Jorden was almost asleep, hovering in a state of half-consciousness when he felt it again. It was faint, but undeniable: a thrashing resonance like that of a fish caught on a line. His head snapped up from the pillow, and before he could properly consider what he was doing, his hiking boots were on his feet, and he was zipping up his thickest parka.

When he threw open the door, he was greeted by a profound darkness, and he dug his heels in, stopping himself in his tracks.

“Wait,” he said, speaking to the god that was no doubt guiding his actions.

The force that directed him lessened, as if listening, and Jorden surveyed the woods. He already knew where Quetzalcōātl wanted him to go. There was only one place where a watery resonance might lead, and Jorden had felt the lake calling from the moment he laid eyes upon it. But the trees were cut out black-against-black under a moonless sky, as foreboding and impassable as a wall.

“We aren’t supposed to leave camp,” he said, and somewhere deep inside, the Feathered Serpent rolled his eyes. “I’m serious! The Red Swords vouched for me. Doctor Hastings—”

Jorden fell silent as the thrashing resonance came again. Though it emanated from the woods, it seemed to surround them. It was in the floorboards beneath his feet and the very air he breathed. What was more, there was a fitfulness to it, giving the impression of someone tossing and turning in their sleep.

“Una pesadilla,” Jorden whispered, though the words hadn’t come from him. A nightmare.

He felt the tug again, though it was gentler this time. Quetzalcōātl wasn’t giving up his plight, but it seemed he was giving Jorden a chance to make up his mind. The question was, would the Feathered Serpent accept no for an answer? Jorden took a small step back into the room, testing his own agency, but something gave him pause.

There was a reason Chelsea hated the woods. They were filled with a sorrow deeper than her powers could stand.

“...It needs our help, doesn’t it?” Jorden sighed, knowing the answer even before it surfaced in his mind, speaking in a voice very much like his own internal monologue.

‘Necesitamos ayuda el uno al otro.’ We need to help each other.

“We shouldn’t go alone.”

‘Ellos no pueden pasar.’ The others can’t pass.

“Can’t pass what?” Jorden blinked, but at the same moment he spoke, he noticed a tide of fog creeping slowly through the trees. His throat constricted.

‘No tenemos mucho tiempo.’ We don’t have much time.

“Okay, okay,” he winced, shaking his head to clear the voices from it, and pushed out into the night.

The woods were dark as pitch to the eyes of a human, but Jorden traversed them easily enough as a snake, until they reached the fog. The haze obscured the heat signatures of everything within it, turning the world into a big blue ball of light. But when Jorden transformed back, he found that he wasn’t as blind as he feared. The mist had a luminescence to it, illuminating the path before him.

For all the monsters he had met, Jorden had little experience with ghosts, and as he ventured deeper into the fog, he was glad for it. Every resonance faded into nothing, leaving his ears ringing in the silence. From the corners of his vision, he thought he could see figures moving. They were shaped like people, but always just out of sight. Jorden thought he might have preferred the darkness.

Then there came the voices. They were so distant that they only left impressions in his senses: hints and whispers, but as the Feathered Serpent led him on, they grew stronger. His head whipped one way towards a disembodied laugh, then another to follow a fragment of a sentence. Then, he heard something that made his heart drop into his toes.

A soft singing carried through the fog, and when it reached him, the milagro around Jorden’s neck fluttered like the wings of a butterfly. The words, though muffled, were familiar, and Jorden knew each of them by heart.

“Mom!” Tears pricked the backs of his eyes as he went sprinting towards it, searching the haze for the source.

An alarm bell rang in the back of his mind, but Jorden didn’t care. If Carmen Casillas wouldn’t come to his ofrenda, Jorden would go to her. The light grew brighter, and the singing more distinct. But just when he thought she would materialize from the fog, something darted out in front of him.

It was small, fast, and bright red. He stumbled to avoid it, falling backward and sitting down hard. Somewhere to his left, the bushy tail of a fox vanished into the mist. Jorden did a double-take, breathing hard as his palms stung from the impact. When his voice came, it broke.

“...Hello?” he called, but no one answered.

Gulping, he climbed to his feet, only for his foot to slip knee-deep into ice-cold water. It soaked through his jeans in an instant. He cursed, flailing one way, then another, before pitching face-first into the freezing lake.

Sunset on the cliffside left the cottage washed in gold. Gulsong echoed faintly in the late-spring breeze. The sea, as always, was gentle. No storm had threatened the homestead since the flying ship had docked there over half a decade ago. And in all that time, the sun rarely set. When it did, the sky twinkled with stars so plentiful, to stand beneath them was to stand in a cavern of diamonds. And when morning came, it brought with it peach clouds and lovely dew.

The cottage was well-tended. The cupboards never emptied and the woodwork never wore. The irregularly-placed stones of the walkway were never so slick that the boy would trip when he sprinted across them—which he was known to do. He laughed and played in an eternity of lazy afternoons.

Not for the first time, but for the first time in a while, the air shifted, and a figure appeared on the hillside. They were tall—but not so tall as the man who kept the cottage—and short-haired, with eyes as two-toned as the grain and sea of earth itself.

At their arrival, the boy skidded to a halt, a recognition dawning on him that the figure didn’t envy. It was the feeling of realizing you’d lost track of time, but multiplied one hundred-fold.

“You’re back,” Ezra whispered, his voice still high and sweet.

“For now.” They nodded. “Where’s your brother?”

“Here.” The eldest of the Graywing siblings ducked through the doorway, and at the sight of him, the breath was all but crushed from the intruder’s lungs.

He was just as they remembered: dark-haired and sepia-skinned, graying temples and bathed in an angelic aura of multi-chromatic stardust. They knew every line of his face by heart.

“Severn,” they whispered.

“Sypher.” He grinned the same as always: as if he knew a secret no one else did. “That’s new. Where have you been?”

“Oh, here and there,” they said, their breath hitching as they held out their hand, and a book materialized in it.

“What’s this?” They asked, but the moment it passed into his grip, a shiver ran down his spine. “Is … is it about us?”

“No, but there’s pieces of you in it. And some pieces of her. Ru Ru’s in there too, if you squint. Let’s see, who else would you know?”

“I don’t believe this.” Severn thumbed through the pages, his shoulders slumping, and the author’s heart skipped a beat.

“I know.” Their voice dropped along with their eyes, and they took to scanning the fluffy, fragrant grass. “But your story … it was different. It lived only in the moment. And all those words I wrote for you, I can’t get them back.”

“No, I mean … you did it.” He lowered the book, letting out an exasperated chuckle that turned into a sniffle. His eyes grew misty. “You actually did it.”

“You were the one who helped me see that I could.” They stepped forward, and Severn drew them into his arms, the two of them embracing in a tight hug.

When they parted, Severn motioned towards the cottage. “Will you stay for tea?”

“I rather think I must.” They said, but as they turned for the cottage, something stopped them in their tracks.

It was a far cry from a castle. Tucked worlds away from an empire, a prison colony, and the twisted, aching reminders of a compromised heart. Severn was watching them with a somber expression. He reached out to take their hand, and in the moment they connected, the two of them were one and the same.

“It’s a beautiful eternity you’ve built for us,” he said, but tears sprang to the author’s eyes all the same.

“I wanted it to be so much more.” Their voice shook. He meant too much to them for this to be the end. It was all too good a story to live only in their mind.

“The world doesn’t have to know our names,” Severn said, giving their hand a gentle squeeze. “So long as you never forget them.”

“Never,” they promised, squeezing his hand right back.

This story is dedicated to Severn Graywing, Caira Mayhem, Aru “Ru Ru Jare-Bear”, Favis Ravouren, Juno Renard, and all the other stories that built the Age of Monsters. Known by few, but loved no less for it.

Santería vs Voodoo - Mark Bere Peterson
Hoodoo As Ancestral Religion - Center for the Study of World Religions
Tlaltecuhtli - EBSCO
Cueyatl - Aztec Religion
Cipactli - Ancient Origins
Wekufe - Gods and Monsters
Kalku - DBpedia
Understanding the Mapuche Struggle - UCLA

Transcript

Welcome back to The Book, The Myth, The Legend! My name is L.M. Sypher, and I’m the author of The Serpent’s Rise.

Today, we’re going to be covering the mythology of Chapter 12. These episodes do contain spoilers for the whole book, so if you aren’t caught up, I recommend finishing the read before digging into the mythos, especially if you want a fuller picture of what we’re talking about. For today’s episode, we’ll be discussing Olvido Powder, the cueyatl (kwee-yah-til), and the wekufe. And before we begin, I do want to say that the story of the cueyatl might not be suitable for all audiences, due to the violent nature of the tale.

As a reminder, I could never hope to encompass the full breadth and depth of any individual mythology. The legends in my book have been synthesized from their source material and reformatted to fit my story-telling needs. All the work that’s gone into this project has been for the sake of cultural appreciation and accuracy of representation. While I am not above error, I do believe that the scope of my research is sufficient to share these tales with all of you.

We’re going to kick off this episode by discussing a few folk magic traditions, including Olvido Powder. In The Serpent’s Rise, Xavier uses Olvido Powder to sneak past the ICU receptionist in the hospital. He calls it ‘forget me’ powder, and its real-world applications are similar.

Olvido is the Spanish word for ‘forget.’ In fact, we see Mamá Valentina using it in Chapter 15 when she says ‘no me olvides,’ which translates to, ‘don’t forget me.’ This mythical powder is used in modern pagan practices for a variety of purposes, including spell and ritual settings to encourage someone to forget about or move on from the practitioner. Other sources say that a practitioner can sprinkle it on themselves in order to forget about someone who has hurt them or done them wrong.

As a folk magic ingredient, it’s difficult to pinpoint exactly where Olvido Powder originates from, but there are certain practices, both open and closed, that leverage it as a magical tool. Now, when I say that a practice is open or closed, what I’m talking about is how accessible the information within that practice is to be learned by the wider population.

A practice that is considered open is available to anyone to learn regardless of who they are and where they come from. This is true for the wider practices of Wicca and Paganism, where you don’t need to be born into the practice, or hail from any specific lineage to learn it. A practice that is considered closed is one that is exclusive to a certain group–often a cultural or ethnic group–and requires a certain initiation. Examples of closed practices include Native American and Aboriginal Australian traditions, as well as the three that we’re going to be discussing next: Santería, Hoodoo, and Voodoo.

