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Showing posts with label The Schattenreich. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Schattenreich. Show all posts

Dec 31, 2016

Ring in the New!



Wishing everyone lots of new books to read and health and happiness for 2017!


On a less than happy note: The sharonreamer.com website is down for a couple of days back up (currently - still haven't identified the problem) after encountering a problem with the server update. I apologize for the inconvenience, even though it's currently a static site. Just in case, I've posted universal links to my books below, you know, just in case you were looking for something to read. In the meantime. 

Just in case. And even better with  blep.









 

photo credit: 
mmariomm MMB_5496 via photopin (license)

Tambako the Jaguar Cute and happy Rialda lying in the grass via photopin (license)

Nov 24, 2016

Bertha's Thanksgiving Tale: A Triple Junction Excerpt

This Triple Junction excerpt contains a Thanksgiving tale from Bertha von der Lahn, the Burg Lahn storyteller, par excellence. It is a reworking of one of the Breton tales collected and retold by Anatole Le Braz and contained in the collection Celtic Legends of the Beyond: A Celtic Book of the Dead; this version has an introduction by Derek Bryce. It's available used in print and there might also be an older version downloadable from Gutenberg. As you might guess, Ankou, the Breton harvester of the dead appears more than once in these tales.

Bertha's tale focuses on the 99 inns along The Paths of the Dead and one of its travelers.
***

Gus and I leaned forward in anticipation. Bertha's eyes gleamed dark iron and cloudy nights. Her face lost the skepticism and impatience one usually saw when looking at my aunt. Instead, Bertha radiated wisdom and subtlety. She seemed to hold all of the secrets of the past and the future in her palms, pressed together in front of her.
 

She began her tale.

The man who used to be Haerviu trudged behind the others. The way was long, he heard the man before him say. But Haerviu didn't remember starting out on this path. He also didn't know why he was here, following behind a line of trudging people. It was dark, the way lit by a wan moon, not the harvest moon he remembered seeing last.

He stumbled as he tried to recall what he had last done before embarking on this journey. He remembered telling his wife he had to bring in the rest of the grain. He smelled rain. His wife Gael had begged him not to go out. It was already dark, and the dray horse was prone to be skittish at night.

He remembered hitching his horse to the wagon and setting out along the rows. And then… he only remembered hearing his horse whinny in fright.

And then he was here. Haerviu tugged on the tattered shirt of a man in front of him. "Do you know where we are going? Has his lordship called us to the castle?"

The man shook off his hand. Haerviu started to reach out again, thinking the man hadn't understood him, when a voice next to him, timid and gray said, "The Paths of the Dead, my good man. That's what we're traveling. The Ankou has collected us this very night."

Another spoke on his other side, "Here, it is always night."

Haerviu wanted to stop his beating heart. But he didn't feel his heart beating in his chest. He felt empty. And sad. He thought about his horse and his wife and his children. To be fair, he may not have thought of them in that particular order.

Gael had borne him ten children. Two of them he had buried before they reached their first year. Of the others, six remained to him. If it was true what the man had said, if he had died out there on his lonely field, then he only hoped his children would care for Gael. And for his horse. If she had spooked, then it was only her nature and not her fault. It was Haerviu's fault for not listening to his wife.

These thoughts kept him occupied for a time. Then he began to wonder just how long the Paths of the Dead were. He was already dead, so he couldn't die of boredom. But he would have liked to have a rest, to be able to come to terms with his lack of life. It seemed so unfair.

Could Ankou be bargained with? He'd return to give Death his due as soon as he made sure his wife was taken care of. That she had enough to get her through the winter. No reason she should suffer because of his foolishness.

The lights caught his attention. Before long, they came by a building. It looked like a traveler's inn, a

place where a man could put his feet up for a while and slake his thirst. Haerviu didn't think the Ankou would mind if he took a few minutes to do that on his way to whatever lay at the end of the Paths of the Dead.

He turned to go through the double doors leading into the wooden shack that, despite its shabbiness, looked inviting. A tug on his arm accompanied the gray voice, pleading, "Don't go in there, my good
man."

Haerviu could see no one. Then he looked down. A small man, a true dwarf, strode beside him.

"Why shouldn't I go in there?" he asked. "You could come with me. We could share a pint and talk about things. I have so many questions. And then I want to find the way back. There must be a way."

"Aye, 'tis said there is one," said the dwarf. "But this is not the place to while away your time. Answers ye may have, but they will not bring ye any joy." The man spoke with a northern accent, brisk and colorful and no longer timid.

"Well, then, maybe we'll see each other farther down the road," Haerviu said.

"Look for me in the halfway house," the man said.

Haerviu nodded his farewells and went in.

The tavern was full, and there didn't seem to be any place for him to sit. A shout from the back drew his attention. He saw a chair that was free and sat at a table with a half a dozen people. Three of them played musical spoons on the wooden planked table. The thump of the metal on the wood was deafening. Two others nursed their mugs of cider.

Haerviu felt a sudden deep thirst and called for the barkeep. Soon he had his own mug of cider. Before he took a drink, he chanced a look at the man sitting next to him. His skin was pale and thinner than Gael's Sunday crepes. The man had eyes the color of a storm-laden sky, but they were as lifeless as the man looked.

The man laid a bony hand on Haerviu's arm. "It's a little early on the journey to be drinking," he said.

Haerviu shrugged him off. Hopelessness settled over him. It seeped from all the corners of the room, weighing them all down like anchor stones. Like gravestones. "What's it to you. We're all dead. Whether we come to the end of the path sooner or later doesn't matter anymore." Tired and sore, the feeling permeated his ghostly body like a day and a night pulling his horse Soizig through the mud.

He couldn't accept the way things had turned out, and it made him just want to drown his sorrows.

"Stay your hand and go further," the man said. He rose. "I'll come with you so you won't be alone. The way is dusty and long, I'll not lie to you about that. But with two of us it will go quicker. At least let's make it to the halfway house together. Then we can have a drink. If you don't do that, you'll never end your journey."

"And what about you? Why are you sitting here still, a'takin' your ease?"

It seemed to Haerviu that a light flickered in the back of those cavernous eyes. "I've been waiting for someone like you. Someone with the strength to seek the path of return."

Haerviu put down his mug, and the two of them left the place. They rejoined the Path, but now there were no other dead ones. Just the two of them. The man pointed ahead. "Ninety nine inns line the way. At the halfway house, there we may talk."

"Why not here? It will ease the time."

The man shook his head. "Not here. Not now. The Paths of the Dead are long and untrustworthy. Think hard on the ones you left behind, on the things you left behind. Then, when we've got there, I'll tell you a story."

