Finding Fantasy Inspiration On the Internet

 

Raven Quest is, at this time, my only fantasy novel. It was inspired by a walk through the woods and the story line is based on the history of my neighborhood.

Another source of inspiration for me was, believe it or not, social media. I know what you're thinking: writers use social media to procrastinate and avoid writing. And that's sometimes (ok, I admit it. OFTEN) the case. If you edited the chart below so that the purple area said "Facebook" instead of Netflix, you'd have 

a pretty accurate measure of my time on the computer. But sometimes that wasted time pays off in new ideas and inspiration. Just one glance at my saved file on Facebook proves it!

Take, for instance, the post on the Blue Men of Minch that I saved in February of 2023. Scottish folklore says that the blue men of the Minch, also known as storm kelpies are mythological creatures inhabiting the stretch of water between the northern Outer Hebrides and mainland Scotland. They watch for sailors to drown and stricken boats to sink. They have the power to create storms,twist and dive like porpoises, and challenge ship captains to poetry contests, sinkings the vessels of those who fail. My imagination changed these men from blue to green, and made them shape-shifting frogs.

Photographer Amy Kierstead posted this stunning shot of ice on the surface of a small pond. She named it "The Eye of the Forest." I call it beautiful and the inspiration for Iyara, the water woman who is the personification of all the streams in the forest outside of Lumbra. The picture below also inspired me.

So yes, I do waste a lot of time on social media, but all the while, ideas are taking shape, building bit by bit, a single pebble of inspiration that begins rolling, gains mass, and becomes an avalanche of story ideas.

History of a Neighborhood becomes History of a Fantasy World

 

 

In my last blog I shared how a walk with my granddaughter began me on the path to writing a fantasy, and how some bent little trees, one giant old ash, and a strange wreath-like structure at the top of a tree inspired me enough to work their way into the story that became Raven Quest.

Because all of these things were close by where I lived, I began thinking of the story as taking place in my own neighborhood, which has an interesting history. That history worked its way into the very heart of the story.
The history of my area begins in 1706, when a group of Spanish colonizers founded Albuquerque not far from the banks of the Rio Grande. An alluvial fan slopes eastward to the Sandia Mountains, which were a rich source of lumber, minerals, wildlife and other resources for not only the new colonizers, but for the people who had come before the Spanish, the Puebloans who lived along the river and Apache and other nomadic tribes who moved throughout the nearby plains and mountains.

Frequent raids, especially by the Apache, caused the Spanish to establish outlying land grants that acted as buffers between Albuquerque and marauding tribes.  One of the first, Cañon de Carnué, was established in the pass between the Sandia and Manzano Mountains in 1763. As the villages grew, they split, creating the new villages of Tijeras, San Antonio, Manzano, Chilili, and others, that dotted the east side of Sandia Mountain. Many of these grants were given not to individuals, but to communities of people. In these grants, while individuals might own their houses, the surrounding fields and resources were shared by everyone.

Many of the settlers of these outlying land grants were Genizaros, Native Americans who had been taken captive in battles with the Spanish or stolen from their people. Genizaro lived as servants and slaves within Spanish homes, tending sheep, gardening, performing household chores and tending to their master’s children. They learned to live in the Spanish style and wore European clothing. They adopted the Spanish surnames of their masters and gained Christian first names through baptism. While they remained ethnically Indigenous, the became culturally Spanish. Unlike African slaves in the American south, Genizaros who adapted well to Spanish customs were often freed after a term of service.

These freed Genizaros were happy to settle on land grants because, while dangerous, it offered the opportunity to own land and gain social and economic autonomy. Many of these new communities combined Spanish customs with the Native customs of their youth, creating new forms of religion, language, and social practice. These communities became tight-knit and loyal to each other but often suspicious of outsiders.

Not far from where I live is the ghost town of La Madera. Founded sometime around 1849, its settlers likely came from the Las Huertas Land Grant or from the little village of San Pedro Viejo. Because of the distance and the rugged terrain, the village had to be self sustaining. Its fields grew melons, squash, pinto beans and corn. Sheep and cows grazed in meadows watered from a spring that was just up the valley from the village. In 1860, 25 families called La Madera home.

But that doesn’t mean that La Madera had no contact with the outside world. Madera is Spanish for lumber, which seems to have been the chief source of income for the village. I’ve been told that many of the vigas, or roof trusses in houses in Albuquerque’s Old Town originated in La Madera Canyon. In addition to a church and a school La Madera had a large building that served as a dance hall, stage coach stop, and post office.