The reason I bring up these three closed practices is because Olvido Powder is used in all of them. If you’ve never heard these terms before, or have heard them used interchangeably, allow me to shed a bit more light into the differences between them.

Santería is an Afro-Carribean religion that developed in Cuba and incorporates elements of Catholicism. Deities in this religion are known as Orishas. Hoodoo is a folk magic practice that blends African traditions with Native American and European spiritual beliefs. Voodoo is a religion with an established priesthood and pantheon of powerful spiritual beings called Iwa that act as intermediaries between humans and the divine being. All three of these practices developed between the 16th-19th centuries and pull from West African traditions, particularly those of the Yoruba, Fon, and Ewe tribes.

This is because Hoodoo, like Santeria and Voodoo, came about during the time of the Atlantic Slave Trade, when people were brought from their homelands–particuarly from West Africa–to the new world, which became a mixing pot for cultural exchange between the groups that interacted there.

And this is why these practices are considered closed. They represent deep cultural traditions that are entwined with a specific history and ancestral knowledge. By remaining closed, the rituals involved with these religions and practices are less likely to be appropriated or misinterpreted.

Now, I think it’s important to note here that Xavier Greenwood is not a practitioner of any of these three closed practices, but he does lean into some Hoodoo principles. In addition to Olvido Powder, he’s shown to carry Uncrossing Oil in Chapter 16, which is an oil used in Hoodoo to repel spells and hexes.

Xavier’s tool box includes a variety of elements from various cultures that have diffused into the public consciousness over time. For instance, he’s known to fight with razored shuriken: medieval Japanese weapons sometimes known as ninja stars. He also has a demon familiar, originating from the witchcraft folklore of medieval Europe and covered in Episode 8. Having been a Red Sword for over a decade, Xavier is well-educated in the history of the tools he uses, their cultural associations, and how to leverage them respectfully.

And out of all the characters in The Serpent’s Rise, his approach is the most eclectic, reflecting aspects of his interests. Xavier proves Doctor Hastings’ assertion that all humans are capable of wielding magic, and instead of drawing from any one established mythology, he’s created a personal blend of ideas that’s truly unique.

As for the ingredients of Olvido Powder, it varies significantly based on what elements a practitioner chooses to add. As for the blend Xavier uses, it contains the crushed petals of night-blooming flowers, which represent fading memories, ashes from old letters and journal pages, and lemon balm, which is an herb known for its calming properties.

As for uncrossing oil, common ingredients include hyssop, rue, frankincense and myrrh. And if two of those ingredients sound familiar to you, they should. Frankincense and myrrh were given as gifts by the wise men in the Christian tradition. Themes of Christianity, as well as several other religions, are a recurring theme in Hoodoo.

If you want to learn more about these practices, I’ve linked a couple sources in the show notes. Just remember that as you engage with these resources, you are engaging with real world religions that are practiced by millions of people around the world. I urge you to treat them with the respect and consideration they are due.

Okay, next, we’re going to be talking about one of my favorite Aztec monsters, the cueyatl (kwee-yah-til). Now, you may or may not be aware, cueyatl is Nahuatl word for ‘frog,’ which is why the cueyatl of The Serpent’s Rise is depicted as a frog warrior. But to properly explain the roots of this legend, we have to go on a little adventure together, to the creation of the world under the fifth sun. And while we’re at it, I may mention that this specific story might not be suitable for all listeners, so listener discretion is advised.

Imagine this, existence is splayed across the vast cosmos. The fourth sun has ended, leaving the gods to pick up the pieces and begin again. In The Serpent’s Rise, Mamá Valentina describes Quetzalcoatl as “the god of wind and rain who created the earth and sky.” This is because Quetzalcoatl is one of the central players in this myth.

Elsewhere, we have a terrifying creature called “the earth monster” dwelling in the ocean left by the great flood of the fourth sun. The embodiment of chaos, Tlaltecuhtli (Tlal-teh-koo-tlee) is a giant toad-like creature with the skin of a crocodile that represents the uneven surface of the earth.

Seeing her potential for what it was, Quetzalcoatl and Tezcatlipoca transform themselves into giant serpents. Each attach themselves to one side of Tlaltecuhtli (Tlal-teh-koo-tlee) and tug as hard as they can. She splits down the middle, and her dismembered body becomes the earth we inhabit today. Tlaltecuhtli (Tlal-teh-koo-tlee) doesn’t die. Instead, she becomes the Lady of the Earth, the primordial embodiment of earth and the giver of all life.

But as her blood drips into the sea, children spring forth. They’re frogs with poisonous blood and breath. Some say that this is the last revenge of the goddess, for the gods’ acts against her. But these beings are known as the warrior cueyatl. For fans of table-top roleplaying games, you may even know the cueyatl as a monster introduced in supplemental 5th Edition content for the popular RPG, Dungeons & Dragons.

And for those of you who know your fifth sun founding legends and are screaming out “no, no, L.M., that’s not right, it was a crocodile creature that was slain to make the earth, not a toad!” We’re getting to that part.

What you’re probably thinking of is Cipactli (see-PAHK-tlee), and if that’s the case, you’re right. Cipactli is also depicted as a sea monster, but instead of a toad with aspects of a crocodile, she is a crocodile with aspects of a toad or fish. That seems a little confusing, right? Well, not really. Cipactli and Tlaltecuhtli (Tlal-teh-koo-tlee) are two aspects of the same deity complex, similar to how Chalchiuhtecólotl (Chal-chee-weh-koh-lohtl) is an aspect of Tezcatlipoca, which we discussed in Episode 5.

For those of you who might feel a little lost, let me put it in potentially more familiar terms. The Greek goddess Athena is known for being a multi-faceted goddess. She is–among other things–the goddess of wisdom, war, and virginity, which in the context of ancient Greece, simply means ‘unmarried.’ Now, if you were to refer to Athena as a warrior, you might refer to her as Pallas Athene. If you were to refer to her as a maiden goddess, you might call her Athena Parthenos.

While the names Cipactli and Tlaltecuhtli can be used interchangeably, one typically represents the monster that is slain, and the other represents the embodiment of earth after her body is split in two. No matter which name you use to refer to this goddess and sea monster, what’s important for this myth is the creation of the cueyatl, who we know better in The Serpent’s Rise as Matías.

Okay. Last but certainly not least, we’re going to jump down to Chile for our next legend, that of the Wekufe, perhaps better known as Abuelita Asesina. Chile is a mountainous country at the base of South America that hugs the western coastline of the continent.

Seeing as it’s one of the southern-most regions of Latin America, Chile has a different mythological landscape from Mesoamerica, a fact Mamá Valentina points out when Abuelita attempts to enter The Den through the underground tunnels in Chapter 12. But what is Abuelita Asesina, and why is she so dangerous?

A Wekufe comes from the mythology of the Mapuche people, an indigenous group who live in south-central Chile and swaths of south-western Argentina. The Mapuche are the largest indigenous group in Chile, and make up a large percentage of the modern country’s population. Historically, they are known for maintaining a distinct cultural identity despite attempts at colonization. For a folklorist, this amounts to a treasure trove of myths and legends to–respectfully–explore. And the story of the Wekufe is one of my absolute favorites.

Known as harmful spirits, the word Wekufe can be understood as ‘outside being.’ It lurks in the darkness, and is blamed for the misfortune of humans, including sickness, disaster, and death. Bearing this in mind, it makes perfect sense as to why Abuelita Asesina would be lurking in the sewers under a hospital.

Descriptions of the Wekufe vary, with some accounts painting it as a horned and many-limbed monstrosity, and others painting it in a more ethereal light. I described Abuelita as having the features of both an alpaca and an andean deer, both of which are native to Chile and used by the Mapuche people for food, skins, and wool. Her uncanny appearance gives her a level of stealth, until someone gets close enough to realize how mismatched her features are, right down to her human-like eyes.

Based on descriptions alone, I believe Abuelita is the most frightening monster in The Serpent’s Rise, and unfortunately, it only gets freakier when you dig deeper into the mythos. Wekufe are said to be formed from negative experiences and emotions–tragedies so inexplicable that they throw off the natural balance of the world.

Let’s take, for instance, the example of a young couple about to be married. The night before the wedding, there’s a tragic accident, leaving the young bride alone with all the hopes and dreams she had for the future she envisioned with her unlucky groom. From the shock, grief, and heartache, a Wefuke might be born. The same might be said for an unexpected natural disaster or sudden sickness of a child.

From there, the Wekufe might attack unlucky humans that it comes across, or it may be directed to attack humans by a Kalku. A Kalku is a sorcerer in Mapuche mythos, and particularly a dark one. They can take control of a Wekufe and introduce it into the body of a person to make them sick. In order to ward against a Wekufe, benevolent shamans–known as Machi–can cast protective enchantments to repel its influence.

Because they are formed from negativity, negativity is the nature of the Wekufe, a fact which I alluded to in the initial discussion between Abuelita and Mamá V. Based on the context of their conversation, we are led to believe that Abuelita has been given access to The Den in the past, and ended up killing one of the members of La Junta. While writing this dynamic, I couldn’t help but pull from the fable of the scorpion and the frog.

If you’re not familiar, it goes a little something like this: a scorpion waits on the banks of a river, hoping to find a way across. By and by, a frog comes along, and the scorpion asks for a ride. The frog is hesitant, noting the scorpion’s poisonous tail, but the scorpion assures the frog that he will not sting him. If he does, they will both be doomed.

Eventually, the frog agrees to take the scorpion across, but half-way across the river, the scorpion stings the frog all the same. As the frog is dying from the poisonous sting, he asks the scorpion why he would do it, knowing that the both of them are doomed. The scorpion’s chilling response is simply this: “it is my nature.’

Like the scorpion, Abuelita Asesina is a product of her malevolent nature, and succumbs to it even when La Junta offers her a proverbial olive branch, one that will not be extended twice. Ultimately, that is the catalyst that inspires her to join forces with De Leon, an unexpected move with tragic consequences.