So Haerviu did what the man told him, his hopelessness shed as soon as they left the first tavern. He realized it was the place itself that had worn him down. He drew pictures in his mind of his life and his family and let that be his candle, brighter than the pale moon that tracked them. Haerviu counted the inns and lodges they passed, each one different; each one looked better than the last. A deep urge threatened each time: unshoulder his load and go in. Just one drink…

"One sip of cider can't hurt a man, can it? Not when our cares are behind us?"

"Listen to you, now. You're speaking from the desperateness of the dead."

"Aye," Haerviu said.

***

Haerviu and his gray companion reached the halfway house. Haerviu had lost count a ways back and had no concept of how long it had taken them. He didn't know they were there until his traveling companion pointed to it.

"That's it," he said. "Now we can go in."

"How do you know it?" Haerviu asked.

"I've been here before," the man said, but said no more.

This place was twice as big as the first tavern, furnished with wide benches, and an upper level - maybe more than one. Haerviu couldn't see past the gloom of the first couple of rickety steps. He didn't feel the need to go upstairs.

Many people about the place. Haerviu thought they look faded, as if they might not be there at all - just shadows that clung to the walls. The two men sat with their backs to the wall and faced the front door.

"Keep your eye on the door," the man said. "It's better that way."

"If you say so," Haerviu said. Mugs of mead appeared in front of them.

This time, the man raised his to Haerviu. "Drink, my friend, and let me tell you of the great forest, the forest of ancient priests. The one that marks the entrance to the Lands Beyond, to the Ankou's domain. And no man who passes within can return, lest he is one of Ankou's chosen."

The barley mead tasted heavy, good after the long trudge, and Haerviu felt that he could listen to this man's tale, maybe forever. It did his heart good -- the heart that no longer beat within his breast.
Haerviu nodded to the man to continue.

"Somewhere deep in the Lands Beyond, though, there is a way back. It has been traveled before, but not by any man among the living. It's said that there are demons and dragons and trials that no man whose heart is heavy with wrongdoing can surpass. It is said that the great Mirdan is imprisoned there."

Haerviu finished his mug and called out for another. It appeared in front of him before he had finished shouting for it. "Mirdan and Nyneve?" Haerviu snorted. "An old folk's tale for the superstitious ones. Them that still believe in korrigans and banshees. Mirdan ran off with one of the Fae, he did. That's what they tell. She imprisoned him on an island where a man may never return."

The gray man seemed to grow less substantial with each draught from his stone mug. His skin showed patches of bone and his face became more sunken and drawn. His voice took on a rattle. "There is an island. On that island is a cave. It is the cave that leads back to life. I know because I've seen it."

Haerviu put down his mug. "Then why didn't you go back? Why are you here? And how did you travel backwards on the Paths of the Dead?"

The gray man nodded at each of Haerviu's questions, as if he'd been expecting them. "My name is Bran. I was one of the Ankou's chosen. I followed him once to the Lands Beyond. But I am not dead. At least not in the waking world. Here, I might as well be dead. But until I am dead, Ankou will not put me in his great forest. That is my punishment. One of my punishments and the least one."

"Bran? From the tales?"

The man shook his head. "Not that Bran. I am human. At least I was. I don't know what I am now. Cursed, I'd say." He lifted his mug with a weary arm. It shook with the effort. A new mug appeared in front of him, filled to the brim. Bran took a sip and sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "Only the dead may pass through the cave. Since I am not dead, I cannot pass." He opened a malevolent eye at Haerviu. "And I should by rights be trapped there forever. But I escaped to return here." He shook his head. "'Tis not a better place to wait out eternity. But at least it isn't as dry." He tipped his mug again.

"And what would you have of me? Will you take me to this place and show me how to get through?"

Bran shook his head. "I may not."

"But I may." The timid voice of the dwarf spoke up from the side of the table. "I can take him to the island. For I'm not a man."

Bran looked at the tiny man. He laughed, and the effort split the skin next to his mouth, showing a bit of the skull that lay just beneath. "So you may. But will you?"
The man nodded. "Try my luck. 'Tis my death."

"Right you have it," Bran said. And he began to tell them the way of things and how they were to get through Ankou's Forest and navigate the Lands Beyond. But what became of them, no one knows, for when you traverse the Lands Beyond, if you manage to come back to the waking world, you are sworn never to tell anyone, for good or for ill. And it's a pact made in blood with a curse that goes beyond death, as Bran will tell you. Because he's been there.

***

Bertha paused and seemed to come back from a long way off. She cleared her throat. Sebastian refilled her Armagnac. She nodded to him and drank down a portion of it. "Sorry, Basti. I didn't mean to pick such a long one. It just came out that way."

I poured myself more coffee and gestured with the cafetiére to Hagen. He nodded, and took a cup for himself. Heinrich had been so rapt with Bertha's story, he had to shake himself to bring himself back to the present.

When Sebastian came back to us, he poured Heinrich an Armagnac and one for himself. "Where did you get that tale, Berti?"

Bertha shook her head. "Just a minute." She put a hand on the piano, her eyes faraway again. Then she finished her Armagnac and walked to us, setting her glass on the table.

"Do you want to sit?" I asked.

She shook her head. "No, Schätzchen. I need to stand awhile. Otherwise, the tale don't settle right. Down here." She smiled at me and put her hand on her stomach. And then bent her head for a few moments, her palms together.

We waited, each of us wrapped in our thoughts. Heinrich's song about Mirdan had obviously inspired Bertha to tell this tale. I wondered if she had made it up on the spot. But it sounded too real for her to have invented it.

"I've seen the other side of that cave," I said.








***


 
photo credits

PeterThoeny Leaving the circus behind, a new path opens up via photopin (license)

Wayne Stadler Photography Never is a Promise via photopin (license)

Big Grey Mare Happy Thanksgiving To All via photopin (license)

Aug 13, 2016

Sneak Preview: Book 1 of The Sundered Veil, a new Schattenreich series


Hi Dear Readers,

Time for an update.

Presenting an excerpt of the (still-in-progress) first book, The Sundered Veil. Yes, it is a part of the Schattenreich (Celto-Germanic) universe, and yes, it is a new (fantasy) series, one that takes place in the Very Near Future. Yes, there are some familiar (but older) characters and many new characters.

Yes, I am still writing it, and yes, it is just to whet your appetite.

It started out as a short story and has now reached near novel length. I'm working on it steadily and it has, much to my surprise, now outpaced my progress on other projects so much that I'm devoting most of my writing time and research efforts to finishing it. Such is life.

I've also started a visual (but chaotic) story-elementing thing over at my Sundered Veil Pinterest board.

