to swim the lakes.”

“Thanks for saving my life, by the way” Dave chimed from beneath the blanket


“I haven't yet, but I will” Megan told him “I will save both of you. Take my word on this. You do not belong here. You should go and never come back. Forget your swim”


“Okay, I choked up a bit, but I'm sure I can make it across after a few days rest” Dave protested


“You aren't listening. We're showing you a kindness because you are strangers here. Get in your boat and turn back. If you swim another stroke the lake will claim you and you will never leave it again. Tuurngiat Lake is protected ”


“Look, Don't think I'm not grateful to you and all, but you can't scare me with whatever superstitious nonsense there is about this lake. I don't believe...Where'd they go?”


The mysterious pair had vanished as suddenly as they appeared, leaving not even a footprint. The campfire was the only sign that anyone else had ever been there.


*****************************************************
Once we had loaded up the last of the gear, we sat in the cab of the truck with the heater blasting watching the sun descend behind the peaks.


“Okay, that was a little weird, but I think we ought to try again next weekend, don't you?” Dave announced, breaking the silence.


“No.” I said “I think that's a really bad idea.”


“Oh come on! Just because they slipped away and hid while we weren't looking? I thought you had more sense than that Tim.”

I took a deep breath and weighed my words carefully, scarcely believing what I was about to say.
“It's not that. Well, it's not just that. If it were just the disappearance, I might think it was just some sort of trick but-”
“But what?”


I considered telling him about what I had seen, but after I regarded my friend's incredulous expression, I knew Dave would think I had completely lost my mind. Another detail, no less uncanny, floated to the top of my recollection .

“Do you remember the girl who was supposed to have drowned here last year?”

“Yeah, sure. What about her?”


“Well when you got up to use the bathroom back at the bar, I read the clipping. I just remembered. Her name was Meg Sorrel.”

“Are you kidding me? That's your reason? It's either some locals messing with us or a coincidence. It can't be the same person.”


“I think it was. There was a picture”

Dave sighed heavily
“Unbelievable! I'm the one who has a near death experience, and somehow you are the one coming unhinged. Tell you what, Let's go back to Barrelhead. We'll have some dinner at the Lodgepole, you can take another look at your article, and you'll see how stupid you're being. Maybe then we can talk about this like reasonable people. All right?”


***************************************************


An hour later, as we were arguing over the map on the shoulder of the road, a highway patrol cruiser pulled up behind us in the dark.


“There any trouble, fellas?” The trooper was a large suet-y man in his late fifties His gleaming pink face appeared as though it had been shaped from pressed ham


“Hi officer, we're a little lost. We're trying to get back into Barrelhead.” I said


When he burst into laughter, it occurred to me that I had never actually heard anyone guffaw before.


“Now what on earth would you want to go there for?”

“We thought we'd get a bite to eat, and maybe spend the night” Dave told him


“I suppose you can if you want” the trooper chuckled, “But you'd be the first people to do so for about a hundred years. Barrelhead's a ghost town, boys. I have no idea why they keep putting it on the map. The only road in has been totally grown over for at least sixty years. What you want to do is push on for Smokesville. That's about forty to forty five minutes south on Route 18. Tell Erma at the diner that Officer Daniels sent you. She'll treat you allright. Drive safe now.”


Still chortling to himself, Officer Daniels swaggered back to his car and sped off.


Dave's face was a mask of disbelief.
“Okay, now I'm freaking out.” he muttered “ What the hell did we eat for breakfast?”



-J. Ryan 2013

Tempest: First Look

     I'm in an interesting position as a chronicler of my creative endeavors.  I'm working on a big project (A full stage version of Shakespeare's "The Tempest" using puppets). It is a project that I'm very excited about and naturally want to discuss in great length. I'm incorporating all kinds of new building techniques and doing work that I'm extremely proud of for it. On the other hand, I want to avoid doing just that because I want my audience to come into the theater with as few preconceptions as possible. The more I tell you now, the more you'll know to expect later and the piece won't seem quite as fresh and new. I don't want to spoil the surprise.

    After a little internal wrangling, I've decided to carefully tip my hand on occasion, to give anyone interested the smallest peek behind the curtain from time to time. My hope is that I can keep everyone generally aware of what I'm up to without, as it were, giving away the gold. 

   So- without further babbling from me here are a few process shots which I hope you will enjoy. bear in mind that what I'm showing you are very much works in progress at this stage and will change a great deal by opening curtain.