But there’s actually a bit more context to this story that I can’t end the episode without sharing. The native language of the Mapuche people is known as Mapudungun. In its earliest iterations, ‘wekufe’ simply meant ‘liar,’ or ‘deceiver,’ but the context changed when Spanish Catholicism landed on the Chilean shores. The entities we know as Wekufe today found their genesis with the introduction of the demonic pantheon of Christianity. What I find captivating about this facet of the story is that it demonstrates cultural exchange without cultural erasure. This was due entirely to the Mapuche’s firm stance against Spanish colonization. To learn more about that storied history, and its modern implications, you can visit UCLA’s international institute, linked in the show notes.

Thanks for listening and remember to tune in next week for Episode 13! We’ll be discussing the rougarou, ofrendas, and Quetzacoatl himself. In the meanwhile, feel free to leave a comment and share with your friends! And if you love The Serpent’s Rise, consider giving my book a review. It’s one of the best ways that you can help my work reach more people. Thanks again for your support and catch you all in the next episode.

Music

Jingle Punks
Lucas King

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“You don’t have to do this.” The giantess loomed large overhead, dwarfing the tall, dark-haired daughter of the Blue Ridge.

Of this, she was already keenly aware, but answers were answers, and there was one particular spirit who wasn’t picking up her calls. Beyond that, she’d mixed the drought of henbane and mugwort. She’d come closer to death than ever before. She’d called upon the seer to give her entry to the bridge, and by all the gods, she would meet her on it. Squaring her shoulders, she barreled ahead, eliciting a tsk of disapproval from the monster. After all, what call did she have to the Norse? What might possess her to walk straight into hell? Well, technically it was Hellheim, but an Underworld was an Underworld all the same.

Collar popped and eyes fixed on the horizon, she pushed ahead like a warrior of something, but the plot of that something got lost along the way. She was too many things at once, and somehow never everything she needed to be. But she was enough for this. If she wasn’t, the cost was her life, and that was too steep a price to pay at present.

The seer was, predictably, blind. Wrapped in rotting taffeta like some great, gray bride, she sat upon the throne. With a peal of high, tight laughter, she stirred, coming to life only in the moment a living soul approached.

“You’re a little far from home.” The seer’s voice was tight and rasping, weak from years of disuse. “And further from your mythos. Remind me what it is again?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out,” the witch said. “Right now, we’re not here to talk about me.”

“Oh, but aren’t we?” She giggled. “Such collection calls are rarely for the benefit of the dead.”

“... Will she talk to me, or won’t she?”

“Have you tried calling her name?” The tight, mummified skin of the dead woman stretched, and the human sighed, her shoulders rounding.

“... Mom?” she called, and though her voice was quiet, it echoed far further from the bridge than she had intended.

The seer’s eyes flashed, and with a ring like a bell, she grew contemplative. “Hmmm. There are many who come to call for you. Perhaps too many.”

That was unsurprising, the human thought. Some people had an inheritance of diamonds, hers was an inheritance of loss: practically hard-wired into her DNA like the spiraled curls of her hair.

“Someone approaches,” the seer rasped, and the human gasped aloud as the world turned on its head.

It was the first body she had occasion to witness, lying still and waxen at the front of the church. Death had a way of distorting things. The woman in the casket didn’t look like Mrs. Sanderson. She had none of the brightness. The body was swollen and dark as the water from which they’d recovered her, and twice as thick as the woman’s thin frame should have been.

There’s no telling for whom the bell tolls. This time, it had tolled for the mother of Mary Sanderson, who stood beside her father on the other side of the viewing platform. Both then and now, the girl broke away to pull her into her arms, hugging her as tightly as she was able. But Mrs. Sanderson wasn’t the mother she was seeking.

The scene shifted, and years passed.

It was a summer in which the rains came fast and heavy. With a screech of tires on the street, a life had been snuffed out. Fifteen and wild, the girl raced barefoot a half-mile up the street. She found Carla Wilkins crumpled in the entryway of her slanted farmhouse, sobbing into the arms of her father.

That night, Carla lay curled in his arms–as if she were little more than a babe. The girl stayed in Carla’s bed, wide-eyed and wakeful. A creeping feeling of inevitability had begun to curl at her consciousness, and solidified into a mounting panic.

Before, they had only reached for her. She had never reached for them. But that night, the girl begged Mrs. Wilkins to give her a sign–any sign–that she wasn’t gone forever. And Mrs. Wilkins answered.

Like a beacon of light, she has swept into the room, coming from the closed door on the other end of the hall. The girl felt a burst of heat on her hand–as if the woman were holding it–and all the fear subsided in an instant.

With nothing more than a swish and a smile, Mrs. Wilkins left–off to hold her husband and Carla.

By then, the witch had learned what it felt like when they came to her. She had learned to recognize their voices distinct from her own thoughts. That night, she learned how to summon them. The scene shifted again.

This time, she came across a rigid form at the top of a landing. The girl was older only by a matter of hours. The inevitability she had felt the night before was no mere anxiety: it was a warning. See, death has a tendency to stack itself. When the scythe comes to cull, it culls completely, and snips every loose end with it.

The little cat had been the subject of many a prayer for some months now. But despite all the magic that crowded the girl’s life, she had come to learn that wishing was seldom enough. And when lightning strikes, it strikes fast.

The feline had been on the decline for some time. He was bred too delicately, perhaps. Or maybe his chocolate points and kind, crying heart were simply too good for such a dark world. In either case, his soul had already found a way out, leaving the air startlingly still.

He hadn’t gone easy. His tongue was lodged halfway out of his mouth, his wheezing cough finally choking the last of life left in him. Through the veil of the vision, the witch wondered why she was seeing it. There was no mother here, she thought.

Until she watched her younger self take the blanket from her bed, wrapping his hard form in her arms like an infant and carrying him down the steps.

“Do you have the answers that you seek?” The seer asked, and the human fixed a scowl in her direction.

“You didn’t tell me anything!”

“Sometimes you are the chainbreaker, sometimes you are the chain. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

“Where is she?”

“The second loss is harder than the first,” the seer said. “Is it not?”

“That’s it?” Her voice shook. “I came all this way!”

“What else did you expect? You worked your magic too well.” She waved her hand, and a final vision appeared.

It was nearly the end. The air was thick with sickness and heavy with encroaching finality. Illness had not riddled a body alone, it had seeped its way into every crevice of the home. The walls between this and what came after were thin as ricepaper.

The witch was older than any vision before, but younger than she’d like to be again, standing at the end of the bed and praying once more. Let it be quick. Let it be painless. The discovery of the illness had been so sudden–like a car crash, or a coughing fit that didn’t pass. There was no reason that the woman–whose hair had not yet gone fully to gray–should be made to suffer now.

Like a ripple in the curtains–or a hand parting water–the witch did what she did best: she opened a door.

“When you’re ready,” she whispered, and it was over by morning.

“What you gave her was a gift, so let me give you one in return.” The seer inclined her head. “A soul that can be called to you is a soul that hasn’t found its rest. Your mother is at peace.”

That only made one of them, the girl thought, squaring her jaw. The witch peered past the throne, across the bridge and into the shrouded lands of Hellheim. Peace was sounding more and more like the most favorable outcome of the encounter, and the henbane was taking its toll. But she roused herself from that notion with a shake of her dark curls. Miles to go before she slept, and all that poetic nonsense.

“I see.” Her voice was flat, her tone decided. “Thank you.”

The moment she stepped from the hall, both the living and dead reached for her once more. They were hands grasping for meaning. Desperate hopefuls that sought comfort in what little she understood of the balance of things. It had been told to her once that to stand between the heavens and the earth was to stand apart from each. To walk the line between them was to walk alone.

For all the magic in the world, the most enviable thing to be, is to be held gently.

El Culebrón and other myths of Latin America - Day Translations
Cuélebre - Myth Wiki
Legend of the Turul - Legends of Hungary (Video)
Legend of the Turul - FabulaHub (Story)

Transcript

Welcome back to The Book, The Myth, The Legend! My name is L.M. Sypher, and I’m the author of The Serpent’s Rise.

Today, we’re going to be covering the mythology of Chapter 11. These episodes do contain spoilers for the whole book, so if you aren’t caught up, I recommend finishing the read before digging into the mythos, especially if you want a fuller picture of what we’re talking about. For today’s episode, we’ll be discussing El Culebrón, and the turul.

As a reminder, I could never hope to encompass the full breadth and depth of any individual mythology. The legends in my book have been synthesized from their source material and reformatted to fit my story-telling needs. All the work that’s gone into this project has been for the sake of cultural appreciation and accuracy of representation. While I am not above error, I do believe that the scope of my research is sufficient to share these tales with all of you.

El Culebrón is a mysterious figure in Chilean mythos. Specifically, it represents a blended “Mestizo” tradition, combining the folklore of Spain with that of the indigenous Mapuche people in Chile. Lurking in caves and thick forests, this shape-shifting creature is known to embody a child’s greatest fear. Like I mentioned in The Serpent’s Rise, El Culebrón has the body of a snake–specifically an anaconda–and is covered in wiry hair. Its head is that of a cow, and it has a pension for human flesh. In some versions of the legend, it isn’t the depths of the countryside where you can find this creature, but under the beds of children where it waits to devour them in the night.

Like many myths, El Culebrón serves an important purpose. For centuries, stories of fearsome creatures lurking in deep, dark places have been used as a way to deter children from wandering off. The story of the snake under a bed shares a similar purpose, making a child think twice before getting up in the middle of the night. But that’s not all.

El Culebrón arrives in places where treasure had been buried. As the story goes, it is attracted to riches, and will generate wealth for anyone who captures it. As we well know, Bittybones used a Trapper Snatcher to ensnare El Culebrón in the book, but the mythological approach is a little different. In one version, you need three of the longest hairs on its head. After they’re plucked, place them in a bowl of milk. The hairs will transform into three tiny versions of El Culebrón. From there, they will fight for dominance. Eventually, one will devour the other two, and will grow to its full size.