PLEASE NOTE: Due to a technical error, the KOBO promotion for Primary Fault ended five days too soon! I've adjusted the free promotion to run from now until August 21 (the promotion may take a day to go into effect, so check back again starting August 15!). My apologies if this error caused any disappointment.


***


Jeremiah: The Disappearance
Nine months ago

My friends called me Jim. Short for Jeremiah. Not Jerry or Jem. Might be because my little sister could only manage 'Jimah' when she was…little. Everyone, myself included, thought it was way cute. My cousins shortened it to Jim, and it stuck. I preferred Jem because that would make me much more interesting, but was really glad no one called me Jerry.


Only three people called me Jeremiah - my father, one of my uncles and my cousin Theo - short for Theodor. Everyone called him Theo, even my uncle, his father, the one who also called me Jeremiah. Theo was named after his grandfather, who died shortly after his birth under mysterious circumstances. Mysterious, even for our family, and that was saying a lot.

I wasn't named for anyone. My dad just liked the name, according to my mother. My grandfather was also dead and, by all accounts, not-a-nice-person, and not one to name your son after. Okay with me.

Theo was late, as usual. I had anticipated that and brought my math textbook, Math for Information Technology and Dad's copy of Bronstein for reference. I settled myself in Theo's big comfy easy chair, probably an antique or something close to it -- complete with tattered knitted cotton armrest covers -- and popped open the bottle of Peters Kölsch I filched from the fridge along with an additional bottle in anticipation of Theo's arrival. A stack of firewood was piled next to the open fireplace, so I busied myself with starting a fire, hoping we would make a night of it.

I hadn't seen Theo in a while -- he'd only been home to Burg Lahn over the Christmas break for a couple of days -- and missed him terribly. I'd never tell him that, but I'm sure he knows it. He and his sisters worship their other sibling, Brevalaer, and I understood that, I really could, but Theo was my hero. I'd never made any secret about that. It was because I liked him, he was already a scientist and was mostly off doing scientist-type things with his life, and mainly just because he treated me like one of the family.

The first sip went down quick, all sparkly and cold with only a hint of hops to tickle my nose, and I automatically relaxed.

All was quiet, and there wasn't anyone else about. I had to let myself into the castle with Dad's key. Even the air had a quality of stillness I'd never felt here before -- or maybe never noticed. There was also that faint hint of violets that always seems to linger in this part of the castle. The only thing missing was…

"Hey, Jeremiah," Theo said as he sauntered into the room. "Sorry I'm late."

"No problem," I said and handed him his beer.

"A vintage Bronstein," he said with a smile and pointed to Dad's book. "Bronstein's the best. My copy's not near as cool as that one."

We clicked bottles together and took sips. He settled onto his non-matching couch next to me, right out of the IKEA catalog from five years ago, and slid his feet on the thick oak slab that passed for a coffee table, probably scavenged from the castle basement. Did I mention just how cool Theo is?

"Where is everyone?"

"They're all at one of Heiner's concerts. He's letting my sister join in for a couple of songs. A debut, so to speak. I begged off, saying I had to study for an exam retake."

"Gotcha. Although missing Jax's debut--"

"Needed them all to be gone for what's up for tonight." Theo sat back, a lock of his unruly wavy chestnut hair falling across his forehead.

His stockiness didn't hide the fact that he was fit. He had an athletic build, much closer to my uncle Heiner's than my uncle Hagen's, though he wasn't nearly as tall as either of them. Theo had an easygoing manner, not as obviously comfortable in his skin as his brother. That made me like him more, since I felt so awkward most of the time with my chunky build.

I had so often wished I were Theo in so many ways, and that was one of them.

"What's up for tonight?" I asked.

His eyes twinkled their dark blueness, enhanced by the room's dimness. My eyes, in stark contrast, were…just. plain. brown. Like my mom's. Nothing special. She's also plain. I meant to say, she's very pretty and all. Just not of the blood. Which made me a half-blood, in a manner of speaking.

Luckily, Theo didn't hold that against me, never has, always willing to help me improve my druid abilities. Even though he just called them skills. Schattenwerk. Shadowcraft, the way of doing stuff in the Otherworld. Even a half-blood like me possessed a native ability, but it needed to be directed and polished, like any ability. Like doing science or math. My dad was fully on board with the science and math, but not so much with the shadowcraft. My mother: vehemently against it.

I sighed. Theo took another chug of beer and grinned. "Not what, but when," he said. "We need to test your ability to time travel."

I choked on a swallow of beer and then wiped my mouth, laugh escaping. "Yeah. Right."

He nodded. "Walking the veil," he said. "You've heard of it?"

I nodded, hesitantly. "I've heard you guys mention it a time or two."

"It's one of those inherited things. Like curling your tongue or crossing your eyes." Theo proceeded to demonstrate his ability to do both at the same time.

"Your many talents never cease to amaze me, Cuz. So are you also good at time travel?"

He gestured with the bottle. "Nope. Not even a smidgen. I can't even walk the veil back a few minutes. Mama and Papa can go back centuries."

I couldn't fathom that. "And what makes you think I can do this walking thing?"

He shrugged. "Don't know till we try."

I leaned back; scratched at the stubble on my chin. "Forgot to shave this morning," I said.

"Still working on your game engine?" he asked with a sly grin.

My turn to shrug. "Not making much progress. But having fun getting there."

"I understand perfectly," he said. "When you're doing something you love, time just slips away."

"Another form of time travel. Okay, let's do it. How?"

He folded his legs under him in a graceful gesture that reminded me of his father. "We have to picture where we're going - you especially since you'll be the one guiding us there -- and then we mediate. It's really as simple as that." He slugged back the rest of his beer. "A couple more of these is necessary -- helps to be in an altered state -- but I'd like to try it without anything harder than a few beers."

We did that. But I had to stop in between to ask him what he really meant to do, the why. He just said, wiping a hand across his brow, "Need to find something…out. Don't want the others to know. Especially if there's nothing to it."

Based on his descriptions and what I remembered from the excavations near the Cologne Rathaus that had, after a decade of delays and mismanagement, been turned into a museum, I drew a mental picture of the place he had in mind. Somewhere between Roman Cologne and the arrival of Charlemagne, not that that narrowed it down. Much. But after some intense mediating, by some miracle, and the contents of at least a six-pack (I lost count) to pave the way while we drew up mental pictures of Cologne in the Middle Ages, we traveled the veil.

At first it smelled like old wood, alive, breathing, a subliminal whispering. Then sights, sounds and smells flew past, all distorted and too quick to sort, as if we were on a high-speed train racing through patchy bits of cold-studded fog. Suddenly it all stopped, a curious quiet surrounding us. I looked around and there it was. We had ended up next to the Roman well that Theo said was still in use during Charlemagne's reign.