When the United States seized control during the Mexican-American War, life in New Mexico began to change, sometimes in ways that were very detrimental to these small communities. Because the American system of ownership did not recognize community-based systems, many of the old grants were denied their property and the rights of communities to the resources surrounding them. Villagers could no longer be assured access to the mountain’s forests and other resources if those slopes were sold to others.

In 1875, the village was threatened when Henry Caldwell, an immigrant from Hamburg, Germany, purchased a track of land south (up stream) from La Madera, which he used for farming and livestock, both of which used water that had always flowed down to their village. The situation became even more dire in 1880, when an organization named San Pedro and Cañon del Agua Water Company built a dam 2 miles uphill from the town. 80 feet high, 300 feet long and 20 feet thick, the dam included a 15” pipe that directed the water past La Madera to the new gold, copper, and silver mines in San Pedro. Without water, the village was doomed.
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Today, La Madera church is a private home and the stagecoach stop is a ruin. Except for these two buildings and a graveyard, nothing remains of the village. However, the idea of an isolated village threatened with the loss of its water by an outside power intrigued me, and the town of La Madera transformed itself in my mind into the fictional town of Lumbra. 

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Raven Quest if Jennifer Bohnhoff's first fantasy novel. It is due to come out on May 20, 2024.

Where I got the idea for Raven Quest

 

 

Next week I'll reveal the cover for Raven Quest, my first ever fantasy novel.

On May 20, 2024, I’m going to release my first ever fantasy novel. It’s the story of Savio, a shepherd who lives in Lumbra. a sleepy village sitting in the shadow of majestic Pastique mountain. The bustling capital city of the old Nacixem Empire lies just on the other side of the mountain.  ​ While the villagers have enjoyed a quiet life, living in the traditional ways of their ancestors, all is not well now. The Nacixem Empire has been conquered by the Olgna. Change is coming. One of the first changes is the drying up of the stream that supplies water to Lumbra. Only those like Savio and his grandmother, who can see into the realms beyond human reality, may be able to stop it.

​Savio doesn’t think he has what it takes to save the village. For starters, an old trauma stops him from taking up the cudgel, the weapon that adult men in Lumbra use for protection. He’s also unsure he can accept the strange new reality he finds himself in. Savio must put aside his doubts and fears and join forces with a raven, a squirrel, and his faithful dog to complete a quest that will make the water flow once more. In his new form, Savio finds he has powers that he never had as a human. Can he use them, and the weapon he’s been avoiding, to overcome an evil that threatens his very way of life, or will he die trying?

The cudgel the men of Lumbra carry is similar to this, but with a much larger knob on the right end.

Maybe you’re wondering where I got the idea for this book. Ask anyone who knows me and you’ll discover I’ve got a pretty vivid imagination. I can see all kinds of things that aren’t there. I can imagine all sorts of scenarios. But this story definitely got its start when my granddaughter and I went on a walk soon after I moved to a new neighborhood in 2017.

My granddaughter and the shelter she built in my woods.

My dog Panzer and a fairy arch. Both made it into my novel.

​My new house was high up on Sandia Mountain, east of Albuquerque. It is surrounded by ponderosa pine and douglas fir forest. Soon after I’d moved in, I took my granddaughter on a little exploration of a ravine that runs through my property. We passed some small oaks that had grown tall, seeking sunshine, then given up. My granddaughter called these trees ‘fairy arches’ and warned me not to go under one. The wheels of my imagination began turning.

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​I showed her a tree that my sons and I had found fifteen years before the house was built, when my husband and I had first bought the land on which the house finally stood. This fir is very old and has a huge trunk. My sons had dubbed it the fairy tree. A neighbor called it the family tree, because she, her husband and daughter could just touch fingertips when they stood around it. I knew I had to include that tree in my story. 

And then, one day I was driving the long and windy road toward my neighborhood. I’d traveled about a mile away from my mailbox when I noticed something very strange: a ring in the sky formed by the curving of the tops of trees. This definitely had to show up in my book!
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But the story didn’t start coming together in my mind until I learned about the history of my neighborhood. It turns out, my neighborhood once had a thriving town. Little is left, but the history is fascinating. I'll go into more detail in my next blog. 