I managed to track down a slightly different telling of El Culebrón lore in the form of a Chilean fairytale. This story was published in 1883 in a collection called The Folklore Journal, published by Elliot Stock for the Folk Lore Society in London. Poet T.H. Moore is credited with penning it, and you can see the romantic influence of his literary craft.

I tell you this because it’s clear from the start that T.H. Moore is writing from the perspective of a

white, Western-leaning man to a largely white, Western-leaning audience. The first word of the fable is “thou,” as in “thou must know to tell, and understand in order to know; that there was a gentleman who had three children…“ Now, in Chile in the 1880’s, native speakers would not have used the archaic English pronouns “thee” or “thou,” but more likely the Spanish pronoun tú, meaning “you.”

He also commits a fairly comical translation error early on, indicating “Culebroncito” to mean big snake directly, when it actually means “Little Culebron,” or “Little Big Snake.”

I relay all of this to you because the story is too long to link directly, so I’m going to have to summarize it here. Essentially, what you’re getting is a retelling of a retelling of a blended legend. Essentially, expect some things to be lost in translation. Additionally, I can’t be sure what is part of the original fable, and what artistic choices were made along the way, though I might guess that there were several. And on that note, the Brothers Grimm would have had a field day with this fairy tale, as it bears striking similarities to classic stories like Cinderella and Rapunzel, but with a twist all its own.

Listener discretion is advised with this story for themes of violence, death, and infant death.

Once upon a time there was a man with three children: two boys and a girl. The girl was named Marquita, and was quite beautiful. She also had the gift of magic, and a secret, for she had found a small snake in the garden and taken it inside to wean. When the snake grew larger, she kept it in a trunk and fed it from the kitchen every day. She treated the snake like a sister, and named her Florita.

But when her father found the snake in the trunk, he threw it out into the depths of the forest. Marquita was thrown into a fit of sorrow, but the snake did not return to her. Then, her father and brothers went into the city to speak to the king. They told the king of Marquita’s beauty, and of her magic. When she laughed, pearls fell from her mouth. When she washed her hands, the water she had used turned to silver overnight. When she combed her hair, the loose strands turned to gold by the next day.

The king agreed to marry Marquita, and her father sent her to the city with her nurse. But the nurse had a daughter named Estafani, who was cunning and cruel. She realized that the king had never seen Marquita, and because he didn’t know what she looked like, there was no reason Estafani couldn’t take her place.

So Estafani and her mother cut out Marquita’s eyes, put them in a jar, and threw Marquita into the depths of the woods. She nearly died there, cold and in pain, until an old man found her. But when he brought her home, his own daughters weren’t pleased. They were poor and hungry, and Marquita was nothing to them but another mouth to feed. But Marquita insisted that she could help. She shared with them her magic, and made the family very comfortable in their cottage.

Then, when Marquita was sitting in the forest, a large snake approached. And who could it be but none other than Florita herself! By now, Estafani had married the king and was expecting a baby, but Florita hatched a plan to restore Marquita to her rightful place. She instructed the old man to go into town and buy “nosegays”--a kind of small, compact bouquet–and pose as a flower seller by the palace.

Estafani was drawn in by the sweet scent of the flowers and sent her servants to buy them. But the old man–on Florita’s instruction–told her that the price was, believe it or not, eyes. They paid first with the eyes of a dog, then the eyes of a cat, and finally, with the eyes they had taken from Marquita herself.

Florita put the eyes back into her head, and Marquit’s vision was restored. Then, they went to the palace and pelted the guards with gold coins while Marquita basically … complained loudly about her woes and how Estafani had betrayed her. It took a couple tries, but eventually the king decided to listen, especially when Marquita offered to display the magical talents that Estafani couldn’t.

See, the brothers had promised the king on pain of death that Marquita was indeed magically gifted. When Estafani hadn’t been able to turn water into silver, provide gold threads, or make pearls fall from her mouth, he had cut off the heads of the two brothers. But when Marquita showed him what she could do, and the king realized that Estafani and her mother had tricked him, he put the both of them to death.

Now, this story has a considerable body count, and it’s not over yet. The king and Marquita got married and had a pair of twin sons. Florita asked the couple if they’d rather see the boys alive, or Marquita’s brothers, and they decided that they’d rather see the brothers alive, because Marquita’s twins were “angels from heaven.”

The snake killed the two baby boys, and when Marquita and the king went to the tomb, they found her brothers alive and well. And though your heart might be breaking for the two baby boys, they were alive and well in their cribs when the adults returned to the palace. After that, Florita revealed that she was an angel, and took her leave of Marquita once all her wishes had been fulfilled.

So that’s the story, and as I read it, I couldn’t help but notice distinct similarities to the story of the Valravn. Specifically when it comes to the sacrifice of a child. Of course, the sacrifice of a first-born child is not a new or unique concept to either Chilean or Danish culture. In fact, the sacrifice of children is older than the Bible, and being a Mestizo legend, it’s likely that there were deeply-rooted European themes within the story before T.H. Moore got a hold of it.

Now Marquita was lucky, mostly because she was responsible with the power of the snake, and used it for good, but not all tellings have a happy ending. In this story, she fed Florita with food from the table, but in other versions of the tale, the price to keep El Culebrón must be paid in blood. Tales of animal sacrifices are common, but in some tellings, the keeper feeds the snake from their own blood, or the blood of friends and family members. In these versions, El Culebrón is a story of greed and betrayal where the ultimate question is: how far will you go to get what it is you most desire?

And as the story mentioned, Marquita came upon the snake when she was sitting out in the garden, so don’t think you’re safe from El Culebrón just because you stay on the woodland path. Legends of the creature describe it attacking hikers, mule drivers, and unlucky individuals who happen to be passing through its territory. Now, you might be wondering how someone might defend themselves against something like El Culebrón, well, the contributing myth might shed some insight.

Cuélebre is a legend originating from the Asturias region of Northern Spain. There is also a Cantabrian variation, but we’ll stick with the Asturian for now. Like El Culebrón, Cuélebre is a serpentine figure, but leans more draconic, with a set of wings not usually depicted in the story of its Chilean cousin. It too is a being of great power, but it’s said that its power wanes at Midsummer.

That night, it’s said that brave individuals can sneak into Cuélebre’s lair and feed it a molten hot stone or a loaf of bread full of pins. Either should kill the creature, allowing the hero to marry the fairy creatures Cuélebre keeps trapped in its den. The only catch is if the creature survives. If Cuélebre is not killed, it will return with a vengeance on the night of Saint Bartholomew, which falls between August 23rd and 24th.

Our heroes didn’t vanquish El Culebrón with a pin-filled loaf or firestone, but there is another way to anger it. It’s said that if the blood sacrifices are not made, and El Culebrón is left to starve, it will leave or die, reversing all the luck and fortune that its owner had enjoyed. They will lose all their wealth, and potentially their lives as well.

The last thing I’d like to say on the topic of El Culebrón is the description of its death in The Serpent’s Rise. I try to describe each monster’s demise in a way congruent with their stories. In the case of our fearsome snake, it came apart like paper, or parchment. Now, I know that currency is made from a cotton-linen blend, but the allegory here is between paper and money. Perhaps a bit gratuitous on my part, but I thought it made for a hair-raising visual.

Taking a sharp turn from Latin America, we’re going to jump to Central Europe, where we’ll take a deeper look at the myth of the turul. And I feel it should come with a bit of a caveat. In the context of The Serpent’s Rise, the turul is a purely mythological figure, drawing on roots that go back a millennium, but in the real world, it’s the national symbol of Hungary, like the Eagle is the symbol of the United States. And in that context, the turul has a complicated history, having been appropriated–along with several other Hungarian symbols and themes–by far-right groups.

I don’t tell you this to cast a shadow on the character of Doctor Hastings, but to remind you that throughout history, stories have been interpreted and re-interpreted to suit the narratives of those who weave them. With all of that said, let’s engage with this story with a level of critical awareness, and sensitivity.

Mythologically speaking, the turul acts as a divine messenger of the god Isten. Isten is the head of the Hungarian pantheon, known as the god of the sky. In most legends, the turul is depicted as falcon-like, and particularly as a cross between an eagle and a falcon. In fact, the Hungarian variation shares a root to the turul bird of Turkic mythology, which is a kind of hunting falcon. And for those unaware, ‘Turkic’ relates to a group of Altaic languages of Western and Central Asia, including Turkey, the country which might jump first to mind.

In size, depictions of the Hungarian turul vary, but its wingspan was considered to be 15 meters, or nearly 50 feet. Doctor Hastings is depicted with a wingspan of roughly 15 to 20 feet, demonstrating his diminished power after the age of the gods has come to a close.

His inclusion in The Serpent’s Rise was inspired by the turul’s connection with a famous mythological sword, that of the Sword of God, also known as the Sword of Mars, or the Sword of Attila. It was said to have been crafted by the fire god of the Hungarian pantheon, and fell from the heavens themselves. According to legend, it was then wielded by Attila the Hun to create problems for the Eastern and Western Roman empires in the 5th century CE. But, like many gifts from the gods, it was only lended. Eventually, they took it back, but the sword reappeared, gifted by the turul when it led the Hungarian people of mythology known as the Magyar to settle the region of Hungary in the 9th century CE.

The motif of an eagle-like bird leading a group of people to their promised land, while pretty cool, is not unique. In fact, there’s one story that strikes such a similar parallel, I couldn’t help but draw the connection, especially in the context of this story. Buckle up buttercups, this is where things get pretty interesting.

In the 14th century CE, there was another culture who had been looking for their promised land for nearly two centuries before landing on the inhospitable shores of their new capital city. And though it seemed a surprising decision, it’s said that they chose that location based on a sign from the gods. It was an eagle–in some legends, a golden eagle–perched upon a prickly pear cactus as it devoured a snake.

I am referring, of course, to the mythical founding of Tenochtitlan (tuh-nowch-teet-laan), the home of the Aztecs. That’s right, Jorden’s mythology and Doctor Hastings’ mythology share a significant thread. And though they seem at face value an unlikely pairing, they have more in common than they realize.

Though their mythologies are worlds apart, their fates are intertwined. But before we feel too warm and fuzzy about that mythological parallel, there’s one more thing about the turul myth that you should know. In some tellings of the legend, the turul vanishes forever when it leads the Magyar people home. Fruit for thought as the series continues.

