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Dec 22, 2014

The Schattenreich Recipes: Sebastian's Kitchen

Belgian Waffles

The title should be in blinking red lights and have a diet warning siren blaring out at all times. It should scare away the Paleos and the rest of the low-carb sufferers, the vegans, the low-fat dieters. All of you should run away, run away fast. The 5:2 dieters (if it's not a fast day) and the rest of you - still with me?

A belly full of whipped cream demands a nap
Sebastian von der Lahn prepares Belgian waffles for Caitie in Shadow Zone, Book 4 of the Schattenreich. They serve to help her ground herself again in the waking world after she returns from her journey in the Dreams. Food are two good ways to accomplish this. I'll leave it as an exercise to the reader to decide which method was the most successful.

I've reproduced Sebastian's recipe for you here. It was taste-tested by the entire family, including one contented four-legged friend. 

 First of all, I have to admit, I've never ever ever been able to make decent waffles. I've tried the recipe that came with my waffle iron and others in cookbooks, but they always ended up being either hard enough to pave my patio or simply lacking in taste. 

A while back, my son made waffles for me (counts as a minor miracle in itself), and they were delicious. So what was his secret?

"Google has the best recipes, Mom."

Okay. Fine. So that's what I did. I found this recipe, and it looked promising.

Do not fear egg whites.
Two eggs makes this much.
Run over there and get the recipe and then come back. I'll wait. 

The thing to note about this recipe (besides a lack of conversions, which I've roughly calculated at the bottom of this post***), is that you have to separate the egg yolks and whites from each other. Then whip the egg whites until they are stiff. Because of the amount of air incorporated into the egg whites at this point, it's almost guaranteed that the waffles will be lighter. Since only two eggs are necessary for the recipe, I found it easier to whip them in this small container rather than a big bowl.

Another tip for the expatriate Americans (or anyone else who lives in Germany), vanilla extract here is not the same as it is in the states. So, instead of an inferior extract (I usually bring bottles back with me, but I've run out), I used a package of vanilla sugar (vanille Zucker) and added it to the dry ingredients.

I did end up using less butter than the recipe called for (around 3/4 of a cup) and didn't notice any lack of buttery flavor. Other than that, I followed the recipe as it's stated and baked them on a setting of between 4 and 5. Because there's so much butter in the waffles, I found I didn't need to butter my (non-stick) waffle iron.

The recipe yielded exactly ten waffles.

Not perfect to look at, but perfectly edible
Now onto the toppings.

I whipped heavy cream (with another package of vanilla sugar). 

In addition, in keeping with Sebastian's results, I made a strawberry sauce. Since fresh strawberries are ridiculously expensive this time of year, I used frozen ones (about a cup and a half), cooked in a small saucepan with a little bit of water, a couple of tablespoons of sugar and a tablespoon of maple syrup (and a splash).

Cook over low heat until the strawberries fall apart. You can do this while the waffles are baking. I chopped up a couple of basil leaves (yes, that's right, fresh basil) and added them to the sauce after it cooked down. You could also add chopped mint (strawberry mint would be wonderful). 

 Mash or blend with an immersion mixer to desired consistency (I left mine just a little bit chunky). Taste and adjust the sweetness as desired, as not all strawberries pack the same sweetness, even the frozen ones.

Spoon a little strawberry sauce over the waffles. Add a splash of maple syrup if desired, and top with whipped cream. I added a fresh raspberry on top for artistry. And voila! 
A little bit of heaven on earth
 My fazit; these were the best, most delicious, lightest, homemade waffles I've ever made (or eaten). Ever. And the most calorie intense. Ever. We made them our midday meal - I managed to eat two, but regretted it (a little). They are a special meal, to be savored at this time of year and possibly again when fresh strawberries are in season.

They lasted for three days (kept in the refrigerator), and there's not a crumb left.

So if you try this recipe, I'd love to hear your feedback.


The recipe doesn't have conversions for liters/grams. According to my kitchen scale, a cup of flour is approximately 160 g. A cup of sugar, around 250 g. Alternatively, use a 250 ml measuring cup as a standard for the cups of dry ingredients, and you should be just fine. A cup of milk or butter is 250 ml. I used medium organic eggs.

Nov 28, 2014

Free Fiction for Black Friday

In Your Dreams
Sharon Kae Reamer

"So sweet," he murmurs.

I hit the snooze button.

"You're talking in your sleep again."


"Harry! Time to get up."

I push my nose under his chin and brush the skin on his neck. It used to work. Not this morning.

"Erdbeermund." He turns over and hugs his pillow. "Come back."

Harald has his head in his laptop, checking emails and appointments by the time I get downstairs. At least he has the machine ready. I push the button and wait for my cup to fill.

"What did you mean, Erdbeermund? Is that one of your new flavors?"

His nervous laugh irks. Everything irks before coffee. I down my first caffeine elixir of the day and get a second cup. "What then?"