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Divided Duty

 

 

the United States Library of Congress Prints and Photographs division. digital ID 04642

Recently, one of my fans let me know that there was a poem about Alexander McRrae, the Union officer who lost his battery of artillery pieces to the Confederates at the Battle of Valverde. Given that tidbit of information, I went down a rabbit hole and discovered not only a poem, but a couple of interesting people.
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The poet, it turns out, is a man named Theodore Marburg.  Marburg wrote a number of books. Some are poetry. Others are treatises on economics, government, the Spanish American War, and The League of Nations. He was also the United States Minister to Belgium from 1912 to 1914, the executive secretary of an organization called the League to Enforce Peace, and a prominent advocate of the League of Nations

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Marburg was born in Baltimore, Maryland on July 10, 1862, which means that McRae was already dead when the poet was born. I found that interesting, and wondered what caused him to want to write a poem about someone he never knew. He died in Vancouver on March 3, 1946.
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The poem about Captain McRae, entitled DIVIDED DUTY, comes from In The Hills: Poems, a small volume that was privately printed in Paris 1893, then revised and reprinted by The Knickerocker Press, a division of G.P. Putnam’s Sons, in 1924.

The poem has a footnote, which says

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When the American civil war began there happened to be in the regular service a young officer whose home, with all that the word implies, was the South. There were many such. His story is but a type. Is it difficult to picture the struggle that came to them with the sense of a divided duty? This one, with the clearer vision which events have justified, felt that the higher duty was the preservation of the nation; but the thought of fighting against his kindred and the friends of his boyhood so preyed on his mind that he is believed to have courted the death which soon came to him. When the element of fate enters, hurrying the just and the brave to a tragic end, the story must always excite our interest and sympathy. At the battle of Val Verde in New Mexico, February 21, 1862, our hero met his death. The battery, of which, although a cavalry officer, he had been given command for the day, was overwhelmed by the Texans. He remained seated on one of the guns, defending himself until the enemy shot him down. They did him the honor to give his name to one of our forts and to take him back to West Point, to the quiet cemetery in the hills. 

McRae's tombstone. It is just four stones down from that of George Armstrong Custer

The poem is almost as much about the beautiful setting of the West Point Cemetery as it is about the man buried there.  It made me wonder if the tombstone inspired the poet to research the man buried beneath it.
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McRae, a native North Carolinian, commanded Company I, 3rd United States Regular Cavalry. His commanding officer, Colonel Edward R.S. Canby, had given him an artillery battery of six pieces. During the Battle of Valverde, February 21, 1862, McRae's battery performed with great success until about 750 Confederate Texans led by Colonel Thomas Green charged the Union guns. Screaming the Rebel yell, the three waves of confederates were poorly armed  with short-range shotguns, pistols, muskets, and bowie knives. Green had instructed his men to drop to the ground whenever they saw flashes from the artiller's muzzles. The Union men thought they were inflicting great casualties on the Rebels, but the fact that they just kept coming spooked the New Mexico Volunteers supporting McRae and his officers. Many fled the battery and ran panic-stricken across the Rio Grande, unnerving the Volunteer troops who were then being held in reserve.

The Texans fell upon the battery and fierce hand-to-hand fighting swirled around the artillery pieces. Samuel Lockridge, a Texan officer leading the charge is reported to have shouted, "Surrender McRae, we don't want to kill you!" to which the North Carolinian replied, "I shall never forsake my guns!" Both men then suffered fatal bullet wounds. The loss of the battery caused Colonel Canby to issue orders for a full retreat to Fort Craig. The captured guns, thereafter known as the Valverde Battery, continued to fire against Union troops for the remainder of the war.

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 After the war, Confederate Gen. Henry Sibley, who led the Confederate forces into New Mexico, wrote a letter to Alexander McRae’s father. In it, he said  "The universal voice of this Army attests to the gallantry of your son. He fell valiantly defending the battery he commanded. There are few fallen soldiers that are admired by both armies of a conflict. Capt. Alexander McRae was one."

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DIVIDED DUTY 

OH, plateau the eagle's brood has known
 What potent dead you hold!
In fear of God, in duty's light,
 For country and for human right
 On varied fields they fought the fight
And, while you claim their mould,
 
They live and will live through the year,
Though deaf to drum and fife,
For manly deeds are fertile seeds
That spring again to life.
 