Alright, we’re almost done with this episode, but there is another interesting tidbit I’d like to cover, and that’s the story of a sword falling from the heavens. This likely refers to a process where meteoric material is used to craft a blade. This is a theme that we see time and again in mythologies across the world. For instance, there’s the Mongolian legend of Timur, which inspired Sokka’s meteorite sword in the early 2000’s classic Avatar: The Last Airbender. Some modern tellings of the Excalibur legend even depict this legendary sword as being crafted from a meteor, and it’s no wonder why.

Meteoric material was used by early crafters because of its high nickel concentration. This material was generally harder than common iron of the time, making stronger weapons that could withstand more wear and tear than the average blade.

Now, we don’t see the Sword of God in The Serpent’s Rise, but we do see the Skykiller Sword, a blade that Doctor Hastings treats with a deserved degree of wariness. According to him, it’s the sword responsible for cutting the stars from the sky during the Alta Caelum. I won’t say much more about that for now, except that when the age of the gods ended, Doctor Hastings became a strong candidate to become the guardian of the Skykiller Sword. Without fate or divine will to inspire his actions–and presumably with no Sword of God to protect–he was able to put the remainder of his divine power to good use.

In The Serpent’s Rise, Doctor Hastings shows his commitment to the protection of all humanity, no matter what mythos a person originates from. That said, he is not immune to the consequences of sticking his nose into another mythology’s business, as evidenced by his ultimate capture at the claws of De León.

If you decide to do further research into this topic, I recommend proceeding with caution. Just like researching runes, there are good and bad sources to draw from. If you look into the turul on your own time, make sure you verify the source that you’re reading from, and possibly cross-reference it to ensure it doesn’t have any potential biases. I’ve included a video linked in the show notes that covers the mythological history of the legend, as well as the two stories most often associated with it.

Thanks for listening and remember to tune in next week for Episode 12! We’ll be discussing Olvido Powder, the cueyatl (kwee-yah-til), and the wekufe. In the meanwhile, feel free to leave a comment and share with your friends! And if you love The Serpent’s Rise, consider giving my book a review. It’s one of the best ways that you can help my work reach more people. Thanks again for your support and catch you all in the next episode.

Music

Jingle Punks
Lucas King

Bownessie - Official Website
Ghosts of Cumbria - Craig Manor
Peg Entwistle - Chelsey Sanchez
Hollywood Urban Legends
Bloody Bones - Astonishing Legends
Gashadokuro - Yokai

Transcript

Welcome back to The Book, The Myth, The Legend! My name is L.M. Sypher, and I’m the author of The Serpent’s Rise.

Today, we’re going to be covering the mythology of Chapter 10. These episodes do contain spoilers for the whole book, so if you aren’t caught up, I recommend finishing the read before digging into the mythos, especially if you want a fuller picture of what we’re talking about. For today’s episode, we’ll be discussing Lake Windermere, old Hollywood myths and legends, and skeletons.

As a reminder, I could never hope to encompass the full breadth and depth of any individual mythology. The legends in my book have been synthesized from their source material and reformatted to fit my story-telling needs. All the work that’s gone into this project has been for the sake of cultural appreciation and accuracy of representation. While I am not above error, I do believe that the scope of my research is sufficient to share these tales with all of you.

Starting off the episode, we have the lore surrounding Lake Windermere. As we know, in Chapter 10, Xavier discusses this lake as part of his backstory, explaining that three of his friends were taken there by a lake monster. In case you don’t know, Lake Windermere is a very real place. It’s the largest natural lake in England, and what’s called a ribbon lake, which is a narrow lake found in glacial valleys that stretches over a long distance.

This lake is absolutely rife with unusual stories. I included two of them in The Serpent’s Rise: the legend of The White Horse of Windermere, and that of the lake monster. Now, before we get into these stories, I do want to remind everyone that when discussing real places, we’re also discussing real-world implications.

Due to Lake Windermere’s popularity as a swimming spot and travel destination, there have been tragic accidents throughout the years, including school children drowning after nights out by the lake. By drawing a parallel between these incidents and what happened to Xavier’s friends, I don’t mean to minimize these tragedies, but simply to explain that for the purposes of humanity’s perception of the Underside, monster activity is brushed under the rug because there are real events that serve as better explanations than the supernatural.

That being said, grab a life vest and let’s dive into the stories. Firstly, we’ll discuss the white horse. It’s a bit of local folklore that goes back centuries, and warns of impending doom. As the legend goes, a spectral white horse will appear on one shore and walk to the other, straight over the water, in some tellings. When it’s spotted, it’s said to foretell imminent danger or harm. In Xavier’s case, he spotted it right before the lake monster struck, and it was only his hesitation in seeing it that saved him from suffering the same fate as his friends.

On the topic of the lake monster, it’s described as a serpentine or eel-like creature several meters long. It also has no history of preying on humans, according to the local folklore, so I will admit, I embellished that part of the tale. In fact, the creature is said to be more elusive than aggressive, if it exists at all. And to shed a bit more light on the subject, here is an excerpt from the creature’s official website.

Reports of a large, serpent-like creature in Lake Windermere date back to the 1950s. However, local legends suggest that stories of strange aquatic beings lurking in the lake may have circulated for centuries. Early accounts were often dismissed as tales or exaggerations, but the consistency of sightings, especially near Belle Isle, began to stir curiosity.

Belle Isle, the lake’s largest island, is surrounded by some of the deepest parts of Windermere, plunging over 200 feet. These hidden depths provide a perfect sanctuary for a large, elusive creature. Scientists studying similar ecosystems have noted how deep lakes can harbour species that remain undiscovered due to their reclusive behaviour and vast, inaccessible habitats.

Now, cryptid lovers everywhere might be saying that this tale sounds a bit familiar, and you wouldn’t be wrong. The creature of Lake Windermere bears striking similarities to the creature of another lake in the United Kingdom, that of Loch Ness. The Loch Ness Monster, affectionately known as Nessie, garnered international attention in the 1930’s, about 20 years before the sightings of the monster of Lake Windermere took off in earnest.

Seeing as both monsters have legendary roots that go back centuries–all the way to the 6th century, in the case of Nessie–it’s difficult to say whether monster sightings in Lake Windermere were inspired by Loch Ness, if transient stories of the United Kingdom simply stuck in more places than one, or if there is something more substantial to be found, like some elusive, undiscovered species inhabits one or both lakes. Either way, it’s fair to say that Nessie isn’t alone, even sharing a similar name with the creature of Lake Windermere. The English version of this Scottish tale is known as Bownessie, and you can read more about it by following the link in the show notes.

Okay, so those are the two monsters that were included in The Serpent’s Rise, but what about the others I mentioned? Well, we also have a spectral figure associated with the western shore of Lake Windermere known as The Crier of Claife. That story comes to us courtesy of Ghosts of Cumbria, a source I have also linked due to the wealth of information they have about the lake district and all the creepy haunts that surround this great body of water.

Centuries ago, when the winds whipped the trees and rain lashed down into the lake, the ferrymen at Ferry Nab would swear they could hear ethereal calls pleading with them to bring their boats across the water.

One young ferryman scoffed at their fears, thinking he was braver than the rest. He jumped into his boat and rowed across. When he returned he was so terrified at what he’d encountered that he could no longer speak. He died the very next day. The superstitious locals asked a monk, who resided on one of Windermere’s islands, whether he could exorcise the ghost.

On Christmas Day itself, he took his bell and bible across the lake. Unable to truly exorcise the ghost, he managed to confine it to the quarry and woods “until men should walk dry-shod across the lake”. There are stories to this very day of walkers being followed by a sinister figure in a hood when they approach the heights of Claife at dusk.

Taking a turn to something a little less terrifying, we have the legend of the Tizzie Whizie, a creature I could not have made up if I tried. The Tizzie Whizie is small, fast, and shy. It’s said to have the body of a hedgehog, the tail of a squirrel, and the wings of a bee. According to legend, its cries were so faint, you could only hear them if you held your ear to the level of the water. Boatman in the early 20th century held numerous hunts for this creature, but no such Tizzie Whizie was ever recovered.

As I said, there are a plethora of stories from the lake district of Windermere, and as much as I’d love to tell you all of them, there’s another strange city we have to talk about before this podcast is done. That’s right, folks, I’m talking about Los Angeles, California, Hollywood itself.

There were only a few Hollywood legends I included in Chapter 10, including that of the ghost of Victor Killian and the haunting/curse of Griffith Park. I also told you pretty much the whole story in both of those cases, so rather than elaborate on either, I’d like to talk about the legends that didn’t make the final cut of the book.

We can’t talk about Hollywood without mentioning the Hollywood sign. People all over the world recognize this landmark, but not everyone knows that it was only meant to be a temporary advertisement for a housing development. Erected in 1923, the sign originally said “Hollywoodland,” which is where Bittybone’s comment at the beginning of the tour comes from. The last four letters of the sign would not be removed until 1949. Then in the 1970’s, the temporary sign was replaced with steel mounted into concrete footings.

But as iconic as the Hollywood sign is, we should all be well aware by now that the shiny veneer of the city of angels is usually hiding a dark side, and that holds true in this case as well. The next story I’m about to tell you is one of hopes and dreams that were dashed all too soon, with terrible consequences. This is the story of Peg Entwistle.

Peg was 24 years old in the year 1932. Already, she was an accomplished Broadway actress, having immigrated to the United States from Wales when she was young. In fact, one of her performances was even said to have inspired Bette Davis of All About Eve and What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? fame. Entwistle toured west with the New York Theater Guild and found herself in Los Angeles, where she had a small role in the movie Thirteen Women, which was edited down to only 15 seconds long.

Despite her previous success as an actress, her studio contract was not renewed. With her hopes dashed and her dreams crushed, Peg Entwistle vanished the night of September 16th, 1932, leaving home on the pretense of visiting a friend only to be found two days later beneath the H of the Hollywood sign, having leapt to her death.