This gull is a simple 3 rod puppet built out of polyfoam for simple movement. It can flap and turn it's head from side to side. It has a wingspan of approx 3 ft. 

Slightly more complex is this heron's head. It is also built out of foam with a latex and cheesecloth overlay. The beak is operated by a simple trigger mechanism. Learning how to make simple resin cast eyes was a real boon for this project and my work in general.

Most of the puppets for "The Tempest" are going to be in a modified Bunraku style. For ease of performance I'm going to keep my design of the rigging as simple as possible. In the human characters this means a nodding head rig rather than a mouth trigger. Few of my cast will have any experience in puppetry and I want to make sure that they learn the basics of lip sync without being wholly dependent on it.

 Trinculo is a court jester and one of Shakespeare's comic characters. I exaggerated his facial features to cartoonish proportions and gave him a vaguely worried and hangdog expression. I want him to be tall and lanky, in contrast to Stephano the butler, who I intend to make short and stout.This will hopefully suggest the classic "Abbot and Costello" comic dynamic for these two clowns.

Bestiary I: The Manthikaar

                                                                 The Manthikaar

Manthikaar (male) in threat display

                                Description:
The manthikaar is a medium sized, muscular species of tiger. Their coats are shaggier (especially in the winter) and more subtly marked than those of other tigers. They are darker orange to crimson in color with dark brown stripes that form a nearly solid chocolate colored patch along the animal's back. The ears are small and dark brown. The underside is whitish in color with white patches of longer fur along it's cheeks, eyebrows and around the mouth and tuft of the tail. These patches are longer and more pronounced in males. Males are also sometimes as much as ten times larger than females. The manthikaar, due to the short, compact shape of it's skull,has a muscular jaw which gives it a powerful bite. The paws are broad and thick making the creature able to climb easily and negotiate drifting sand and snow easily. The unusual tufts of “facial hair” along with the comparatively short muzzle give the manthikaar's face a cantankerous and nearly human appearance, which gives this animal it's name. (In the Muhor language lit.: Manthi=elder[masculine], kaar=sand. Or: Old man of the Desert)

                                                                       Behavior

Not much is known about the manthikaar in the wild as it is a solitary, secretive creature that is primarily nocturnal and prefers inaccessible habitat. They are territorial animals that will aggressively drive away, not only members of their own species, but any other large animal that it considers to be competition. A manthikaar when threatened, will arch its back and hold it's tail over it's body in a manner reminiscent of scorpions, while emitting a series of low coughing growls. If this threat is not heeded, the animal will attack immediately and will persist until the threat is either driven off or killed. Mating occurs in the towards the end of the short rainy season. Courtship is brief as the male and female will only tolerate each other on their territory for short periods. Two to three cubs are born in the spring. They are independent and sexually mature at one year of age, although it is estimated that only forty percent of cubs will reach this age. Manthikaar are hardy resourceful hunters that rely mainly on the traditional feline “ambush “ strategy. It is uncertain how long they can survive without food and water, but it is widely accepted that during lean periods, this animal can lose as much as forty five percent of it's body weight with no apparent ill effects. Their metabolism is thought to slow down to nearly exothermic levels when stressed. Manthikaar have been known to live up to twenty years in captivity. Their lifespan in the wild is unknown.

                                                                        Habitat:

Found throughout the western foothills of the Rusting Mountains and the Great Northern Desert. It prefers rocky, arid terrain relatively close to water.

                                                                           Diet:

The manthikaar is a versatile and opportunistic hunter. From camels to mice, it has been known to eat anything it can catch including wolves, hares, goats, tortoises, unicorns, wild boar, pheasant, mountain oxen, deer, and young dragons. While accounts of predation on livestock are doubtlessly exaggerated, they do take place. More frequently than other big cats, this species will intentionally hunt people. There have also been unconfirmed reports of manthikaar fishing and scavenging.

                                                                           Status:

Locally common

                                                                          Threats:

The manthikaar has fared better than many big cats due to it's secretive nature, fearsome reputation, and local taboos. Development and habitat encroachment have been minor threats due to the rugged terrain preferred by these animals. Still, It's fur is warm, soft, and attractive which makes it prized and a pelt fetches a handsome price. They are also hunted to protect livestock. An adult animal is fairly safe from predation, but cubs and adolescents are threatened by larger predators, such as bears. There has been reliable documentation of instances of an older manthikaar preying on cubs, but these instances of cannibalism are thought to be rare.