Theo pounded me on the back. "Excellent, Jeremiah. I knew you had it in you." He walked up to the lip of the well and peered down. He grimaced. "It's pretty deep. This is going to be harder than I thought."

"What is?" I said, joining him and looking into the inky blackness of the well. I couldn't recall if this well was even open to visitors at the museum. If so, it wouldn't be possible to fall into it in our time. Here, in the depths of the Middle Ages, no safety net or warning signs were in evidence.

"The key to saving the veil," he said. "Without too many people getting hurt."
 
Before I could even ask him what the fuck, some dude with a blond braid down to his butt ran up and grabbed Theo, dragging him over the side, and the two of them plummeted into the well. I never even had a chance to react. I also never even heard an impact or any screams. I looked down into the darkness, hoping to see something and dreading to see crushed bodies at the bottom. But nothing. They were gone. Just like that.

I slid down on the cold ground and put my head in my hands. Shit, Theo. How do I get back? And my next thought, I can walk the veil. Oh yeah. I need to find time to feel guilty about that later.


The Sundered Veil, Copyright 2016 Sharon Kae Reamer, All Rights Reserved.

***

illustrations by: Yaroslav Gerzhedovich
(his pictures also adorn the covers of all my Schattenreich series novels as well as the header of this blog)

May 29, 2016

The Schattenreich Mythology: Five Things You Always Wanted to Know About the Schattenreich

Some things that some of you have asked. I would like to answer them so as to not give too much away.

1. Why the Schattenreich?

The German word Schattenreich can be interpreted as the realm of shadows, the kingdom of shades or even a plenitude of shadows. My interpretation of this realm, where many shadows do exist, is that through their special relationship with the Otherworld (Ande-dubnos or Anderwelt), the von der Lahn family (and their ancestors) have carved out their own special portion, directly connected to the waking world and which has borders, where they can practice their craft in a relatively protected state.

2. Who can enter the Schattenreich?

Those of the blood, which mainly consists of the generations affected by Cathubodua's original curse - nine times nines generations - where the women are destined to die soon after childbirth. The ability to cross the veil to the Schattenreich is not without its obligations, however. These duties can and do vary according to a person's ability and affinities.

3. Is there a connection between Burg Lahn and the Schattenreich?

Yes! Burg Lahn, ancestral home to the von der Lahns and before them the Du Bois family and a few other branches of the family tree, is - through repeated usage - the well-worn path, easy access to the Schattenreich and through that domain to Ande-dubnos proper. Some would say that it constitutes a special sort of nemeton - a connection through the veil between the waking world and the Otherworld. A Schattenreich construct, Lahn-dunum, the Otherworld equivalent to Burg Lahn, exists in the Schattenreich and is also a place where crossing is facilitated.



4. Who built Lahn-dunum and where is it?

 No one knows who crafted the original construct. Access to Lahn-dunum is mostly restricted to the heir - the current Baron of Burg Lahn (formerly a count, but the family was demoted due to their stubborn adherence to their pagan heritage) - and his direct descendants (see, for example, Shadow Zone and Triple Junction). The construct is located within the Schattenreich - or at least it was until relatively recently, when Caitie accidentally translocated it (book 3, Double Couple) to Ande-dubnos.

5. Who lives in the Schattenreich?

The only (known and accounted for) permanent residents of the Schattenreich include:

Korri. An ancient being, most probably a Korrigan who rather than remain in the waking world , chose to dwell there with some of her brethren, who may or may not still exist outside of dreamtime. (see Double Couple)

Five-fingered Yan. a being out of legend whose fingers are lit. He can manifest on the borders between the Schattenreich and Ande-dubnos and can sometimes act as a (not necessarily reliable) guide, especially in dark places. His presence does not bode well (see Primary Fault).

The Lost Children.  Legend has it that during a later Crusades campaign, children were recruited to fight for the so-called holy lands. What is more likely is that the children were conscripted, possibly sold as slaves. The lucky ones who were rescued and taken to the Schattenreich, constitute a band of helpful but sometimes mischievous children who dwell permanently near the borders to Ande-dubnos. It is rumored that they can cross to the waking world, where they pilfer foodstuffs and other useful items to stock the ancestral von der Lahn cottage, Ker Gisell (see Double Couple).

Nymphs or mermaids (Breton Morverch) and probably many other names, live underneath the swift flowing waters of the so-called River of Life that forms the westernmost border to the Schattenreich. They guard access to a place of mystery and beauty, an eternally blooming wildflower meadow. Why this particular patch of land should remain inaccessible to humans and inhabitants alike, is not clear. This is likely due to the meadow being a transformative place and so not without special reason, off limit (see Shaky Ground) The nymphs can wear beautiful faces.

And one more as a bonus:

6. Is the Schattenreich black and white?

One reader always had the picture of the Schattenreich in shades of gray (shadows=gray, black, and white). The answer is No. The Schattenreich has very vivid colors (the trees, the sky, the grassy clearing), sometimes even more vivid than counterparts in the real world. The Schattenreich (and Ande-dubnos) do not seem to have strong scents or smells.

Additional questions or comments more than welcome!


photo credit:

Underweald, Sussex via photopin (license)

1095 via photopin (license)

 Dawn Mist via photopin (license)





Jan 22, 2016

Blitz Sale - but only for blog readers

In addition to the Shaky Ground promotion that runs through January 31, 2016, we've reduced the price for the ebook version of Primary Fault, Book 1 of the Schattenreich, for this weekend.

And besides exclusive subscription services, for blog readers only.



Through January 27th, $0.99

Amazon worldwide  (conversion differences may result)

Kobo

Nook

iBooks

additional retailers

Dec 21, 2015

The Schattenreich: Heinrich's Songs (2)

Wishing everyone a safe and peaceful holiday season.   






Love Never Gives Up
Heinrich von der Lahn


If Death takes us down, take it again.
You have to believe in the power
When you have no better way.
When destiny strikes the hour,
The gods will have their say.


And Death takes us down.
The shape of things to come
Is hidden from us all.
While the promise of dark wisdom,
Keeps you in its thrall.



Refrain
Hold the one who matters near.
Let her drink from your cup.
Through your sorrow and your fear,
Love never gives up.

Death marks us all.
It’s his duty and his right.
Yet we must walk his road
Without an end in sight.
The past weighs our load.


Though Death marks us all,
That is not where it ends.
Life’s load makes us sway
With its twists and bends.
But Love’s light shows the way.


Refrain
Hold the one who matters near.
She will share your poison cup.
Through your sorrow and your fear,
Love never gives up.