He shakes his head. "Don't matter."

"Doesn't matter, dear."

He pecks keys.

"What does it mean? Erdbeer equals strawberry and Mund is mouth. Sounds like a flavor."

His eyes shift up from the screen and quickly back down. "Could be. Good idea. Was just a dream, Trish."


Alarm goes off. Sounds, the kinds of groany sounds Harald makes when we have sex. But we aren't. He's turned away from me. I lay a hand on his shoulder.

"Erdbeermund. Don't go."

"Hello, Morning Mouth, time to wake up."


Janey orders a spaghetti eis. It's a mound of vanilla ice cream with strawberry sauce and sprinkles of white chocolate supposed to look like spaghetti with tomato sauce and Parmesan. She's a lifer, meaning she's been an expatriate forever. Janey knows things. And people. I'm hoping that makes her the high priestess of mixed culture marriages. I drink my cappuccino and wonder how she manages to look like a scarecrow with all she eats.

She waves her spoon at me, digging bits of meaning out of the air.

"Sounds like you and Harald need a ravenous sex weekend. Somewhere exotic. Say, Amsterdam."

I bark at her. "Amsterdam is exotic? Majorca, maybe. At least the sexy beach babes might get his head in the right place."

She snickers. "You've got expat blues. No can speak the language, no job, and too little money. What you need is a sauna membership."

"Are you serious? And sit naked with a bunch of weird men?"

"Nobody looks at anybody in the sauna. Just pretend you're alone."

"Have you seen the men who go to the sauna during the day? They have that hair flap thing to cover their bald spots and hairy stomachs that look like they're about to give birth to perfectly round basketballs and their penises flopping around underneath. Ugh."

She looks up from her eis. "You're right. Remind me to cancel my membership."

"I'm serious, Janey. These dreams are starting to spook me. He's getting it on with Little Miss Strawberry Pout every night. The sheets were even wet the past two mornings."

"I just lost my appetite for vanilla ice cream."

"Sorry. I'm starting to think he's more than halfway to deranged. Maybe he's been inhaling something unhealthy at work. Who knows what kind of weird chemicals they have to sniff all day long."

"Oh, come on. They're flavor engineers, not pesticide developers." Janey glances at the other tables before leaning closer, shaking out her long, blonde hair. "Talk to Angelika."

"Who's she?"

"She's German but nice. She had the same problem with her husband."

"How do you know that?"

Janey shrugs and pushes her dish across the table. "Word got around. We went out to dinner with them a few times back before…"

I wait. Jenny worries a cuticle. "Need another manicure this week. Want to go with me?"

"Janey, what about Angelika? Why did you stop going out with them?"

"Because them is not them anymore. Her ex left. Quit the company, moved away. She found someone else. I don't know what happened to him. Frank never told me."

"So how do you know the same thing happened to her?"

"I heard it from one of the other wives. I didn't think anything about it, thought maybe she was making a bad joke at Angelika's expense. You know, that weird German sense of humor."

"Do you know how to get in touch with her?"

Janey flips her purse open and excavates. She exclaims in triumph and slides a card across the table. "Here. That's her number and address."


I twirl the card on one corner of the kitchen table and take another deep drink of red wine. Harald still isn't home, and I'm staring at a noodle casserole gone cold. Headless worms burrow through a pile of hamburger-colored boulders. All covered with cheese. I pick up the phone.

Voice message greets me. I leave my name and number and hang up. Thirty seconds later the phone rings.


"Who is this?"

"Trish Ober. Is this Angelika?"

"I don't know you."

"Janey gave me your name. I need to talk to someone."

"What about?"

"I don't know how to say this…my husband has dreams."

"You don't say. Where do you live?"


"I'd rather meet you privately and at your place, if you don't mind. Then we can talk."

"Okay. When?"

"Tomorrow afternoon?"

I give her my address and hang up as I hear Harald's key in the front door. Harald greets me with a warm kiss and a bouquet of roses. This is something…I’m imagining everything…it’s not really happening. Maybe I should call Angelika back, cancel the appointment. As Harald sweeps me into his arms, I decide it can wait until morning.


"Erdbeermund, don't go. It was only a flirt. Please…"


I push him out of the bed.

"Was? What?"

"Time to get up."

He trudges to the bathroom, rubbing his head. I turn over, wondering how to hurry the hours before Angelika arrives.


The doorbell rings promptly at three.

Everything is ready. Tea in the teapot, coffee in the coffeepot, me in the chair across from Angelika, the seat already warm from two hours of waiting. I pour tea into a faded-flowers-on-faded-white background cup that I inherited from Harald's mother after we moved to Germany. I tap the rim of my cup.

Instead of speaking, Angelika reaches into a dark gray handbag, worn leather with spidery cracks running through it, fine webs of wear that give it a faded glory patina, a little like Angelika. She pulls out a small velvet-covered case and runs a hand over the cover. She opens a flap and pulls out a deck of cards illustrated with men and women in interesting positions.