                                                   The coming of the Mantakaar

                                                           A Muhor tale

In the time of our Ancestors, There lived a fierce and warlike tribe on the plains to the east. This , you say, is nothing unusual and you are right to think so. On the plains of Kentar, such people grow as plentifully as the golden grasses. This particular tribe that I speak of was so wicked and bloodthirsty, it is said even their own horses were afraid of them. They craved battle as a man in the desert craves water. They swept across the land like a winter storm destroying any who they came upon. Even the other tribes lived in fear of them and would flee when they approached. One day the chieftain of this murderous horde called his men together and spoke to them thus:

“Oh, Brave Horsemen, Mighty warriors, Hear my words! Our shadows have grown too long on these plains. There are none left who has courage enough to face us . It has been a long time since we have tested our strength in battle. We have taken to fighting among ourselves for want of an opponent and I fear our proud people will soon tear ourselves asunder if we continue in this manner. I say let us pack up our encampment, leave the Kentari Plains and look to the west. I hear that on the far side of the towering snow-peaked Rustings, there is a rich and beautiful land of jeweled cities and fragrant gardens. There every woman has the beauty and bearing of a queen in any other land. Why should we not go there and live as kings?”

The fearsome band quickly agreed and set out that day for the foothills of the Rusting Mountains. Now, I needn't tell you how treacherous the mountain passes can be, even when the spirits have not set themselves against you. There are snowstorms,avalanches and biting winds. The passes are narrow and high, with sharp rocks beneath. Wild beasts and demons live there. Only a great fool would attempt to cross the mountains unguided. These tribesmen were born without fear and were ignorant of all of this. They did not know the way or the words to appease the spirits, who were angered by such arrogance. Before long the spirits beset these travelers with the worst the mountains had in store. While they were mighty warriors, a spear cannot fight against weather and hunger. Lost and starving they were forced to eat their horses. Many succumbed to the cold or sickness, or else fell to their demise, leaving their bones to bleach in the sun and be picked clean by the birds. So it was that a journey that should have taken no more than ten days lasted for many months. Fate was kind to our people and merciless to those warriors of the plains.

           When the survivors emerged on the other side those unforgiving peaks , exhausted, battered and only a handful of their former numbers left, they came out too far south. They did not see the shining silver ribbon of the Anajai beneath them, surrounded by the rich green fields and bright roofs of our cities that welcome us home from our wanderings. No, They came out in a place where the hostile red wastelands of the Great Northern Desert stretched from horizon to horizon uninterrupted. The remaining men tore out their hair and bellowed in fury to have traveled so far and so hard through the mountains only to come to an inhospitable barren place. They turned upon their Chieftain with blame in their eyes, In their rage those men tore him to pieces with their bare hands. In that moment they finally became completely uncivilized. The last trace of the tribe's humanity vanished. They turned into wild beasts. Hair sprung from their flesh, their hands turned to claws and their teeth lengthened to fangs. Great curving tails arched over their backs like a scorpion's. Their heads flattened and became empty of any thought but hunger. Their eyes burned with unquenchable anger.

 

       From that time forward, those once haughty warriors skulked in the shadows of night as large wild cats. They shun all company and have become the beast we now call “Manthikaar” This is why the manthikaar's coat is red to remind any who look upon them that these beasts were born of blood and murder. It is said that these animals hate humans particularly and will devour them on sight because seeing people remind them of what they once were, and what they have become. Hunters believe that death reveals it's true appearance. They say just before a manthikaar, dies, or it kills you, the beast will show you his human face. Because of this, and because it's spirit is likely to be vengeful it is unlucky to kill a manthikaar.

                                                                Muhor

         Muhor is a small nation that is situated in the Anajai river valley between the Rusting Mountains and the Great Northern Desert. The Muhor people are hardy and compactly built. They are renowned for being shrewd merchants and skilled craftsmen. Muhor jewelry and leather-work is especially sought after. Muhor is primarily an agricultural economy. The fertile lands near the river are primarily given over to grains and orchards, while the foothills of the Rustings are populated mostly with shepherds and their flocks. Life in the arid lands around the Anajai is harsh and unforgiving. The river is swift, difficult to navigate, and given to frequent flooding. Storms can arise suddenly from the desert to their west and blizzards sweep down unexpectedly from the mountains to the east. Droughts are common. The winters are long and frigid. It is perhaps understandable that the Muhor are inclined to think of the natural word as being cruel and capricious. The main trading routes of the Muhor are either southwards via the Anajai River, Caravans east across the Great Northern Desert, or eastwards through the mountain passes and over the vast Kentari Plains. As the climate of the plains is much more hospitable than that of their homeland, many Muhor have attempted to settle here, only to be driven off by the proud nomadic tribesmen who live there. The tribes of Kentar are also not above raiding a Muhor supply train. Consequently, very little love is lost between the two cultures.