Hold the one who matters near.
Musn’t be easy to be good.
We will find our way back to each other.
Never fear Ankou’s wood.
The years may pass, but our love never will because
Love never gives up.
Love never gives up.





photo credits:

my wooden heart via photopin (license)

 Fisheye Snowscape via photopin (license)

Brittany Tree, Klaus-G. Hinzen, 2013

Jan 3, 2015

Shaky Ground, Book 2 of the Schattenreich, A New Year's Excerpt

The excerpt takes place close to the halfway point of the book, just after Caitie has had a New Year's eve dinner with Sebastian von der Lahn. She and Gus's neighbor, Samantha Eschweiler, have that...and a few other things...to discuss.

Shaky Ground, Book 2 of the Schattenreich series, on sale for $2.99 through Monday, January 5th, 2015 (oh, and Primary Fault, Book 1 is also on sale for $2.99, just saying)



 ***

Samantha opened the door right away. After I gave her a tight hug, she allowed me inside.

“Hey, Sam, good to see you.” I went straight to the kitchen bar.

She went into the kitchen, and peered into the oven. “Hi, Caitie. How was New Year’s at Burg Lahn?” Her cheerful demeanor surprised me. I had expected at least a few Sam pouts.

“Different.”

She eyeballed a question at me.

“Sebastian and I cooked together.”

She laughed. “You can cook?”

“Not really, but I am good at following instructions.”

“That’s a side to your personality I’ve yet to see.”

I tried to bristle, but failed. “I can be compliant.”

Samantha pulled out an oven tray filled with homemade bruschetta. “So, what in the world did you two have to talk about?”

 “Family,” I said.

“Did you trade reminiscences about vacations on the French Riviera?”

“Ha ha. I was trying to pry information out of him. I think your prejudices against the aristocracy are not warranted in Sebastian’s case.”

“Information? About Hagen?”

“Yes. And Heinrich.”

“Who’s Heinrich?”

“Hagen’s twin.”

Samantha almost dropped the tray. She slid everything onto a plate and set a bottle of red wine and two huge wine goblets in front of us. I grabbed a toasted baguette slice covered with roasted peppers and stuffed it in my mouth.

“Delicious.”

“Nothing special.”

I snorted at her and grabbed another one.

“So,” she began, wriggling on her stool. “Are you telling me there are two men who look like Hagen von der Lahn walking around? God help us.”

“No, silly; they’re fraternal.”

“Oh. I get it. Heinrich is the homely one with the big heart.”

Despite my reservations about Heinrich, I had to admit that what he looked like when he wasn’t in his Scottish wildcat form was the polar opposite of homely. “Um, sorry to disappoint you, but he’s quite handsome; slightly rugged.”

Her eyebrows perked. “Rugged. Soulful brown eyes?”

“Nope. Same dark blue ones as Hagen’s.”

“Really the same?”

“Exactly the same,” I said, sighing.

“Was he there too?”

“Who?”

“Heinrich, at Burg Lahn,” she said, exasperated.

“Oh. No. He stays at his mother’s estate in France in the winter,” I said.

“Told you. French Riviera after all.”

“No. Somewhere in the Bretagne. In Dinard.”

“Oooh. Sounds very Heathcliff.”

“I’m supposed to visit him next month,” I let slip casually.

She chirped at me. “This is serious. First, dinner with Sebastian von der Lahn and then a visit to the country estate. Have you picked out a dress yet?”

“Samantha, I’m warning you,” I said, growling. “How do you know Sebastian anyway?”

“I’ve seen him at Lerbach. He comes in for lunch occasionally.”

“Does he come in alone?”

“No. Sometimes he meets with that banker, Wilting-Boxberg.”

“And otherwise?”

“I’ve seen him with a dark-haired woman,” she said.

I took a healthy sip of wine. “But you don’t know who she is?”

Sam reflected for a moment. “No, but I’d guess they’re family. There’s a definite resemblance.”

A mystery family member? I nibbled on another bruschetta. “The Wilting-Boxbergs are neighbors.”

“That explains a lot,” she said. “My, you’re hungry.”

“I skipped dinner.”

“I can make more—”

“No, it’s okay. The Wilting-Boxbergs were all sitting down to tea when I got there on New Year’s.”

“Susanna too?”

“Yup, she and I had lunch together at Lerbach yesterday,” I said.

Samantha managed to bristle quite well. “Well, you’re moving in different circles now.”

“Sam, for goodness sakes. She’s quite sweet. I still can’t fathom why Hagen would pick me over her.”

“Why do you say that?”

I rubbed my nose. “Susanna’s really pretty. And poised. She’s just so perfect. In every way.”

“That’s Mary Poppins, Caitie. Besides, who wants perfect?”

“Well. They would have made an ideal couple.”

“The only one who thinks that is her mother,” Samantha said. “If Hagen wanted Barbie, he could have had any number of them by now.”

I remembered Sebastian’s words about my not being Hagen’s most beautiful lover. “So you think he prefers Midge.” I felt glum as I stuffed the last piece of toast in my mouth.

She laughed. “If anyone is Midge, it’s me. My mom has an original from the sixties. She looks exactly like me, including freckles.”

“Well, I’d rather be Midge any day. She’s perky at least. Barbie looks like she’s just gotten home from her lobotomy.”

“Who needs brains when you’ve got shoes to go with every outfit?” She giggled, snorting.

“And if you lack a frontal lobe, you really do need to have color coordinated clothes.” I dribbled red wine on my shirt.

We both cracked up. It felt good to laugh hard and it felt nice being there with Samantha. I hadn’t realized how much I missed her company. She refilled our wine glasses and we moved to the couch.

“Have you heard from Hagen lately?”

I just shook my head, wishing we could get off the subject of Hagen. For a minute, I had imagined I was enjoying myself.

“It’s just so strange. First he gives you this beautiful pendant, and then a car, for God’s sake, and goes poof into the night.”

I sighed. “It was morning when he left.”

“What do you mean morning?”

“We spent the night together and he left in the morning before I woke up,” I said.

“Without even a goodbye kiss?”

“My but we’re nosy today.”

“Well, you would have given him a goodbye kiss if you were going away for a couple of months, wouldn’t you?”

I would never have gone in the first place. “Well, since you asked, we had plenty of those in the hours before he left,” I said. And a farewell message, a message that haunted me each night. Words came into my head.

Night is longing without you.
The dawn breaks cold.
With no promise of your touch,
a barren land.

“Oh,” she said, subdued.

The dawn breaks – the morning after. “Let’s see. That was on the winter solstice, the twenty-first. Gus was here the night before, right?”

She didn’t answer right away as she was busy opening another bottle. “He came by for a while. We were busy plotting how to hide your car.”