Now, there is a reported haunting at the Hollywood sign, and Peg is said to be the cause. Stories began circulating in the 1940’s when the H toppled over as if of its own accord. Passerbys report seeing a young blond woman in 1930’s attire. Some even report smelling the scent of her favorite perfume. Whether there is any truth to these rumors, or if it is mere conjecture and Hollywood imagination, Peg’s life and tragic demise serve as a cautionary tale. She’s a heartbreaking reminder that fame is a fickle thing, and disappointment an all too cruel reality.

She’s also not the only famous female specter reported in Los Angeles. In fact, Marilyn Monroe’s ghost is said to haunt her Brentwood estate. If the reports are to be believed, objects move about mysteriously, and phone calls are placed to the home. When the line is answered, it’s Marylin’s voice they claim to hear on the other side. Additionally, her visage is said to appear sporadically through the halls.

Elsewhere in Hollywood, you have whispers of cursed movies like The Wizard of Oz, The Poltergeist, and so many more. There were even stories of a cursed car, in the case of the vehicle that belonged to James Dean. Beyond legend, you have real instances of people being pushed far past healthy limitations, both on and off screen. Dangerous stunts, long working hours, and inhumane conditions plague the history of the silver screen. And all too often, these abuses unfairly targeted child actors, as was the case for starlets like Shirley Temple and Judy Garland.

And in a city where so many crave a sliver of notoriety, and so few receive it, it’s no wonder that some have been rumored to go to the most extreme of measures, even selling their souls to the devil himself. In the 1940’s and 50’s, there was a group of singers that performed together, partied together, starred in movies alongside one another, and rose to the heights of fame. This group was known as The Rat Pack and was composed of members like Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, and Sammy Davis Jr, though other A-list celebrities are associated with the group as well.

The way the story goes, the members of the Rat Pack made a bargain with the devil, offering him the souls of their first-born sons in order to achieve unparalleled success in their music–and tangential film–careers. In part, this story may have been influenced by the notion that successful people are said to compromise their values and morals to get ahead. Selling one’s soul to the devil may in this case be a metaphor. After all, it’s well-known that Frank Sinatra benefitted from his organized crime connections, using mafia ties in his early career to obtain the boost he needed to reach such heights. In fact, the story of Frank Sinatra is one of my inspirations for the character of Gaspar, and I imagine that The Wax Man still dresses like Ol’ Blue Eyes himself.

But the Rat Pack wasn’t the only famous group of singers to form in Hollywood over the years, and I actually mentioned another in The Serpent’s Rise, though it was subtle. In Chapter 13, Florian says that The Rougarou Bayou is the best monster bar since the Hollywood Vampires took over The Rainbow. There’s a bit of Hollywood lore tied up in this sentence, so let me dissect it for you.

Rainbow Bar & Grill is a famous spot in the city right on Sunset Boulevard. The first floor is a restaurant and the second floor used to be an exclusive club called “Over the Rainbow.” It still has a full bar, dance floor, and DJ booth. Established in the 1970’s, the Rainbow was a hot spot for celebrities of all kinds, including Elton John, Elvis Presley, and Johnny Cash, and that’s to say nothing of the regulars.

The Rainbow also played host to The Hollywood Vampires, a celebrity drinking group established by Alice Copper. Known members include Ringo Star, Keith Moon, Mickey Dolenz, and Harry Nilson, with occasional guest star appearances from John Lennon. In order to join, you had to outdrink all the other members, and they met in the same club every night, earning their name with all its nocturnal implications. Still today, there is a plaque in the restaurant denoting it as the lair of the Hollywood Vampires.

Of course, in The Serpent’s Rise, Florian all but confirms that this drinking club was in fact made up of monsters, which is a sentiment I do hope Alice Cooper doesn’t resent me for. And as a fun bit of Age of Monsters trivia, I had the character of Jorden Casillas kicking around in my head for about ten years before I sat down and wrote the first book, so five years before its publication, I had the opportunity to go to Los Angeles, and visited many of the sites mentioned in the book, including 5th Street in Skid Row, where Ernie’s Artifacts is hiding in plain sight.

There’s so much story to dig into here, so I recommend checking the show notes for some additional stories. Truly, you could devote an entire podcast entirely to Hollywood history, but that’s a time commitment I am unprepared for. Instead, we’re going to switch gears, focusing next on calacas, which is the Spanish word for skeletons, like Bittybones.

Since every human has bones, skeletons are a feature in just about every mythology in some form or another. You’re probably familiar with the figure of the Grim Reaper, who is usually depicted as a skeletal figure draped in black robes, and has been depicted this way since the Middle Ages. You may also envision skeletons in terms of undead minions, like the seven skeletons that emerge from the teeth of the Hydra in the 1963 rendition of Jason and the Argonauts, or the army of skeletal pirates in James and the Giant Peach of 1996.

Skeletons are important to the iconography of El Dia de Los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, and are often hung as decorations for the festivities, just as we in the Western world do for Halloween. Several creatures from the myths and legends of Mesoamerica have prominent, bony features, and we’ve talked about a few in this podcast already. What I’d like to do now is take a look at a few examples from elsewhere in the world. We’re going to hop across the pond for a moment back to England, where the figure of Bloody Bones looms prominently in places like Lancashire and Yorkshire.

Bloody Bones, according to the legends, is a ghastly, skeletal figure–though he is sometimes portrayed as a ghoul as well–that lurks under cupboards and staircases to feast on children who misbehave. When he’s devoured a naughty child, he’s said to add their bones to a pile that he keeps in his lair. There’s even a nursery rhyme about him, and it goes like this:

Rawhead and Bloody Bones

Steals naughty children from their homes,

Takes them to his dirty den,

And they are never seen again.

Yikes. But that’s not the creepiest skeleton folklore from around the world. The next we’ll discuss is the Gashadokuro, coming out of Japanese folklore. The Gashadokuro is a yokai, and yokai is a broad term that encompasses a range of supernatural entities in Japanese mythos. Kitsune, for instance, are yokai as well.

The Gashadokuro are massive skeletons, said to be 15 times the height of a regular human skeleton, measuring in around 90 feet tall. According to the stories, they are compiled from the bones of others, usually people who died of starvation, were buried in mass graves, or perished on the battlefield without a proper burial at all.

Their hunger is insatiable, and they are said to prey upon lone travelers in the night. Difficult to kill and occasionally invisible–depending on the origin of the story you hear–defending oneself against this creature is paramount to surviving the tale. As a gashadokuro approaches, it’s said that one might hear the clanking of bones or a ringing in one’s ears that grows louder as it draws closer. If you hear either of those sounds, the best thing to do is to hide until dawn, when the creature supposedly vanishes. Carrying a shinto charm or talisman on your person may also help ward off the creature, but once it sets its sights on you, you had better make yourself scarce, lest you join its collection.

Now that I’ve sufficiently terrified you, it’s time to turn back to Bittybones for one more insight before this episode comes to a close. Now’s the part where I have to admit, his character in The Serpent’s Rise is a bit of a pun. See, Bittybones runs the monster tour. Rather than painting a glamorous view of Hollywood, the Bus Bout paints the city in its nittiest, grittiest light. Tales of murder, betrayal, lost hope and lost love are recurring themes in this experience. In effect, you might say that Bittybones was exposing the skeletons in the closet of a Hollywood, a saying that implies a dark, nefarious, or embarrassing secret in someone’s past.

In any case, thanks for listening and remember to tune in next week for Episode 11! We’ll be discussing El Culebrón, and the turul. In the meanwhile, feel free to leave a comment and share with your friends! And if you love The Serpent’s Rise, consider giving my book a review. It’s one of the best ways that you can help my work reach more people. Thanks again for your support and catch you all in the next episode.

Music

Jingle Punks
Lucas King

Familiar - Britannica
Woodcuts and Witches - The Public Domain Review
The Witch’s Familiar - Anna Franklin
St. Hildegard of Bingen - The Herbal Academy
Runic Alphabet - Britannica
Odin - Historiska

Transcript

Welcome back to The Book, The Myth, The Legend! My name is L.M. Sypher, and I’m the author of The Serpent’s Rise.

Today, we’re going to be covering the mythology of Chapter 9. These episodes do contain spoilers for the whole book, so if you aren’t caught up, I recommend finishing the read before digging into the mythos, especially if you want a fuller picture of what we’re talking about. For today’s episode, we’ll be discussing familiars, Hildegard of Bingen, and runes.

As a reminder, I could never hope to encompass the full breadth and depth of any individual mythology. The legends in my book have been synthesized from their source material and reformatted to fit my story-telling needs. All the work that’s gone into this project has been for the sake of cultural appreciation and accuracy of representation. While I am not above error, I do believe that the scope of my research is sufficient to share these tales with all of you.

Okay, first and foremost, we have the topic of familiars. Most notably in The Serpent’s Rise, we have Malphas, the demon that takes the shape of a sugar glider. According to Britannica, a familiar in Western demonology, is a small animal or imp kept as a witch’s attendant, given to her by the devil or inherited from another witch. The familiar was a low-ranking demon that assumed any animal shape, such as a toad, dog, insect, or black cat. Sometimes the familiar was described as a grotesque creature of fantasy, an amalgam of several creatures.

The familiar was believed to subsist by sucking blood from a witch’s fingers or other protuberances on her body such as a mole or a wart. During the European witchcraft trials of the 15th–17th century a suspected witch was searched for the “teats” by which she fed her familiar, and these, like the devil’s brand marks, were considered sure signs of her guilt.

This is the thought process behind searching suspected witches for witch’s marks, or devil’s marks, as evidenced in the hit show Outlander, when Geillis Duncan reveals her smallpox vaccine and implicates herself in the witch’s trial.

In the late 16th century, there was a famous witch trial case that coincided with the advent of the printing press, leading to the proliferation of witch-craft related pamphlets, including this account, courtesy of The Public Domain Review:

One of the earliest and most notorious British witchcraft pamphlets was published in 1579: A Rehearsall both Straung and True, of Hainous and Horrible Actes Committed by Elizabeth Stile, alias Rockingham, Mother Dutten, Mother Deuell, Mother Margaret, Fower Notorious Witches. Stile was a sixty-five-year-old widow and beggar accused of bewitching an innkeeper. The pamphlet describes her association with three other old women known as Mother Margaret, Mother Dutten, and Mother Devell, as well as a man named Father Rosimunde, who could transform himself “into the shape and likenesse of any beaste whatsoever he will”. Woodcuts show these old women and several animal familiars, which they reportedly fed on their own blood.