She hands the deck to me. "Shuffle them and lay three out in a row on the table in front of you."

Angelika moves my cup and saucer and wipes her hand across the wood surface in front of me to clear a place. I look at her as I shuffle. Her dark brown eyes hold no trace of humor. None whatsoever. And those small lines creasing the edges are not laugh lines.

I lay three cards in a horizontal line. The first card shows a man and a woman, naked but holding hands and looking forward, walking. The second card shows a lightning bolt striking down between the two of them. I can’t tell if it is the same pair as on the first card because their faces are so generic, but it could be. The third card shows two couples, entwined, enthralled, stuck together Lego-like.

"You want to pair me up with someone. You're really from one of those dating agencies aren't you? Or I'm supposed to sleep with strange men in my spare time? Revenge? Pocket change? Not interested."

She wrinkles her nose and hesitates, her fingers hovering above the cards I've laid out. "Don't be so rude. You called me, remember?"

"Yeah. Janey recommended you, but she hangs weird sometimes, goes to Botox parties even, so I don't know. Wait, I do know." I scratch at my head. "Oh, okay, the joke is on me. I'll tell Janey it was a Big

"Does he dream about her every night?"

"Who's her?"

"You know, the one who he talks to, in his sleep. Or how did you find out about her?"

"Why did Janey put you up to this? This is to humiliate me, isn't it?"

"No. You are probably suffering enough as it is."

My mouth is so dry. I pour more tea.

"He calls her Erdbeermund. I thought it was one of his new flavors, but he didn't seem to know what I was talking about."

She shakes her head. "You have to fight for him. But only if you really want him. It won't be easy. The dream women know exactly how to mold themselves. His every need. His every want. And they don't have to go shopping or shave their legs."

I resist the urge to look down. Did she shave her legs? Most German women over a certain age didn't, but she doesn't look that old. For that matter, I hadn't shaved in a couple of days. Okay, maybe five or even six.

But there had been no reason to. Harald was preoccupied.

"What can I do about it? Has this happened to you? What did you do?"

She taps a fingernail on the middle card. "I lost my husband. He didn't manage to break free of her, his dream girl. I tried to exorcise her, to rip him away from her."

I blurt out the words, not thinking. "What do you mean, too late, is he dead?"

She smiles, sad, to go with the hurt in her eyes. "No, not dead. But I changed him. Should have just let him go, let him find his own way back, but there you have it."

She hands me the card, the couple singed apart by the lightning bolt. "Take this with you." She pulls a business card out of her pocket. "Go here and talk to her."

The card has a leopard print motif with green lianas as lettering. "Zeebra Tropicana? Is that a place or a person?"

A wry grin appears as she stands to go. "Both. She can help you, but what you want. You better decide before you act."


She waits on a customer so I wander farther back into the dense jungle of her shop. It is filled with hip-high statues of cheetahs and black-tusked elephants, a few carved wooden totems, tall dour men with stretched faces and long spears. I hear a bird squawking, and don't know if it's real or a recording. The place smells like patchouli oil and chili-flavored chocolate. Vines rank everywhere, just like on her card. But no zebras.

"Can I help you find something?"

Zeebra Tropicana has waist-long, straight black hair tied into a long tail with a bright red and black print scarf. She fills the room with her presence – it is compelling and comforting in a strange, almost divine sense.

She looks divine, tall and angular with dark creamy skin and exotic brown eyes. Must be the patchouli working.

"Hi! That's an intense fragrance. Is that incense? A really exotic-smelling candle? I'm just browsing, really."

Her once-over with tilted head and straightened shoulders and the skeptical look that follows tell me I have not fooled her. I clear my throat and wipe my hands on my stretch pants.

Harald withdrew even further from me in the weeks following Angelika's visit. He trudged home from work late and fell immediately into bed. Some nights he took a pill to get to sleep. I responded with homemade remedies. My sexiest nightgown. The Body Shop premium wares. Steak and red wine. Oysters even.

Anything to get him back in my bed. But Harald didn't want any oysters, and he didn't want any of me. All he wanted was to go to bed early and dream about his Strawberry Sadie. Did she even have a name?

Returning from shopping yesterday was the ultimo trick. As I passed by a market stall on the Breite Strasse, a handwritten sign proclaiming ERDBEERMUND, 2.99 Euro/kg caught my eye. No matter that it really said ERDBEERE. I pictured her then. Eastern European, all frail and thin but with perfect breasts and a huge pouty mouth.

The stall was full of strawberry buckets full of Erbeermund, full red lips with upturned corners. The bag of groceries I carried splotched and rolled all over the sidewalk. It took all my will to keep from splotching my guts out before I got home and into the bathroom. No way I would ever eat strawberries again. And no way I could compete with that.

I didn't call ahead. I wanted to see Miss Zeebra Tropicana for myself before making a commitment. Angelika had warned me about that. Decide before I act.

"And here I am."