“But he didn’t stay long?”
“Why do you ask, Caitie?”

Her closed expression. Gus’s reluctance to talk about it. “It’s all right, Sam. Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“What do I think?”

“I’m not trying to muscle in on anybody,” she said.

“Who said that? Shit, Sam, you’ve been raising four kids. And working. And organizing the whole circus by yourself. Why shouldn’t you want someone in your life?”

“We’re good friends.”

“And?”

“And nothing. Sometimes I just need a little affection.”

“And Gus obliges.”

“It wasn’t premeditated.”

“Okay. I believe you. What comes next?”

“Look. Gus is very sweet. But besides friendship, I don’t think anything else would work.”

“Why not?”

“He’s not really my type,” she said.

Gus and Samantha had complementary personalities, but there was no Fourth of July and fireworks – they were more a lazy summer day with a good book.

“Except in certain respects.”

“I like things the way they are. He’s one of the best friends I have, and I don’t want to lose that,” she said.

“And Richard is more your type?” I didn’t attempt to keep a note of skepticism out of my voice.
She swirled her wine, conjuring a pout from the depths of the red liquid. “He was a lot different when we met.”

“I could have guessed that,” I said gently.

She waved her hand. “He was always self-centered. It all worked as long as things went the way he wanted them to.”

I listened, taking a drink of wine. Either this one was smoother than the last bottle or I was.

“I wanted to go back to work, and he balked. With two small kids, it would have taken more of his time to compensate.”

“Uh huh. That’s typical,” I said.

“Yeah. So after things came to a head, we separated to reconsider our options. The separation was mainly his idea.”

Richard had neglected to tell me that tiny detail in his side of the story.

“And you moved in with his mother,” I said.

“My mom and dad are divorced. My mom’s half American, half Irish and moved back to Ireland after they separated, so I can’t just run to her whenever I have a problem. Richard’s mom’s always been a big help. And we get along just fine. She thinks he’s a jerk.”

I choked on my wine. “Really?”

“Yeah, well, her husband walked out on her,” she said.

“And then?”

“Well, Richard and I kept circling each other, trying to figure things out. I got pregnant with the twins. That ended the standoff,” she said.

“I think I know most of the rest of the story,” I said, “at least up until New Year’s.

She looked at me, pout in place again. “Do you know everything about what Richard did?”

“You mean his affair with Dagmar Abel?”

“Not just that. I mean with Gus.”

I hesitated, but there was no longer any reason to hold back information from Samantha. “Richard told me that Dagmar had backed him into a corner.”

Sam continued communing with her glass.

“He left to protect you and the kids…and his own reputation, I’d guess. Then he panicked. She threatened him; he felt he had no other option. I am quite sure she made her threats believable.”

“He wanted to save his own ass,” she said.

I took a long sip of wine. “Okay, Sam. I think that is a given. But Richard also helped me secure Gus’s release. Have you considered giving him a chance anyway?”

After not finding the answer in the wine she was sloshing back and forth, she looked at me. “I told him he would have to go to the police and tell them what he knows.”

“You want him to go to the police? Gus and I’ve spent a lot of our own juice making sure Richard stays out of it.” I hoped my exasperation wasn’t too obvious, but I could already picture the murderous look on Hauptkommissar Miriam Richter’s face when she found out I’d known about Richard all along.

Sam leaned back and closed her eyes. “I know, Caitie. But if it hadn’t been for Richard, Gus wouldn’t have been in this mess to begin with.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. What did Richard have to say about it?”

 She opened her eyes and put her feet on the coffee table. “He said he’d think about it.”
“And?”

“Apparently, he’s still thinking.”

“You mean he hasn’t contacted you since then?”

“No mail. No phone calls. No skywriting. Gar Nichts.”

“Shit, Sam. You called him out and he ran away.”

She got up and rummaged in a kitchen cabinet. She came back with chocolates and handed me the open box. “I’ve been hiding these since Christmas.”

I took one while waiting for her to answer.

“I’ve already talked to a lawyer. If he doesn’t come across, we’re through,” she said.
“Is that the real reason?”

She took a chocolate. “He was very attentive on New Year’s. It could have had a chance.”

I felt tired all of a sudden. “Do me a favor. Let me know before Richard goes charging off to Frau Richter. She’ll find a way to blame everything on me.”

“Okay. I’ll warn you.”

I got up to leave, my head fuzzy from too much wine. “Let’s get together after I visit Heinrich.”

“I want all the details,” she said. “He sounds intriguing.”

I snorted. All the details. I had questions and a lot of anger to get through with Heinrich. I lurched to the front door, glad I only had to walk a few feet before I could fall into my own bed.

Aug 10, 2014

Notes from the Schattenreich: Expatriate Life


Book 1 of the Schattenreich
I realized I haven’t yet talked about the fact that two of my characters in the Schattenreich series are, in essence, expatriates. Gus and Caitie Schwarzbach were raised in Fredericksburg, Texas. Gus left while still an adolescent, but has always felt that his roots were in Texas, not least because of Caitie.

Caitie is a more complicated case. As many of you know who have gotten past Primary Fault, the first book in the series (here or hier, for example), her real roots are German. But she was born, raised and hell-raised, and educated, as an American even though she can speak the Deutsch.

My motivation for this choice was my own experience as a Texas expatriate living in Germany. Since Caitie falls for this German irresistible bad-for-her hunky baron druid guy, I thought it would be good to have their backgrounds be as different as possible. (Did I plan this? Yeah, kinda).

I’m a lifer here in Germany, and I have the anchor to keep me put: I’m married to a German. This gives me a unique perspective on life in Germany that is oh-so-different from my other American friends who are a) not lifers and b) not married to Germans. The categories a) and b) often go together. I only know of a few instances of lifers here who are not married to Germans. But I’m rambling. You want to know what expatriate living here is like. Or you already know and want to argue with me. I’m good with that.

Since I live near Cologne, an entrancing part of Germany (i.e., not Bavaria or Lower Saxony), my take on things might be different than Americans in other places. I lived for a few years in Hannover. No. Just no. Let’s not go there again. Unless we have to. And even after living for over twenty years in Germany, Bavaria still seems like a Disney version of Germany to me – beautiful and sparkly but mostly incomprehensible in terms of dialect and culture.

So now that I’ve alienated a whole crapload of potential German readers, I just want to say that both of those other places have distinctive exquisiteness and are well worth a visit. Bavaria (especially Regensburg – ah, Regensburg. I love the food and the beer and the Danube) and Lower Saxony (Herrenhausen Gardens, oh yes! And those cute houses) are well-populated and well-loved regions in Germany. But my heart was lost to the Rhineland almost the minute we moved here in 1995. We live on the outskirts of Cologne, the so-called Speckgürtel, and are only a 30-minute train ride from the city center.