This is a chilling reminder that although these stories come from long in the past, they did happen to real people. We tell these tales around the campfire, and share them around Halloween, but that doesn’t erase the legacy of violence that these men–and particularly women suffered because of fear, prejudice, and social iniquities.

Now, we know from The Serpent’s Rise that Xavier is not a witch. At least, not in the mythological sense. Then again, there are different schools of thought when it comes to the definition of ‘witch.’ Some traditions treat ‘witches’ the same as vampires or werewolves, supernatural creatures that have innate magical abilities, and usually a warty nose. Then other traditions ascribe the moniker of ‘witch’ to any human who casts magic. In The Serpent’s Rise, both can be true. Magical abilities can run in families, or be spontaneously generated. And, of course, any regular human who says the right words and uses the right tools can cast magic, including Xavier.

Of course, Xavier doesn’t feed Malphas blood, but rather dried fruit, nuts, and whatever the team happens to be eating at the time, including pancakes. Just like a real sugar glider, Malphas is an ‘opportunistic omnivore,’ but unlike a real sugar glider, he can carry weight far greater than his size, as evidenced by his theft of the box of Quick Slips from Ernie’s Artifacts.

Malphas, by the way, is the name of a demon in western demonology that is particularly known for giving good familiars, which is where Xavier derived his name from. That’s not to say that Malphas the sugar glider is one of the presidents of the demonic pantheon, but that the figure of Malphas inspired his name.

If you would like to read some additional stories about witch’s familiars, with specific examples, check out the Hearth Witchery article in the show notes, written by Anna Franklin. She even goes into the concept of fairies as familiars, and in fact, it can–and has–been argued that some versions of the modern fairy story share roots with the story of witch’s familiars. This is particularly true in the case of house fairies. Offerings of bowls of milk appear repeatedly in both fairy and familiar lore. In the latter, it’s a way to dissuade the familiar from seeking blood.

And speaking of blood, our next topic of discussion today is related to the medicinal arts. Specifically, healing magic. Hillie Hoffman is the resident healer of the Red Sword team sent to investigate the disappearances in Los Angeles, and from context clues, we learn that she used to work at the Med Bay as well, until she became a Field Captain and transitioned to working outside the battalion.

There’s also a single line in The Serpent’s Rise that gives quite a bit more insight into Hillie, her mythos, and her powers, if you know where to look for it. It also happens to be her introduction: “Just ‘Hillie’ is fine.Not ‘Miss’ Hillie, and never Hildegard.”

This is, of course, a reference to Hildegard of Bingen, a Benedictine abbess who dabbled in activities such as writing, composing, philosophy, and the medical arts. She did all of this, by the way, in the 12th century, when most women weren’t given any education at all. In 2012, she was honored as an official doctor of the church, which essentially means that her writings have special authority in Roman Catholicism. To date, only four women have been named as such. Furthermore, Hildegard of Bingen is revered as the patron saint of musicians and writers.

Now, Hildegard came from nobility, which was not uncommon for nuns in the Middle Ages. Rather than pay the doweries for their daughters, noble families would often send young women to convents. And in a time marked by limited autonomy for women, religion was one of the only paths of access to education. While some noble women integrated back into society after childhoods in nunneries, others took their vows for life, enjoying the relative freedom they were offered there. But in Hildegard’s case, her path seemed all but ordained.

According to the legend, Hildegard experienced visions from the time she was young, but kept the secret until she was 43 years old. When this information came to light, it was reported to the Archbishop of Mainz in west Germany, though at the time, the region was called the Holy Roman Empire–a loose confederation of states and principalities. When her power was reported, a committee was gathered to weigh the authenticity of these visions. When they declared her musings to be legitimate, a monk was appointed to help her scribe them, resulting in the Scivius, a collection of 26 separate visions that are both prophetic and apocalyptic in nature.

Cool, L.M., awesome. What does any of this have to do with healing? I’m getting to that part. In addition to her other pursuits, she was a holistic medicinal practitioner, whose approach involved a combination of treatments of the mind, body, and spirit. Several of her treatise were compiled into two larger works; Physica, which details the history of natural remedies, and Causea et Curae, which is an anthology of healing techniques. Some of these techniques revolve around ancient understandings, others have more cosmic influences, but the humoral method of treatment is interspersed throughout.

Now, if you don’t know what the humoral theory of medicine is, or Humorism, allow me to illuminate you. Before modern medicine, natural philosophers–a term which here means ‘scientists’–believed that illnesses were caused by an imbalance of the four humors of the body. And despite the moniker, I can assure you, there’s nothing funny about this.

These humors were described as fluids within the body. It was believed that when a person had too much of one humor, it would make them sick. Now’s where I put a slight trigger warning in this podcast. If you’re squeamish, skip ahead about a minute or so.

The four humors were known to be blood, phlegm, and bile, specifically black bile and yellow bile. According to the principles of Humorism, to keep them in balance, whatever fluid was believed to be in excess had to be purged from the body. This led to one of the most infamous practices of medicine to date, known as bloodletting. The process of bloodletting could be conducted through a variety of methods, including making scratches in the skin to allow blood to flow or affixing leeches to a patient to let them do what leeches do.

It was a common practice until germ theory was firmly established in the 19th century, which means that as recently as 200 years ago, people were being bled to cure their illness. Don’t believe me? Well, the most influential founding father of the United States was famously bloodletted right before his death in 1799. I’m speaking, of course, of none other than George Washington.

But I digress. Although Hildegard of Bingen was operating without the knowledge that we have today, her medicinal practices weren’t to be disregarded entirely. Being a learned woman of the church, she had the kind of access that allowed her to learn about real remedies that were derived from the natural world. I’ve linked a source that walks through quite a few of her herbal remedies and suggestions, including this one for an upset stomach:

Take ginger, grind it up, mix it with a little juice from the plant that is called marigold, and then take some flour and make small cakes out of this powder. Bake these cakes in the oven when the heart of the fire has already begun to be tamped down, and consume these small cakes both before and after breakfast.

Both ginger and marigold–particularly a variety of marigold known as pot marigold–have anti-inflammatory properties, which can settle the stomach by reducing irritation. Additionally, ginger is believed to help expedite food through the digestive tract, clearing it more efficiently, and marigold is believed to help sooth the muscles involved throughout the process. All this to say, there is real science to back up some of her claims.

She suggested that nettle be mixed with milk to ‘ward off bad humors,’ and knew enough to warn people not to ingest nettle in the summertime. Though she couldn’t have known it in the 12th century, Calcium Oxalate crystals begin to form on nettle in the summer months. In large quantities, they can irritate the urinary tract, which may put those with a history of kidney issues at risk for further complication. Alternatively, she suggested that turnips, radishes, and the heads of catfish had bad viriditas–a Latin term which means ‘greenness’ that was used by Hildegard of Bingen to describe the life-giving force of God in any one food item–making them, in her opinion, unfit for consumption.

I bring this up in part because history is fun, and in part to talk about Hillie Hoffman’s healing salve in The Serpent’s Rise. Believe it or not, I’ve already mentioned two out of the three ingredients that were listed in the book. Nettle is one, but so is pot marigold, also known as Calendula. Another anti-inflammatory plant, nettle is also believed to calm muscle and joint pain, making it ideal for a healing salve. Calendula’s other use is to promote wound healing. And the last ingredient was St. John’s Wort, which is believed to improve sleep quality and boost mood, both of which are vital for recovery.

I find plant science to be extremely fascinating. For instance, right here in the United States, there is a plant ingredient so potent for pain relief that it was used to create an over-the-counter drug that’s ubiquitous as a household name. That plant is black willow bark, and the drug in question is Aspirin.

My special interests aside, this topic does reveal some overarching implications when it comes to the character of Hillie Hoffman. First and foremost, her connection–at least in name–to Hildegard of Bingen establishes her as a healer from the moment we meet her, but it also gives some insight into her mythos. Gully also reveals in Chapter 14 that Hillie has a magical lineage that can be traced back six full generations.

You might be tempted to connect the dots and say that Hillie is a descendant of Hildegard, but unfortunately, you would be wrong. As an Abbess, Hildegard’s life was dedicated to the church, and she had no children of her own. That being said, Hillie’s mythology is Germanic in origin, only further evidenced by her use of runes.

What is a rune, you might ask? It’s a letter from the ancient Germanic alphabet known as the Elder Futhark. You might be more familiar with runes in the context of Norse mythology, and if that’s the case, you’d be right. It’s believed that the Goths–a Germanic group originating from Scandinavia–were the first to use the runes, likely adapting them between the 1st and 2nd centuries from the Etruscan alphabet of Northern Italy, and potentially Raetic, the language that developed from Etruscan in the eastern Alps.

The Elder Futhark was given that name due to the first six letters of the alphabet, which comprise F-U-Th-A-R-K, Futhark. The first known runic inscriptions have been traced back to 150 CE in Denmark, Northern Germany, and Southern Sweden. They would not appear more widely until the 3rd century as Germanic tribes spread and conquered vast territories during the decline of the Western Roman Empire. At its conception, the alphabet had purely practical applications, but developed spiritual connotations over time.

Each rune has been assigned its own energy and meaning, and are still used today–both together and separately–in magical contexts for practices like divination, protection, and to enact certain results, which is how Hillie uses them in The Serpent’s Rise.

Mythologically speaking, the origin story of the runes is one of dramatic self-sacrifice and an ever-pressing search for ultimate wisdom. And I can’t tee up such a tantalizing introduction without telling you the story, so here is it, inspired by Historiska–the Swedish History Museum–and adapted by me:

Odin, the one-eyed Alfather, King of Asgard, and ruler of the Norse gods wished to know all there was to be known, and gain the wisdom of that which was hidden from him. But Odin, wise as he was, knew that nothing could be gained if something first was not sacrificed.