Zeebra leans back on her sofa, a thick pile of jumbled cushions. I hand her the lightning bolt card Angelika had given me. She takes it without looking as she leans over to a small chest of drawers, an oriental design of black lacquer with an inlaid tile surface.

She pulls something out of a drawer, and I take in a breath and lean forward from my cushions. But it is only a candle that she sets down in front of us on the low teak table.

"Close your eyes," she says after she lights it. "Relax."

Patchouli again, this time without the chocolate. I do as I'm told.

"To take him back, you must be brave."

I wait, but she doesn't continue. Is she waiting for a response? "Brave," I say.

"You must be bold."


"And. You must be sure about what you want."

I peek through one partly opened eye. She holds the card with the separated lovers just above the candle. A small brown spot appears at the corner nearest the flame.

Not sure what to say this time, I nod.

She shakes her head. "Not good enough."

"I want him."

I hear a sound like a strangled laugh. "Who's him?"

"Oh. Harald. My husband."

"It's not what you say, it's what you want that's important. Close both eyes tight and picture him."

I try to picture Harald's face with his little-boy smile and unruly hair, but the image flickers like a candle. I try again, and the face fades a little. Is that a different face? The song Zeebra is singing, punctuated with humming, makes me drowsy.

The pop of burning paper mixes with the smell of incense. Was that the card? I feel warm and hear a buzzing sound. No, it's just the humming. Or is it waves on the shore? The water is warm at least, and the sand feels fine and yields to my back as the waves sizzle around me...

"You can open your eyes now."

A little pile of ashes in a dish sit next to the candle Zeebra has blown out.

I smile tentatively. "Is everything all right now?"

She looks at me quizzically. "Of course. Everything is always all right."

I shook my head. "No, I mean, is my problem solved?"

She tilts her head back and laughs, a deep, full sound and holds her stomach. It goes on longer than I would like.

"Sorry," she says, wiping a tear from one eye. "That was really good." She replaces the candle in the drawer and adjusts her colorful linen pants underneath her creamy draped tunic. "Look, Trish, do you mind if I call you that?"


"Now is when the work starts. You have to go in and get him." She hands me a pack of cards in a velvet case.

"What is it I have to do, exactly?"

"Eat healthy. No alcohol, no drugs, especially no sleeping pills. Go to sleep. Then you'll dream."

I stand to go, but Zeebra Tropicana lays a hand on my arm. "And don't worry."


The first time in.

I'm walking through a town ringed with amusement park buildings where no one lives with mountains no man has ever climbed. My steps clank on wooden sidewalks. Is this Durango? Harald and I spent a happy week there after our first Christmas to escape my relatives. Only when we were there it was full of people, self-centered ski bunnies and bronzed young men populating the bars and restaurants

We had laughed at them all, had a grand time drinking and eating. Harald zischt down the black diamond slopes and I managed to ski-sashay down the easy ones. We met up evenings at the hot tub. Had there been an Erdbeermund there? I hadn't noticed. I only had eyes for him.

Where would they be? I find the small hotel where we stayed, adjacent to the resort, and wander through the lobby, turning this way and that.

"Harald?" My voice is small. It belongs to a rabbit far from its hole, no ski bunny, me.

The resort pool is a short march across the short grass. No snow. As I enter through the glass door, I hear tinkling laughter, echoing voices.

Two bodies float in the pool, drifting apart, then together, a human Rorschach. But the interpretation seems pretty clear to me.


No answer.


The thin, small-waisted girl swims away from my Harald. He floats to the edge of the pool nearest me.

"Trish? What are you doing here? How—"

"The magic of love. She's not real, Harald. Come back."

Giggles erupt from the shallow end of the pool. It's not lit, and I can't see her face in the dim afternoon light.

He swims off to join her, and I feel faint as I lay out three cards in a horizontal line by the side of the pool. Lightning bolt is in the middle again. I don't even note the other two cards.


It gets harder.

Each time the card with the couple and the bolt from above shows up. The faces blur and fade a little more each time, but it could be the tears that well up. One time we are in Vienna. Another time, Santorini. All places Harald and I have been. Happy times. What is he looking for? Our past with someone else? The thought creeps me out.

Even creepier. We aren't alone any more. I don't know who these people are. Dream people? Am I going insane along with Harald? He seems content in his slide, except when I confront him. He runs to her each time. What am I doing wrong?

I sit in a pub in London on the Thames. Near the Tower Bridge. It is late afternoon, as it almost always is in the dream, and the light is wan and liquid buttery. Sounds seem muffled. They will come by any minute now. My arrival always seems timed to coincide with their passage in some way.

Thinking about it makes me ill.

The strong bitter quenches my thirst. People stride by outside. This seems all too real. Not like a dream at all. I'm losing my life.

Zeebra warned me even if not directly. She said to concentrate only on what I want. That was the nature of the magic, if magic it was. I am not sure. About that, or about what I want. Is my uncertainty leading me from my path, from everything that has meaning in the real world? Harald has become the dream. Him and his lover. They know exactly what they want. All the time, too.