Copyright J. Ryan 2012

Into The Storm

I went to the post office today.

 Ordinarily this is exactly the sort of thing I wouldn't bother to write about for the very good reason that it is not interesting. Being the bright and perceptive reader that you are, you have probably already come to the conclusion that there must have been something interesting about this trip to the post office. Right you are! The envelope pictured above is being mailed to this address:

 Aha! See? Now I've piqued your interest haven't I? Want to take a peek inside the envelope? Of course you do!

 This actually gives me the opportunity to officially announce something that I've been sitting on for some time. If all goes as planned, In the Spring semester of 2013 I will be staging a version of Williams Shakespeare's "The Tempest" through Hartwick College here in beautiful Oneonta NY! The envelope contains the Letter of Intent and One page 8 1/2 X 11 visual that are the first step in applying for the 2013  Jim Henson Foundation Grant. (The project will take place with or without their funding, it'll just be really cool if I get it.) To give you some idea of how exciting this really is here is my original sketchpad  where i first started designing and thinking about Tackling "The Tempest". If it looks a little worn, this is because it is twelve years old. I started working on this idea just before I graduated college! I'm going to post the text of my letter of intent because I think it does a good job explaining what I have in mind.

Dear Jim Henson Foundation Selection Committee:

                Shakespeare’s The Tempest  could have been written specifically for puppetry. It has it all: potential for cinematic staging, poetic imagery, magic, wonder and some of the most nuanced characters in literature. When I first read it shortly before graduating college, I instantly wanted to create a full stage production using puppets and puppetry techniques. Now nearly twelve years later, in collaboration with Malissa Kano-White, Hartwick College, and hopefully with the support of a Project Grant from The Jim Henson Foundation, I finally will have the opportunity to bring this show to life before an underserved audience in the Northern Appalachians.

                I envision Prospero’s island to be a mental as well as an external landscape, simultaneously a shelter and wilderness. As such, I plan on drawing inspiration for the set from old weathered books and the craggy coastline of the Pacific Northwest. The set itself should be, in essence, a giant puppet, alive and teeming with spirits and animals. Scenes could change by the flipping of a page, or the sea animated by actors manipulating fabric.

I intend to use the medium of puppetry to poetically explore the psychological depths of the characters, illuminating their growth and issues of autonomy and control in ways that more conventional staging cannot.  Puppetry makes it possible to use dreamlike symbolic imagery. The play’s most magical character, Ariel, can be shown to shape-shift gracefully from one bird form to another without losing her identity. Caliban, a creature of the stone and soil of the island, would be capable to literally emerge from the ground.

                With a combination of traditional shadow puppets and digital projection, the shadow screen will make it possible to show atmospheric effects (i.e. lighting) and act as a living subconscious for the production.  Petroglyph forms and manuscript illuminations moving across the screen will make it possible for the audience to peer in on the dreams and intentions of those onstage.

The production has a projected cast of ten to fifteen performers who will perform multiple roles utilizing various puppetry techniques including modified Bunraku, shadows, mask, and costume work, alongside traditional acting.  Rehearsals would begin in January of 2013 with the performances to be in April or May of that year.  

For me personally telling the story of The Tempest using puppetry techniques on a full stage is the dream of a lifetime. The Jim Henson Foundation’s kind assistance would help to make this dream a reality.

                                                                                                                             Sincerely,

                                                                                                                

                                                                                                                  John A. Ryan

                                                                                                                                                       Puppeteer
                                                                                                                                                       April 2, 2012


Here also is the visual that I included. Due to technical difficulties that I won't bore you with, I only have the "low res." version on my computer right now. what I mailed looks a bit cleaner and nicer.

If you want a closer look at the concept art and the sketchpad page I used, Here they are. I'm not going to repost the Mouse Puppet picture. Anyone who cares to can always revisit him Here.

Thanks to Joe and Hope Von Stengel getting the ball rolling and  for their support, technical and otherwise, also to Malissa Kano-White, my new co-conspirator and creative partner in this.Working with you is going to be fun!  Thanks also to Gennarose Pope for her usual eagle eyed proof reading  Proof reading  credits also go to the amazing Susan Forte and the lovely Jeannette Kjos. I would be very remiss if I didn't give a big shout out to my roommate Joe La Fave  partly for the help with photoshop,  partly for the proofread, but mostly for politely ignoring the fact that he lives with someone who frequently behaves like something out of a Lewis Carroll fever-dream!