A water spout on the Cologne cathedral
Even though sometimes the culture and the dialect in Cologne seem out of reach to my limited American worldview, I love it here. I love the deep history of Cologne and the surrounding areas. I love the people, who are as varied as the history. I love that everything here is steeped in fairy tale and superstition even though superficially, everything is Brav.  

Brav is one of those German words that is hard to define in English. I guess you could say conformist, conventional, or even conservative. Cologne is not an attractive city, but you forget that quickly and are deeply insulted when American visitors remark on the lack of beauty. 
The Cologne cathedral and the Hollenzollernbrücke

Look at any of the historical pictures of Cologne after the last World War.And with a little understanding (Verstand) that urban planning was shoved to the wayside in order to build housing and other infrastructure quickly, then it becomes clear that Cologne has her rough spots, but, to borrow Herbert Grönemeyer’s words (in his moving song, Bochum), Cologne has an ‘honest’ skin.

The Rhineland is also deeply Catholic, but if you scratch beneath that skin, other things will begin to surface. That makes this part of the country highly attractive to a reader and writer of fantasy.


There are things that you learn when you accept the expatriate way of life in Germany.

You learn what curly kale is. And, no, you don’t put it into a smoothie. You cook it slow with onion and some Westfalia Mettwurst and serve it with German fried potatoes.

You learn about things like escarole and endive (hint: more than one kind) and herring in cream sauce.

You learn to love that unique German television mystery series, the quintessential German krimi (as soon as you understand enough of the Deutsch to watch it) called Tatort. And if you are married to a German, you will watch it, every Sunday evening, promptly at 8:15 p.m. right after the news.

A very large Schnitzel
You learn that certain beers can only be poured into certain glasses. You learn how to make Schnitzel and Frikadellen (but with American potato salad, thank you very much).

You learn to say Guten Morgen (or, better, just Morgen) and Mahlzeit! and Tschüss! (or, locally, Tschö!) And you try to be even more polite than the Germans, especially at the meat counter at the grocery store.

You learn how to read Straßenbahn timetables and to make sure you have your train ticket punched before you get on the train, unless the train has a punch machine inside. Then, of course, you have to make your way to the machine as soon as you board. By then all the seats are taken, but, hey, that’s life.

You love balmy summer evenings when you can take the train to Cologne and sit outside near the water or in the inner city at one of the many cafés and restaurants with outdoor seating. On those days, it seems like the whole world is outside and wearing a smile.

In the winter, you may not see your neighbors for months and wonder if they have been attacked and eaten by rabid weasels. Then with the first fine day in spring, they all come out into the light, blinking and rubbing their very pale arms

And you learn to hide the most egregious (can be understood both ways) American side of your personality because, you know, as an American, you want to belong. And when some of your German friends start complaining to you about all those bad things that Americans are or do, you learn to smile and listen without comment (or shouting or waving hands). And you try to avoid complaining to your other American friends about those stereotypical things that the Germans do.

Jecken celebrating Karneval
As the native Kölsche say, ‘Jeder Jeck is anders’. We’re all different. And that's good so.





photo credits:


nixter via photopin cc

Madison Berndt via photopin cc

Eisbäärchen via photopin cc

LanguageTeaching via photopin cc

jmtosses via photopin cc

Jul 29, 2014

Revised Con Schedule and a Giveaway!

Here's the final (hopefully) schedule for my panels and attendances this summer*:


LonCon3 (72nd World Science Fiction Con, 14-18 August)

Scientists without Borders (Friday 13:30 - 15:00, Capital Suite 15) (ExCeL)

Autographing!** (Sunday 12:00 - 13:30, Autographing Space) (ExCeL)
  
Sulky Giant Robots (Moderating, Sunday 18:00 - 19:00, Capital Suite 3) (ExCeL)

Oops! Forgot this one: I will be attending, not presenting, but if you ever wanted to know about German SF Fandom, come along and join the party at The Real Truth About German SF Fandom
Capital Suite 11 (ExCeL), 8pm - 9pm, presented by Ralf Boldt and Jürgen Lautner




Shamrokon (The Dublin Eurocon 22-24 August)

European Focus: Celtic Gods (Friday 16:00 - 17:00, B. Main Room 2)***

European Focus: The Fairytale Collectors (Friday 21:00 - 22:00, B. Main Room 2)

Self Publishing: Career Progression Post Publishing (Saturday 21:00 - 22:00, E. Room 1/2)


*Might be one addition - will post separately after I have confirmation
**Will have Primary Fault, Book 1 of the Schattenreich, available, and a few of Book 2 and Book 3
***All my Shamrokon panels will take place in the Double Tree by Hilton, Dublin, Burlington Road


The rest of the time, this picture neatly summarizes where I'll be hanging out at both Cons


Tears of the Dead MegaPromo (Hosted by Brian Baden 07-08 August, 2014)

This one is virtual! It's a Facebook event - you have to join to win.

Over 60 authors and sponsors participating - many book giveaways, including signed paperbacks and ebooks.

I'll be giving away a signed trade paperback of Primary Fault and ebooks!



photo credit: Jim Bauer via photopin

Jun 30, 2014

The Three Things Blog Hop

 Í am deeply honored that Priya Sharma has asked me to take the Three Things blog hop a step further. We're supposed to talk about three things we don't write about and then three things we write about.

Please read Priya's eloquent answers to these questions and then run very fast to read all of her short stories you can find. It's not hard. Here are three of her stories to read online.
Rag and Bone
Pearls
Lebkuchen

She's awesome and so are her stories.

 So here's my take on three things.

Three things I don't write about
I don’t have an agenda. I don’t currently write to themes.  No tropes are off limits, but if I explore a trope, then it has to be in a way that I can own it. Subject tabus are few, if any.

I do have hot button items, maybe. My mother was schizophrenic and growing up in that environment left scars. I don’t care to revisit that in my writing. It has crept into my short fiction a bit. But that’s enough. For the present.

Aside from that, there are many situations I find difficult or painful – romantic betrayal, rape, sexual obsession, loneliness, helplessness – but because they are uncomfortable, the emotions these situations bring are useful to explore in fiction. Not as therapy, but as a way of mining the depths. It’s the way I use to get into a character’s head, heart and soul. So these things that I don’t like to think about or talk about – even if I’ve not experienced them – become real and disturbing (to me personally) when seen and experienced through a character.

So the subjects I don’t want to write about are those that are worth exploring, painful as it is.