"Haven't seen you here before." He has curls, dishwater blond ones, but they don't look ridiculous on him. A slender face and gentle, curious eyes of deep brown.

"No. Just passing through." I smile and look past him, out into the street, not wanting to miss their passage.

They glide into view, walking arm-in-arm. She leans her head on his shoulder. I leave my beer and my new acquaintance and charge out into the street. I am lightning bolt.

I stiff-arm her away from him, and she huffs at Harald. I ignore her. Harald shades his eyes with his hands as if dazzled by the sun, but he's looking away from the sun, looking at me. At least it's a start.

"Harald. Stop it. You belong with me in the real world. Don't you remember?"  I wave my arm in the direction of the Tower. "We were here. We slobbered over the crown jewels and made believe we were Princes in the Tower about to be killed. It made us cry." I wave both arms around. "We made out on the bridge. You said you couldn't help yourself. Do try and think about it. This isn’t you."

Harald's dream woman holds out her arms, pouting. He frowns at me and opens his mouth like he's about to speak, but his eyes drift to her. I remember Angelika's words. Tried to rip him away from her. The little boy smile appears, and I know it then. I can't do it. He's so happy. If I tear him away, what will I have gained? I'll have him back but at what price? Will he pine for her every night?

I've lost. The worst thing is, I no longer care. The thought should scare me or make me angry or sad. It doesn't. This Harald is no longer what I want. The other Harald is gone.

I stumble back into the pub, pulling the cards out of my pocket. My beer is still there, even warmer now. I sit and lay out my three cards.

No lightning bolt. This time, a woman and a man, holding hands. She leans against him and he has one arm around her. Her hair entwines them both. The same card, three times. Harald and his sweetheart, happily ever frigging after.

"It's probably not what you think it is."

My curly blond friend sits next to me. He points to the cards.

"I don't see any hidden message there," I say, a sulk creasing my brow.

"It means fortune and life," he says, and touches a finger to my hand holding the deck. "Time to look for it."

His gentle voice has a note of chiding in it. I nod and make my way out of the pub.


It's been six weeks since I left Harald. I saw him last when the movers came to collect my stuff from his flat. He seemed different, more alive. I asked him how he's been, and his face lit up.

"It's really good. I've met someone, Trish. In a lot of ways, she reminds me of you."

Of course she does. Except for that Erdbeermund. I have come to understand it. He never wanted me. He was always looking for her. I just got in the way. And now he's found her.

"Good for you, Harald," I want to say to him, in my dreams. But they stopped, too.

I'm sitting by the river. It's late afternoon, an early fall day, and the Rhine has taken on that magical color, a deep dark blue. A golden haze settles over the people walking by the river, the grass, the sky. I've ordered a glass of very dry white wine to go with the day. I take out the card, the one I received in triplicate in my dream, the man and the woman holding hands. Fortune and life. Fortune found me. I've got a job. And I suppose I have my life back, even though it feels so empty without Harald.

 "That's a lovely card. Is it part of a Tarot deck?" He stands by my table, stopped on his way to somewhere else, the sun at his back, setting those blond curls ablaze.

I smile up at him.

The End
©Copyright 2014. All rights reserved. This story may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

Nov 24, 2014

Schattenreich Mythology: Warrior Goddesses, Dark Queens, and Black Friday specials

Her name is Cathubodua (possibly pronounced cahú-bodwa or catú-bodwa) and what we know about her is limited to one main inscription (with the 'C' missing) from France. The name according to several sources, has been interpreted to mean 'battle crow'.

That's not much, is it?

But there is correspondence to the other more widespread fertility and warrior goddesses such as Badb or Bodb, Nemain, and the Morrígan (also known as the Demon Queen or Dark Queen). What these fearsome ladies have in common is their love of battle and death, their fertility powers, their temper, and their ability to transcend age and outward appearance, and their shapeshifting abilities.

In the Schattenreich series, I have incorporated many of these qualities into the Breton-Gaulish deity called Cathubodua. She commands a cohort of the Folk (the Tud) who can shapeshift into frightening and dangerous forms of crows/ravens (there are no real animals in Ande-dubnos).

What makes her special is her relevance. Despite her totally Celtic origin - there is no real equivalence in the Germanic or even the Greco-Roman pantheon - she continues to thrive. I've chosen this actuality in spite of the softening of female deities since the Iron Age through persistent and detrimental whittling down by Christian (and New Age pagan) influence.

Goddesses with a darker bent just cannot be beaten down. The reasons for my choice have to do with how society has evolved to totally negate and, to a certain extent, bury the ancient reverence for powerful female symbols of both war and fertility. The need for such symbols exists, even today, perhaps much more than ever. But that's just my opinion. Take it or leave it.