We find out in June if I get to continue the application process. I will of course keep everyone posted as events warrant. So stay tuned! Over the course of the next year, you will all get to watch what could very well be my descent into madness!

Fiction: Border Crossing Part III

                                                                III

The Manticore’s eyes burned with mad ferocity, His all-too-human face was empty of any expression apart from raw, vacant hunger. The monster’s gaping maw hung slack and slathering revealing rows of sharklike teeth within. Ribs protruded from his gaunt lion body. The beast’s ragged panting echoed across the barren rocks and gnawed bones of his lair. His breath was fetid and foul smelling. From the hair of his matted threadbare mane to the poison dripping tip of his scorpion tail, the manticore was a creature of anger hunger and want. He was quite possibly the most terrifying thing Connor had ever seen

Alba’s hand drifted carefully towards her blade’s hilt. With infinite care she drew the sword from its scabbard.  To Connor’s shock, she deliberately set the weapon down beside her. She began to croon softly to the ravening beast in Russian. Connor didn’t understand the words but the tone was unmistakably gentle and even affectionate, as if coaxing a frightened child. The manticore rocked uncertainly for a moment on its haunches, the chitinous, segmented tail cocking like a squirrel’s. He lurched to his feet and began padding towards them.

“What the hell are you doing?” hissed Connor in panic “Don’t call it!”
                “Shut up and let me concentrate,” she rebuked without changing tone or looking away “watch!”

At first Connor thought he must be hallucinating. The Manticore appeared to be walking forward without moving. Then he realized that it was shrinking as it came nearer.

“How are you doing that?” He gasped

Alba scratched the ears of the rust colored cat that stood in the manticore’s place.

“It wasn’t me,” she told him “the enchantment is the Light Queen’s”

The cat purred appreciatively at Connor’s caress. Connor laughed with relief.

“It was a harmless cat all along?” he chuckled, incredulous.

“It would be more accurate to say he’s still a manticore” sniffed Alba. Connor hastily withdrew his hand. The cat butted his leg affectionately.  

“Wait, What? How?” Connor demanded

Alba sighed wearily.

“It’s all about perception”, she explained as she absentmindedly stroked the animal. “If we had fled, he would have chased and devoured us. Had we fought, we would have been faced with an invincible foe.  He reacts to the way he is treated. The Queen loves enchantments like this. It’s her style”

*************************************************************

The tiny tailor cast an appraising eye over his handiwork. His push-broom mustache twitched.

“That will do nicely” He concluded

“I’m not wearing this, I look like a clown!” groused Connor.

“You must dress not to draw attention to yourself on the Other Side, Sir”, the tailor chided. He reminded Connor of his neighbor’s geriatric terrier. “this way you will not draw attention to yourself”.

Connor gazed at his own reflection. He couldn’t imagine any situation where this outfit wouldn’t stand out

“I want to see!” Alba’ voice demanded. The dressing room door burst open. Connor had never seen anyone actually fall over laughing before.

“No! Absolutely not!” She wheezed with mirth.

“All the Bards of the realm dress in this fashion, Lady”. The tailor’s watery eyes were full of reproach.

“No they do not” she fired back, still giggling. “How do you expect him to walk all the way to the Queen’s court in those stupid curly toed shoes? Get him a decent pair of boots, for heaven’s sake! While you’re back there, put that quilt he’s wearing back on your bed and get a travelling cloak that isn’t made of patchwork. Brown or gray would be best.”

The spindly tailor drew himself up with dignity.

“As the Lady wishes, but how will people know the gentleman is a bard?”

“He’s not a bard, he’s just a musician” Alba corrected “If it comes to that he can tell them. Now go get a more practical cloak and boots. I need to change.”

“Wait a minute, what about the hat?” Connor demanded pointing at the gigantic black floppy creation with it’s yard long maroon feather.

“That, we’re keeping” Alba grinned wickedly and disappeared into the next stall. The tailor bowed formally before vanishing into the back room in a cloud of unhappy muttering. 

“If anyone asks, we’re on our way to a costume party right?” she reminded him from the other side of the wall.

“Won’t that sword in your garment bag be a problem?” he asked

“It was made in the Realm. Most people on our side can’t see it. Also, unlike most metal it can be carried over the border. You remembered not to bring anything metal right?”