I’m going to backpedal a bit and say I don’t write about ‘real’ things. I don’t believe I could be a memoir writer. But the beauty of fiction is that the real things creep in anyway. They’re disguised much of the time, which is a good thing, especially if I can’t recognize them. And I try not to go too deep into the whole ‘what is real and what not’ thing. I just try to tell the story – build it around the characters. There’s going to be stuff in there that’s got some deep personal connection. But I don’t need to know what that is. I just have to feel it when it goes on the page and through the characters and make sure it’s genuine.

 Three things I write about

Most of the above also applies here – no pervasive themes, no agendas. However.

I don’t consider my Schattenreich series a romance, but there is this huge muddled love story stuck all over the place within it. And for the next series I have planned, there will be an exploration of what constitutes love – not a love story per se but an examination of the consequences of choices made in situations where responsibility must be weighed against personal satisfaction.

So I like to write about love in all its forms and guises, not particularly as a HEA scenario or a simple us-two-against-the-world relationship. I adore complexity – messy entanglements and awkward situations – because they highlight what can go wrong and right in relationships. And because convoluted human affairs seem more real to me – the natural state of things. Humans are weird and chaotic at best. I then let these situations play out against the backdrop of the story that the characters find themselves in.

My other big ticket item in my approach to the speculative genre is the exploration of the crossroads where the rational meets the supernatural – science versus magic. I hope to continue to explore this in fiction for a few more projects.

The third big thing is sideways related to science vs. magic – mythology – both real and constructed. I can’t get enough of it. It’s what I like to read and I enjoy putting huge doses of my take on myths into my fiction.


So I'm now passing the baton now to two of my writer pals and can't wait to read what they have to say on the subject.

Rob Rowntree's science fiction novel Unbound Brothers is an exciting read. I highly recommend it.
 Richard Jones book on parenting A Dude's Guide to Babies (cowritten with Barry R. Ozer) is one of those evergreen books that will never go out of style. And he showcases a sample of his short fiction on his website.

Mar 27, 2014

The Schattenreich Recipes: Sebastian's Kitchen

Rolled Pork Roast with Bread Stuffing

Book 2 of the Schattenreich
In Shaky Ground*, Sebastian von der Lahn prepares a rolled pork roast that he serves to Caitie and his sister, Bertha von der Lahn. I wanted to reproduce his culinary accomplishment which entailed making the stuffing and rolling the pork roast. In Germany, the rolled roasts are usually ready-made and available at the supermarket butcher counter (or at the butcher's) and usually come with a filling of onions and speck or sauerkraut. So doing the whole thing from scratch was somewhat of a challenge.

*(also available at Kobo and Wizard's Tower Press, to name just two)

I had a very attentive advisor during the preparation phase, ready to help me should I require it.
Miezie Ramses completely fails to comprehend why we need to cook the meat. But he is patient. Sort of.

Helpfully, the friendly butcher at my local supermarket cut the pork roast for me. So I cheated. Shoot me. She asked if she should demonstrate the cut for me, and how could I refuse that?

My pre-cut pork shoulder roast, ready to unfold like a book and stuff

It's a basic butterfly cut. Take a standard pork roast - a good kilogram or more is really necessary - and cut lengthwise about two thirds from the top of the roast. Go near to the end, but don't cut all the way through or you'll have two pieces of meat (it's going to fold out like a book). Then cut the upper third of the meat - it's sitting like a lump now on top - again going towards the end but not cutting all the way through. Voila! You now have your unfolded pork roast.

This video from Allrecipes Deutschland shows how to do it perfectly. You should probably watch it more than once if you're anything like me and need to see it done a few times to understand the process. Note: the video is in German, but it's really easy to just concentrate on the visuals and not worry about the language (and you might learn a few German words in the process! Javoll!) The recipe shown in the video uses a walnut-mushroom-onion-bacon (Speck) filling which looks pretty yummy.

I used a bread stuffing instead (see below for stuffing recipe). You will need the stuffing ingredients, some kitchen twine, scissors and a good cutting board to work with. Notice the layer of fat on the top of the roast. The butcher told me not remove that - it provides a lovely flavor while roasting.


Having everything ready makes the job easier and lessens the chance that a feline sneak attack will occur while off searching for missing supplies.

The video shows spreading the stuffing all out at once. I just spread it as I rolled - shown below - the so-called rollalong method (that was a seismologist joke, sorry.) The results are the same. Don't forget to salt and pepper the inside of the roast before stuffing and rolling.

Do not let the meat know you are afraid of it.
Next comes the trussing. There's lots of fancy ways to do this (and you can be sure that Sebastian von der Lahn does it the fancy way). Just make sure whatever way you use to truss, that it holds the roast together. I managed it somehow, but wouldn't call my results esthetically pleasing, although sticking in the rosemary branches added a nice festive touch (and a lot of flavor). I also can't wrap presents either. We all have our talents, right?

Raw, rolled roast

After roasting and resting. I did not use a rotisserie.

 After stuffing, slide the roast onto a rotisserie or pop into a pan (I used an oil-coated, shallow ceramic roaster) just a bit larger than the roast. Without the rotisserie you'll probably have to turn the roast a time or two to get even browning. Set the oven temperature for 180o C (350o F) and put the roast in the middle of the oven. You'll need a meat thermometer to check doneness - pork roast should be well done but not overdone. Mine took a good hour to roast, but this will vary depending on the cut or type of oven, etc. The pork is done when it reaches 63o C or 145o F internal temperature.

Just be sure to insert the thermometer into the meat and not the stuffing! I then let the roast rest for a good ten minutes before slicing.

A few suggested accompaniments: freshly sautéed sliced red cabbage, roasted or mashed potatoes or sweet potatoes or celeriac, slow-cooked grean beans, fresh salad or chile pepper cole slaw



Bread Stuffing for Pork Roast (based on 1kg roast)*

2 celery stalks
1 medium onion
1 or 2 garlic cloves (to taste)
1 medium carrot
Herbs to taste - parsley, thyme, marjoram
1 tsp good Dijon mustard
4 Tbsp Olive oil (4 generous splashes in the pan) or equivalent melted butter
Salt and pepper to taste

4-6 cups well-dried bread (day old or toasted), cut into small cubes

Chop vegetables into small pieces and sauté in the oil or butter until softened. Add herbs, mustard, and salt and pepper to taste.

Mix well with the cubed bread (do not discard the oil or butter!) If the bread still seems too moist (this happened to me), sauté the bread cubes at the end with the vegetables for a minute or two until the cubes are lightly browned. Let cool before stuffing the pork roast.

*Note: quantities are approximate - you'll probably have leftover stuffing. Not a tragedy.Just roast the extra stuffing with the pork with a few extra drizzles of olive oil/butter.