Cathubodua serves as both adversary and teacher to heroes (and heroines, as the case may be). A telling line from her conversation with Catilin von der Lahn in Shadow Zone, Book 4 of the Schattenreich series explains the dichotomy

"Can I ask you something else?” I made my voice soft. When I returned to my life, my enemies would be waiting for me along with the people I loved.

She gazed at me, and the motherly crone appeared. “You may.”

“Why do you pit Dagmar against me?”

“She makes her own choices.”

“And if I defeat her? Will that make you my enemy?”

“I have no interest in your squabbles in the waking world as I have little influence there. Unfortunate, that is. You are of the blood. Only those who choose to be my enemy are.”

And that sums up Cathubodua's philosophy quite well. She wants to walk among us again...and waits for her chance. As so many of the Ande-dubnos dwellers.

Book 2 of the Schattenreich
Book, 1 of the Schattenreich
And now, Black Friday. All this week and through the weekend, Primary Fault and Shaky Ground are discounted to $0.99 at many retail outlets. 

References and recommended further reading:

Myths and Symbols in Pagan Europe, H. R. Ellis Davidson
The Gods of the Celts, Miranda Green
Celtic Culture, A historic encyclopedia, John, T. Koch
The Encyclopedia of Celtic Mythology and Folklore, Patricia Monaghan

photo credit: chrisotruro via photopin cc

Nov 10, 2014

Albedo One Magazine - Issue 45 available in ebook and print

Albedo One Issue 45 

From David Conyers at Albedo One:

The latest issue of Albedo One features new fiction from TD Edge, Stephen Gaskell, Martin McGrath, Kelly Rede, Jacey Bedford, David Conyers and Luigi Musolino. Also featured is an in-depth interview with Hugo Award-winning hard science fiction author Peter Watts, interview with zombie-superhero crossover author Peter Clines, cover art by Ken Barthelmey, and reviews columns from Juliet E. McKenna and George Anderson.

If you would like to check out more of the amazing illustrations of our cover artists, Ken Barthelemy, visit his website at

At long last, we are pleased to announce that you can now purchase issue 45 in the Albedo One Shop in print and eBook (.epub and .mobi (for Kindle)) formats
and at,, and Moreover, from issue 45, our eBook formats will be available for just 2.99 euro. Enjoy! Subscribers should also start to see their print copies land on their doorsteps in the coming weeks!

Nov 5, 2014

Fossil Rock Song

Okay, it's definitely geo-geeky, but what the heck? I am so that.

There's more where this came from at Born to Be a Geologist.

Oct 31, 2014

Shadow Zone limited price promotion

The trade paperback is now up in many Amazon stores. BUT the real Halloween Special is the pre-order price for the ebook.

Shadow Zone, Book 4 of the Schattenreich, is available digitally for pre-order at the special price of US $0.99 from NOW until publication date on NOVEMBER 15th at these retailers.




AND wishing everyone a...

photo credit: AlicePopkorn via photopin cc

Oct 18, 2014

Shadow Zone Excerpt and Cover

Here's the cover and an excerpt from Book 4, the penultimate novel in the Schattenreich series, and the sequel to Primary Fault, Shaky Ground and Double Couple. Release date for the trade paperback is planned for October 31. The ebook will follow shortly.

Chapter 3

He found me as I stumbled out, bereft of emotion, alone. I repeated the mantra of my journey through the forest once more. Where am I. Who am I. It had lasted a lifetime or no time at all. No sound, no smell. Souls don’t smell. Souls yearn.

Ankou saluted me, two fingers to his forehead, and then gestured in front of him. He wore no hat and didn’t have his curved iron. “Let us walk a-ways together. Katarin.”

“Is that my name?”

“It is the one I have given you.”

Ankou, the being who embodied Death, had his own, private name for me. I wasn’t thrilled about that. His appearance matched the one I had last seen as I lay bleeding out – a devastatingly attractive man but still cadaver-thin and tall – the ears ended in subtle points. His demeanor suggested antiquity, but his movements and face belied any suggestion of age. His hair blew back in a gentle breeze that swirled around his body, which was clad in black and gray, of course. His clothes bore decorations of silver and gold to match the highlights in his ankle-length hair and those dark eyes rimmed in silver.

“You control the wind like you control people’s deaths?” I asked him, fascinated, despite a lingering dread in the presence of the being I had feared since childhood.

A sad smile crossed his face. Was it just for my benefit? He had helped me find my way through his forest, but I was unconvinced it was a good idea to place trust in Death.

“A minor skill.”

“You look different. Why?”

“You have hated me your whole life. Your death allowed me to redeem myself, and…” He paused as we stopped at a crossroads.

I looked back the way we had come. No landscape or path. No forest, nothing but horizon, bleak against a gray sky. The way straight ahead and the way that crossed it were also bare of landmarks.

“And?” I prompted.

“And find a form that pleases you, my lady.” Ankou took a shallow bow.