“Just my mandolin strings. You said that was okay. Will I need a weapon?”

“You don’t know how to use one, so no”, her accurate diagnosis was muffled by a rustle of fabric Instrument strings are fine as long as they aren’t iron”

“Why do I need the mandolin in the first place?” The tailor re emerged and began to make the changes to Connor’s costume.

“It’s custom to bring a gift to court. The Queen likes music. You’ll play for her.”  Alba’s voice explained.  Connor glanced back into the mirror. He had to admit the new boots and cloak were an improvement.  The door swung open again.

“How do I look?” Alba twirled in front of him. She looked as though she had just stepped off of a decorative beer stein and was about to start yodeling. Connor had never seen anyone looking less like a warrior.

“Fine” he told her gruffly. The tailor obviously didn’t feel this was sufficient.

“Your Ladyship looks very fetching. If I may advise, though, the fashion is to wear one’s hair loose these days.”

Alba patted her tight French braids

“It’s out of the way like this.” she decided after a second of inspecting her reflection. The tailor produced two carved wooden lockets from his vest pocket. She placed one around her own neck before putting one on Connor.

“What’s this?” he asked

“Soil from here. It’ll keep you grounded”

“Seriously?”

Alba nodded. 

“Time moves differently across the border. You never know if you’ll come back five minutes after you left, or a hundred years. If you carry a bit of earth from your side with you, it keeps the connection stronger. You won’t lose more than a year with this on. Now let’s get moving. We have a long way to go.

As they left Alba pressed a few large golden coins into the tailor’s palm. He made one more valiant attempt to place the hat on Connor’s head.

“I’m not wearing that! She was joking!” Connor protested, ducking out the door.

Dragon Skeleton

 Happy Halloween! Today seemed like a good opportunity to post some pictures of one of my better efforts. This is a fully articulated dragon skeleton. each bone has been individually hand carved out of basswood. I like the way the blonde wood plays against the darker ceiling in this hanging. For me this piece is a good synthesis of my love of fantasy and folklore and my passion for natural history and anatomy (I've previously discussed my fascination with bones Here.).  The skeleton is roughly goose sized and that of a Common Sea Wyvern, or Brown Drakie. There is an entire biological profile behind her, complete with adaptations and social behaviors My personal fantasy world grew  fairly elaborate, to the point where there is evolution and speciation taking place. I will delve into that topic later. For now, I hope you enjoy!

Reoccurring themes: Masks

              I find that I make a lot of masks. As Halloween is just around the corner, it seemed like a good idea to delve into the archives and talk about them. I like to make masks because they are relatively a simple form with infinite variation possible. A mask is traditionally something of a ceremonial or magical item. Masks have power. Maskwork may  be one of the oldest  formalized performance techniques and can get incredibly sophisticated.  The dichotomy of masks fascinates me. They can be used to as a disguise to conceal the wearer's identity (in fact in Venice  people became so enamored with the anonymity masks worked their way out of the ballroom and into everyday fashion. I read somewhere that wearing a mask pin on your lapel was a sign you wished to be left alone), or reveal it (this gets into a whole intriguing area of psychology. Masks can be used as a catalyst to tap into areas of our  subconscious that we may not have easy access to). Mask performance can be incredibly liberating and incredibly sophisticated. I have probably made more masks than any other one type of object. In India for one performance i personally shaped fifty of paper mache. i don't know how many have survived and have next to no documentation of them. I was surprised when I was putting this post together how few pictures I actually had in general. Some of them aren't the greatest photos. I think instead of offering my usual commentary on each piece, I'll just let you browse the collection on your own. Enjoy!

Fiction: Border Crossing Part II

                                                                II

                The massive stone doorway dominated the muddy patch of esplanade where it stood. Like a giraffe in a bathtub, it demanded the viewer’s attention by its sheer size and improbability.

         “How can no one know about this being here?” breathed Connor, astonished.

        Alba calmly regarded the ancient, cathedral sized structure

                “If you don’t cross the Bridge of the Wind it is not here. The Mirror Gate is a between-place. You can only find it by one path.”

                “Impossible!” Connor murmured to himself.

                “You would not use that word so often if you truly understood it” she said. He found Alba’s matter-of fact demeanor a bit trying at times.  She pointed at an elaborately carved decorative relief panel.

                “Can you read this inscription? No?  Roughly translated, and leaving out the unnecessary poetry, it cautions you to stay on the path. It says that a great danger may lie within if you aren’t mindful of what you cannot be without.”