What peace, what perfect peace broods o'er
The soldiers ' burial - ground
Here in the heart of the silent hills
With Hudson flowing round.
 
A stately guard, these mighty hills,
Close crowding one another,
Gigantic Storm King locking arms
With Old Cro ' Nest, his brother!
 
Their summits command to the North a range
Where a sleeping figure lies
Stretched on its back on the mountain tops
Against the changing skies.
 
There Rip Van Winkle, the children know,
Beheld with exceeding wonder
The queer little men whose ninepin balls
Create the summer thunder.
 
Down from the Donderberg scurried the winds
That tossed the Dutch sailor of yore.
Down from the highlands the captains came
When trembled and strained a nation's frame,
When all the fair land was aflame,
Aflame with civil war.
 
Far in the South was the home of one '
Twas there he had spent life's morn-
Where winds are soft and women are kind
And gentleness is born;
 
Where the grey moss waves from the great live - oak
And the scarlet tanager flutters;
Where the mocking - bird, hid in the bamboo- vine,
Its passionate melody utters.
 
The boom of the gun upon Sumter that caused
A million hearts to sicken,
That rolled o'er the land and grew as it rolled
While a knell in the mother's breast was tolled
And city and meadow and mountain old
With the spirit of war were stricken,
 
Brought from the hills of the Hudson one
Whose home was the South, ' tis true,
But o'er him the flag of his fathers waved:
He marched in command of the blue.
Oh, the sad story, the story they tell,
The story of duty and death!
The comfort of heaven, the anguish of hell,
Surging with every breath!
 
Out from the North, the awakening North,
Came comrades whose step was light.
Ah! that was their home, and a mother's prayer
Went with them into the fight.
 
Measureless plains of the wide South - west
Ye shook ' neath the tread of men.
Nor winds of the prairie, though mighty they be,
That fashioned your reaches like waves of the sea,
Nor rush of the bison once roaming you free
Have caused you to tremble as when
Through all the long day the sulphureous smoke
Hung heavy over the field
And man from his brother the hand of God
Seemed powerless to shield.
 
The battle is lost.
What use to stay When his men are slain or fled!
Did anguish too great for the brave to bear
Bring longing to lie with the dead?
 
His battery silenced, on one of the guns
Alone he sat ' mid the rout,
Unmoved as the cliff that the ocean in anger
Whirls its white surges about
 
A whirlwind of dust, a whirlwind of men,
 A whirlwind of lead therefrom,
A vain pistol shot from the figure alone
And the coveted end had come.
 
What peace, what perfect peace broods now
O'er the beautiful burial - ground,
Up in the hills, the stately hills,
With the river flowing round.

1916: Captain Marburg and his first wife

 In researching the poet, I found that Theodore Marburg had an interesting son. Captain Theodore Marburg Jr. was born November 27, 1893 in France and attended Oxford University. When World War I broke out, he joined the Royal Flying Corps, which required him to take the oath of allegiance to the British Government. While on a mission to photograph the German lines in 1915, his plane crashed and a strut pierced his left knee, requiring the leg to be amputated. Marburg wanted to return to the US to get an American-made artificial leg, but the U.S. government refused to issue him a passport since, according to their interpretation of law, he had broken his allegiance to the United States by taking the oath in Britain. His widely publicized case led President Wilson to a bill in October 1917 that restored US citizenship to US citizens who enlisted in Canadian, British, and French services before the US declaration of war if they took an oath of allegiance at a US consulate. Marburg then came back to the U.S. and was treated at the Johns Hopkins Hospital.
Marburg’s life did not go well after the war. Believing an outdoor life would be good for his health, Marburg moved to Arizona, where he purchased a cattle ranch. His first wife, Baroness Gesell de Vavario of Belgium, did not like ranch life and divorced him. He had only been married a month when he shot himself in the head on February 17, 1922. He was buried in Druid Ridge Cemetery in Pikesville, Maryland. It would be interesting to learn more about Marburg Jr. and his struggles. 

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Jennifer Bohnhoff is the author of a number of historical novels for middle grade and adult readers. Where Duty Calls, the first in the trilogy Rebels Along the Rio Grande, includes the scene where McRae's battery is charged by the Confederates. A Blaze of Poppies tells the story of a young, female rancher from New Mexico who serves as a nurse in World War I and comes back to marry a wounded American soldier.