“This one is a remarkable improvement on how you showed yourself to me the first two and a half decades I’ve known you,” I said.

He acknowledged my comment with a crooked smile.

“This is it, then. It is time for you to take me with you. Where do we go?”

“This is where we part,” he said. “I must attend. And you must return to—”

“Life. I wish I could.” I tried once again to remember names, but found I couldn’t. Not yet. At least he had given me a name.

“It is your decision.”

“My decision…where I will spend my death?”

“Your decision about how you will live,” he said. “What your choice will be.”

“I don’t understand. Didn’t you help me die?” I died in the arms of…one I loved. But Death had eased my pain, had made it easy, had banished my fear.

“Not a true death.”

“I died, but I’m not truly dead. Yep. That makes sense,” I said.

“You’ll have to make your way through the Between Lands alone, I’m afraid.”

“I walked through your forest. Are we all planted there? Good guys in front, bad guys in back? Tall trees are souls who count, aren’t they?”

His smile radiated true warmth. “You understand.” He twirled his arm in the direction of where we had come from. The forest emerged, as if from behind a mirage. “The Lands Beyond begin there.”
“Lands Beyond?”

“My domain.” He waved his arm. “I also have some control over the Between Lands, but it is a more variable landscape.”

I shrugged.

“At first, I hoped there would be some who I could keep with me. But over the years, the centuries…there was but one and then…” He shook his head. “You and your family and your ancestors, all the ones back to those first priests, the ones who bargained for power – none of them had your power to see through to the heart of things.”

“I’m good at figuring things out. You know, analyzing data; it’s a natural talent.”

Death laughed, both a rich and hollow sound. “No, that’s not it. You’re the one.”

“One what?”

“The apex.”

“Oh, that. That Anam thing. If you say so.”

“I do.”

I squinted at him, wondering if I could see beneath his facade. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why do you want to keep me with you?”

“Blood is powerful. Your blood, especially.”

Anam. Anamorphosis Was that it? “I don’t know what Anam means.”

“Soul. Eneff. Anima. Many languages, same meaning. Anam crosses all veils. You embody it.”

Figure it out. My ancestors bargained for power. One of them broke their bargain and so we were all cursed. My father’s brother wanted what I have. Anam. The apex of the life-soul-tree was where power concentrated. Power over the veil.

If I died giving birth, like my mother and the women in my family before her, then my girls would inherit it. But if I were the apex, the last one, then they would be free. Wouldn’t they? Would they have power without the curse? That was something any number of entities, human or otherwise, would like to control. Could everything really be that simple?

“I get to go back? To live again?”

He nodded. “Have you chosen an Aspect?”

“You know about all that?” I felt empty and weary and would have liked to just sink into a small insignificant heap on the ground for a few seconds or even an eternity.

“It’s what the lot of you seem to enjoy doing. If one of you has a particular affinity for the Aspect you’ve chosen, it becomes a significant part of your…self.”

“Oh. Cool. I picked that guy who turns himself into a swan to be with his lover.”

Ankou’s smile graced his face with an unearthly beauty. “Oenghus mac Oc. Nice.”

I sighed. “Glad you approve. So which way should I go from here?”

He turned sideways, held out his arms as if he were about to perform that Greek dance the men
do and then lowered them. “Walk that way,” he crossed one arm over his chest and pointed straight ahead. “Just follow it until the end. You will pass the Lecksteine along the way. Before the end they will become irresistible.”

“Salt licks? Like for deer in winter? And what happens if I taste them?”

“They represent the guilt of your past. You will live a portion of it again, once for each time you partake.”

I shivered.

“That way,” he crossed his other arm over and pointed down the intersecting road, “leads to a less untimely trek, The Paths of the Dead, but I fear your control of your craft is not yet sufficient to overcome its…hurdles. And there,” he twisted his head in the opposite direction, “may take you where you most want to go.”

“How do you know where I want to go?”

Ankou unfolded himself. “It’s what we live on.”

“You live on snatches of memories?”

“What you retain from the Dreams. We feed on them.”

“You feed on the Dreams? I thought it was blood and lust that satiated you.”

“What do humans most dream about based on your recent journey?”

Ankou retained his appearance, but I imagined I saw the immaterialness lurking beneath it. Always changing. Always hungry. Everything was hungry here.

“You’ve given me important information. I assume you want something in return?”

He laughed. It now had the sound of a symphony orchestra – but slightly out of tune. “That was for free. There will be ample opportunity for me to collect from you, Katarin.”

“While I have you in a talkative mood, tell me: where does that name come from?”

“Some special ones I collect receive a name from me. It marks you.” He bowed again. “The name Death calls you with is your true name.” His eyes sparkled with silver.

Katarin – Kati – that private name from a man I loved like the smell of an early summer morning sitting on the porch, the smell of simple pleasure and the yearning for it to continue. “He knows my true name. The man I love is Death’s right-hand man.”

Ankou didn’t say anything.

“What’s his true name?”