 Conner felt drained and confused and they hadn’t even passed the second obstacle. This was nothing like he had imagined such an adventure would be like.  His incomprehension must have shown on his face.

“Thoughts”, she explained patiently “It is called the Mirror Gate because it reflects what is in your mind. Do not ignore the warning. It is potentially the most dangerous of the Three Passages, worse even than The Guardian. Focus your mind and stay on the path no matter what you see or hear.  Flee from your greatest fear or chase your heart’s desire here and you’ll be lost forever. Concentrate and stay on the path. Are you ready to go? “

“Almost”, Connor tried to think of something pleasant and calm while his heart pounded in his throat.  “I know that this is kind of a personal question, but what do you see in there?”

Alba gave him a half smile.

“Wolves”, she stated. “Always it is wolves”

 *****************************************************

“It is a bit much to take in at first” Alba sympathized. 

Connor gazed out the diner window attempting to absorb everything he had just been told. On the other side of the glass a tiny woman rode by on the back of an enormous pig laden with baskets of apples. 

“So…like a parallel dimension?” he attempted

She lapped a dollop of mayonnaise from her thumb with a rose petal tongue.

“If it helps to think of it that way, then yes” she nodded

“…And all those stories about witches and dragons?”

“A better word might be memories. We’ve filled in the gaps with our imaginations over the years and gotten some of the details confused, but for the most part it’s amazing how much the old tales have gotten right. There’s a whole other realm that overlaps ours and for some reason you’re one of the few who can see it. This is a dangerous position to be in if you don’t know the terrain. It is crucially important we get you an audience with the Light Queen as soon as possible”.

“Wait”, Connor sputtered “you’re telling me there really is a queen of the fai…”

“Never use that word!” barked Alba. She rolled her eyes “This is exactly what I’m talking about. Say “Good Neighbors” or “Fair Folk” If you need to refer to them. You never know what you’ll summon otherwise”.

“I don’t get it. Aren’t we talking about the little people with butterfly wings? What’s so bad about them? “

Alba took another bite of her second bacon cheeseburger, chewed and swallowed before responding.

“You say that as if you hadn’t just seen a Kobold” she scoffed

“You mean the guy with the squashed-in face? How dangerous could he be?”

  “If he had found out which eye you could see him through, the nasty little beast would have plucked it out and eaten it like a grape. He nearly got your name, too.”  She smiled sweetly. “As it stands, through him you’ve already annoyed the Unseelie Court and there’s far worse than him under the Dark Queen.  That’s why we need to get you allied with the Seelie Court, and quick! To answer your question, there are, in fact, two Queens of the Star People: one light, one dark, both powerful and both of their courts are perpetually at war with each other and now you are in the middle of it.”

Connor stared unseeing at the crust of his club sandwich

“Why does this thing with names matter? I’m sure I’ve said the “f” word before and nothing happened”. 

Alba snatched another fry from his plate.

“Before, you didn’t notice. The thing about the other realm is when you notice it, it notices back. Words and names have power. It’s a magic so old we’ve all but forgotten it on our side. Giving someone your full name is like giving them a piece of yourself. It can be used to summon and control you. Never give your name to anyone you do not trust with your life. When in doubt introduce yourself as ….Heron.”

“Why Heron?”

“You look like one”, she giggled. “Now I’d like to summon some lemon meringue pie!”

“You’re so tiny, where are you putting all this food?” he marveled

“Quick metabolism” she grinned.

“I’ve been duped!” He cried in mock despair “I wish you had warned me about this before I agreed to treat, you’re going to bankrupt me!”

“Think of it as the lesser of two evils. The last person I know who annoyed a kobold had thorns spring up everywhere he sat. It took months to break the spell, too.” Alba smugly popped another of his fries in her mouth. “Besides, I’m going to act as your guide in the Beyond. It’s the least you can do.”

“You’ll really take me there? When?”

 “I need to get time off from work and inform my pack leader,” she mused. “It should take about a week. Until then, remember these rules: Never tell anyone your full name or use the “f” word, never accept a bargain or a gift without understanding the true cost, be polite to everyone you meet, and under no circumstances eat or drink anything given to you from the Other Side.  Follow these guidelines and you just might survive long enough to make the journey.”

Connor chuckled uneasily.

“Pack leader? Don’t tell me…you’re some sort of werewolf” He had made the joke to cover his nervousness, but he could tell immediately he had said exactly the wrong thing. Alba’s thin frame stiffened and her eyes narrowed.  In a razor edged whisper she informed him:

“No. Not a werewolf, a lycanthropist!”