“It is a name of power. What do you offer in return?”

“You gave him my name.”

“He paid for it, pays for it still.”

“You partook of my life’s blood.”

He bent his head in acknowledgement. “Exquisite, it was.” He leaned down and whispered, his silvery hair caressing my face. The name fled from my consciousness as soon as he spoke it, but it lingered there, deep. I knew somehow it would return at my bidding.

“Use it wisely. The name compels.”

My true name had not been used to compel, but it did all the same. “This druid crap is hard on a body. I think I’ll head that way.” I crossed my arm towards the path he had indicated would be the one where I most wanted to go. I took a few steps away from him.

“Until we meet again, Katarin. Fare thee well.”

I ran fast down the path, stopped and turned. Ankou held up two fingers spread in a vee, an easily understood symbol both in his world and mine.

“You, too, Ankou. Don’t let the job get you down.”

He saluted me in that flippant way, two fingers to his forehead with a slight bow of his head. And then he vanished.

“I hate it when they do that.”

The path, dusty and long, stretched out in front of me.


The Between Lands

Dusty and long, one foot after another. I saw movement. Compared to the nothing I’d been staring at for the past…hours, days, centuries, it was a veritable hive of activity, caused by something; or things. As I got closer I wasn’t so sure I wanted to. They were alive – at least as far as anything was alive in this place. The Between Lands, Ankou had called them. Maybe these things were a form of Between Life.

They came up to my knee on average. One was taller. He – or it – might have been the one in
charge. He acted like it. But none of the others paid him any heed as he ordered them around with loud grunts and slaps to the portion of their anatomy that normally would qualify as a head. They had a mossy look about them – old, dried-up moss, brown with patches of gray and green. A memory…he had mentioned them once and said they were called moss men and they controlled the borders. But the borders to what?

They were furiously throwing up a wall of sorts – a mass of mud or clay mixed with tree branches and stones. I could still clamber over if I hurried – and if I could find a way through them. They looked harmless, but had an air of malevolence about them. Did they have teeth? I edged closer, but they continued to pretend I wasn’t there. Maybe I wasn’t. I held up my hand. It looked real enough. I could see the veins, dirty fingernails – was that Hohes Venn muck? – and fingerprints.

I held both hands palm out and shouted, “Stop!” They ignored me. Maybe they didn’t have ears or they didn’t understand English. What was the word in Brezhoneg? “Paouez!” I screamed. One of them looked at me for a second and then looked away. It was a response. I didn’t know whether it was the language or the scream.

I’d had a lot of practice screaming recently and was getting good at it. It tore out of me, a cumulative primal scream that had gathered strength through my being drugged, dragged into a swampy fen, stabbed, and accompanied by a rude relative on a ram-headed dragon into the depths of the Dreams where I was chased by a nasty dude with a double penis. The peak was being greeted by my lifelong fear transformed into a Celtic deity oozing sexy with his every gesture who pointed me across a desolate landscape that was supposed to lead me back to life. A life I desperately wanted. But I had to get past these goons first.

As the scream tapered off, the moss men were all staring at me with beady little eyes the color of pond slime. The head honcho guy put his sticklike arms on his torso, about hip-height, right below his…head. Neckless head honcho guy reached into a satchel – I hadn’t noticed it before because it was the same color as his skin – that looked even more fungus-like. He fumbled around for a few seconds. The others looked from him, to me, to him, to me.

I wondered if I should scream again. I drew in a lungful of air, opened my mouth, and Neckless consulted with his neighbors. A huddle formed with a lot of activity that included grunts and squeaks and other sublingual mutterings. Then the whole troop disappeared in a blink. Maybe two. What was left was the six-foot high wall.

Well, I’ll be damned. Screw that.

I was halfway up the wall. Stick arms scratched and moss-covered stumpy legs kicked. I fell. Landed on my butt. Grunty chuckles came from inside the wall. For my second try, I made a running start. Fingertips reached the top of the wall, and I hauled myself up, shimmying the rest of the way while securing a firm grip on the ledge at the top – not wide but enough to grasp. I was about to swing a leg over when a dozen of the little jerks appeared at the top, slimy eyes blazing. They pushed me off. I landed in a crouch.

Frustrated and sore, I walked left. The wall went on for longer than it first appeared. I began to think it was one of those nifty illusions when one of the creatures poked his head around the corner. Not far at all.

Unless they’re building another fucking wall.

I ran. Just as I rounded the wall, it curved in front of me on both sides – and ended behind me – a solid barrier. I had no choice but to go ahead. The wall tapered to nothing as suddenly as it had formed. Looking back, nothing remained of either wall or landscape. There were just trees in back of me, in front of me, and on either side. I caught a glimpse in the darkening sky of the moss men running away.

I looked down. I was as dirty as they were and covered in mud. A few nicks and scratches showed through the grime where they had attacked me, the dried blood making a darker contrast. But blood meant life. I walked deeper into the trees.