“Listen…No! I’m sorry! You’ve been really good to me, explaining everything and offering to help me and all. I really am grateful, and I went and insulted you without even meaning to!”

Her shoulders visibly relaxed.

“I forgive you, Connor. You didn’t know what you were saying. It is exactly that sort of mistake that could cost you your life, however. Try to be careful.”

“I still have so much to learn”, He shook his head ruefully “I don’t even know the difference between a werewolf and a lycanthropist “

“Self control” Alba announced.haughtily.

 *****************************************************

Two days after Alba and Connor exchanged numbers and parted company, He found himself wandering in Riverside Park just before sunset. It was strange, he reflected, how quickly he had gotten used to seeing things almost nobody else could. It certainly helped to understand that they really existed, and for the most part would leave him alone.  As he wandered, Connor became aware of a sweet melancholy ambling music played on some sort of breathy flute.  The source of this melody was a satyr perched on an ornamental boulder in a small spruce grove, playing a reed pipe.  He sat down on a nearby bench to listen. The music drifted to a gradual finish. Without looking up, the satyr spoke.

“If you don’t want to appear to be talking to yourself, you might pretend to use your mobile telephone” The goat-man’s voice was rich and deep without the slightest hint of a bleat to it. Connor fished the device out of his pocket and put it to his ear.

“Thank you. That’s a really good suggestion” Connor said into the phone. “You play beautifully.”

The Satyr slid down from the rock and trotted over to join him on the bench. The fur of his legs along with his beard was a blotchy brown and white pattern. His face handsomely fused human features and a goat’s muzzle. The creature gave the air of youth and merriment one moment, and great dignity and wisdom the next. Connor wondered how old his new acquaintance really was, and wondered if concepts like age had any bearing on creatures like this.

“My friends know me as Cattail” offered the satyr extending   a thick strong hand. Connor shook it firmly.  He remembered Alba’s warnings.

“I’m called Heron.”  The name still tasted strange in his mouth.

Cattail nodded slowly. His amber eyes had the strange horizontal pupils of a goat’s.

“That suits you. You are Dooley’s new musician friend?” It was more of a statement then a question. Connor was surprised

“You know Dooley?

“Our world is smaller than this one these days. Word travels through it fast, and everyone knows the Invisible Man. He is a powerful friend to have.”

“Why do you call him that?”

The satyr exhaled slowly.

“Dooley gave himself that title. It is his joke. He says on this side you need no magic to vanish, you just need to hold a paper cup and mutter.”

Connor digested this.

“It’s not vey funny “he said finally.

Cattail turned his painfully earnest face towards Connor.

“No, Heron.” He agreed solemnly “It is not funny”.

The man and satyr sat together for a moment in silence.

“I’m going across soon, what is it like on the other side?” Connor asked

“The realm has many different faces, just like here. My glade is green, cool and peaceful. Naiads sing from the deep pool, and there are many kinds of fruit to eat. It is a beautiful place.” Cattail reflected on his home contentedly for a moment before asking, “You are going to visit The Queen?”

  Connor confirmed this was so.

Cattail ran his hand over his curved horn thoughtfully.

“It is a long and perilous journey. You will need a protector. Do you have someone to guide and guard you on your way?

“A girl has agreed to take me, but I don’t know if she’ll be much of a protector really.” Connor told him, “She’s called Ice.”

The satyr drew in a sharp breath.

“You do not know Lady Ice very well, I assume?” The words seemed to come from a long way off.

“We just met. Why?”

Cattail paused to choose his words.

“Heron, listen” he finally said “There are creatures across the border too terrible to contemplate, beasts of nightmares with no mercy and hearts of shadow. When these things awaken from their dreams in terror and cold sweat, Lady Ice’s name is on their lips. She is a fierce warrior and one of the most respected among the Wolves.  You could not have chosen better if you thought about it for many days. You are most fortunate in your friends.”

 ******************************************************

“It is time” Alba stated, “Let’s go

The gigantic doors began to grind open with glacial speed

“I have to return from this,” Connor thought irrelevantly “I promised Cattail we would teach each other some tunes”

Alba sighed heavily as the stone doors gradually swung open.

“Nothing is ever done without dramatics here” she complained theatrically to the sky, “It gets tedious”.

Connor laughed anxiously. He gripped the handle of his mandolin case and forced himself to concentrate on the trip he took to Yellowstone when he was nine.  With a deep breath he followed his guide through the Mirror gate and into Fairie.