Beneath the roots of the World Tree, he sought a well of knowledge, guarded by Mimir. To sip from it, Odin first plucked out his own eye and plunged it into the water. Then, he drank, and was granted visions of the past, present, and future. And though the knowledge was great, it was not yet enough, for Odin, wise as he was, knew well his own ignorance, and sought remedy for it.

Next, he plunged himself upon his spear, Gungir, and hung himself from the branches of Yggdrasil. For nine days and nine nights, he toiled, battling pain, hunger, thirst, and the magnificent visions that revealed themselves to him. At the end of his ordeal, he was left with the understanding of the runes, and the infinite wisdom they provided.

Okay, so like I said just now, Odin was the king of the gods in the Norse pantheon. We won’t go too far into explanations of Norse Mythology in this episode–or even in this season–but I think it’s important to give you an overview of who he was in the context of mythology, because it’s pretty interesting.

In addition to ruling Asgard, he was a seer, which was something associated with women in Norse society. Being the king of the gods, gender roles don’t necessarily apply to him, seeing as he can do just about whatever he wants, but it’s interesting to see him accused of “unmanly behavior” because he “beat the drum and practiced prophecy.” It never ceases to amaze me that when we look just a little closer into history, we see that it’s full of unexpected deviations from the norm and complete subversions of expectation.

Now, I don’t know what societal expectations come to mind when you think of the Norse, or Vikings more generally, but Hillie’s role as a healer, rune-keeper, and leader of her Red Sword team makes perfect sense when you consider the history. In fact, female seeresses were an important part of Norse society. They served as spiritual advisors, diviners, and healers for their community. Whatever that means for Hillie’s character arc, I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait and see, but what I want to impress upon you here was the importance of women in Viking society.

You might be surprised to learn that Norse women could own property, initiate divorce, and shared in the responsibility of running farms and homesteads. In fact, they enjoyed a high degree of social freedom compared to contemporary cultures. What was more, the Vikings didn’t come in and wipe out other cultures. Instead, they assimilated into them. I bring this up because some modern interpretations of the Vikings have filtered this society through a lens that glorifies aspects of war and domination, while neglecting teachings of self-sacrifice, patience, and community building.

When you look at runes, and Norse symbology more generally, I encourage you to think of Odin. He wasn’t afraid to embrace the feminine side of himself. He didn’t act from a place of insecurity, but rather, he was motivated by a sincere desire to increase the breadth of his understanding. But with that being said, a word of caution. Wearing and displaying runes outwardly can be associated with certain hate groups. If you are interested in this topic and want to delve more deeply into it, I suggest that you develop a firm understanding of the meaning behind the runes, and how they’ve been appropriated to further hateful agendas, so that you aren’t accidentally associated with those agendas or groups.

Now that’s out of the way, I’d like to share a couple historic uses of runes with the class. Firstly, we have readings. Seers are said to be able to read runes by casting them across a surface and interpreting their meanings in conjunction with one another. Because this practice developed over centuries, there are several approaches to interpreting the correspondences between the runes and how they fall within the spread, which is why it would take an experienced seer to make meaning from them.

Another way to use runes is to inscribe them into objects, creating talismans, or to incorporate runes into spells and enchantments, bringing the desired energy from specific runes into the process. And here are some examples of specific runes, to give you an idea of what I’m talking about.

Now, in the Serpent’s Rise, we saw one very particular use of the runes, and that was when Hillie drew them on Jorden’s forehead as a protective ward. Anointing is an ancient practice, one that is used often in religious connotations, even today. And though the runes fell out of favor in the region that would become Germany with the introduction of Christianity, they didn’t go away. Hillie, like many other characters in The Serpent’s Rise, represents a blended mythology. She carries some ancient customs, some newer ones, and some that are entirely her own. And that brings us to the end of today’s show.

Thanks for listening and remember to tune in next week for Episode 10! We’ll be discussing Lake Windermere, old Hollywood myths and legends, and of course, skeletons. In the meanwhile, feel free to leave a comment and share with your friends! And if you love The Serpent’s Rise, consider giving my book a review. It’s one of the best ways that you can help my work reach more people. Thanks again for your support and catch you all in the next episode.

Music

Jingle Punks
Lucas King

Transcript

Welcome back to The Book, The Myth, The Legend! My name is L.M. Sypher, and I’m the author of The Serpent’s Rise.

Today, we’re going to be covering the mythology of Chapter 8. These episodes do contain spoilers for the whole book, so if you aren’t caught up, I recommend finishing the read before digging into the mythos, especially if you want a fuller picture of what we’re talking about. For today’s episode, we’ll be discussing prophetic dreams and visions, los desalmados, and the Quinametzin.

As a reminder, I could never hope to encompass the full breadth and depth of any individual mythology. The legends in my book have been synthesized from their source material and reformatted to fit my story-telling needs. All the work that’s gone into this project has been for the sake of cultural appreciation and accuracy of representation. While I am not above error, I do believe that the scope of my research is sufficient to share these tales with all of you.

Listen, I get it, dream sequences are tired. They’re cliche, especially in Middle Grade and Young Adult fiction. But here’s the thing, they’re also important mythologically. Initially, Jorden dreams of the night he lost his parents, which is a storytelling device to show you the events that transpired in the past without making you sit through a full flashback. Instead, I just throw several snippets at you back to back. Which is better, I promise. Don’t roll insight.

Anyway, Jorden’s dreams shift over the course of the story from flashbacks to the night of the housefire to more prophetic dreams in which Quetzacoatl is trying to communicate to him. Now, prophetic dreams are seen in mythologies all over the world. They’re a staple in Greek mythology, mentioned in the mythos of Mesopotamia, and extensively in the Torah, which is part of the larger holy texts of Judaism and comprises the first five books of the Christian Bible.

I tell you this to defend the inclusion of these dream sequences in middle-grade and YA novels everywhere. Justice for my trope, please! The connotations run even deeper in this context because Quetzacoatl has associations with dreams. In fact, some accounts of the mythology of his birth details that he was conceived in a dream. Some sources suggest that he is involved with shaping dreams and visions as well, which would make sense as the patron of the Mexica priesthood.

Dreams and visions were quite important to indigenous Mesoamerica. In face, there is a plethora of historic evidence and first-hand accounts that recognize the use of entheogens as a key aspect of Mesoamerican religious life–including the Aztecs. Now, an entheogen, if you aren’t aware, is a plant with hallucinogenic properties. One such specimen is the bitter black mushroom that was known in Nahuatl as teonanacatl, translating to ‘the flesh of the gods.’ It was believed by ingesting this substance, priests could commune with deities, and who was the god of the Aztec priesthood but Quetzalcoatl himself?

The Aztecs also had access to peyote, though it was known in Nahuatl as peyotl. This is perhaps one of the most famous indigenous hallucinogenic plants, and was brought to Central Mexico along trade routes from where it grows in the arid north. And while there were several other entheogens employed by the Aztecs, there’s only one more I really want to speak on, and that would be Calea ternifolia, also known as Mexican Dream Root.

Now, this little plant is a shrub native to Mexico and other parts of Central America. It has psychoactive properties that creative vivid, sometimes lucid dreams. Its use is most closely associated with the Chontal Maya of Oaxaca, Mexico, but that’s not to say the Aztecs didn’t use it. In fact, it was highly prized for its ability to spiritually heighten the user, and for that reason, it was used heavily in oneiromancy practice.

And just what is oneiromancy, I hear you ask? Well, I’ll tell you! Oneiromancy is the divination practice of dream interpretation. The premise is that dreams have meaning through the correspondence of certain symbolism. For instance, it’s said that dreaming that your teeth are falling out can correspond to change and transition, but also anxiety and stress. Dreaming of a giant plate of spaghetti might have associations with family, abundance, prosperity, or maybe you went to sleep hungry.

Now, dream interpretation is a hotly-debated subject, so I won’t tout this as a science, but you know who did? Mr. Sigmund Freud himself, the father of the psychological approach psychoanalysis, wherein one attempts to analyze a psyche on a deeper level. He was the guy who proposed the Id, Ego, and Superego, just for reference. And while I won’t go too far into this particular rabbit hole, just know that dream interpretation is important enough that even Golden Siggie was famous for his opinions on the topic. That’s his mother’s childhood nickname for him, by the way, ‘Golden Siggie.’

Reigning us back towards Jorden’s dreams in The Serpent’s Rise, the symbology that repeats itself is a stormy sky, a pyramid, and an altar running with blood. Those are the three things we’re left with. Whether those are clues as to Quetzacoatl’s identity before Mamá Valentine spells it out for us, or a glimpse into what’s to come, I certainly won’t tell you. But you can probably guess that it won’t be the last dream sequence of the series. After all, though the two are bound by blood, dreams are still the most surefire way for the two of them to communicate.

And with that, we take a left turn to the topic of los desalmados. ‘Los Desalmados,’ as I explain in The Serpent’s Rise means ‘without a soul.’ And while this description can be applied to several figures in Mesoamerican folklore, the creatures that appear in the book as the puppets of De Leon are purely of my own creation.

But I want to talk a bit more about how I arrived at the concept of los desalmados and which Mesoamerican stories I drew inspiration from in order to create them. Well, los desalmados or un desalmado is already a concept in the Spanish-speaking world to describe someone who has been damned, either by sin or circumstance, but I took that a step further and added a supernatural element. So, where did the inspiration come from? First and foremost, we have the story of La Llorona.

As one of the most famous ghosts of Latin American folklore, La Llorona is also known as ‘the woman in white.’ She is known as both a vengeful spirit and a tragic figure. As her story goes, La Llorona is a woman who drowned her own children, usually in a fit of grief or rage. In punishment, she is doomed to wander the earth–particularly bodies of water–and search for her lost babies.

One story I found–a retelling by Joe Hayes–follows a young woman by the name of Maria. Maria was beautiful, and very proud. Though she was poor, she thought she was better than everyone else, and had designs to marry a rich husband.

Well, a ranchero from a rich family came to town. He could play guitar and sing, and Maria fell for him. Soon, they were married, and had two children, but the ranchero wasn’t happy. He spent weeks away from home at a time, and when he returned, he spoke only to his children, and not to Maria. He mentioned more than once that he wanted to marry a rich woman instead.

One day, while Maria and her children were walking home by the river, a carriage pulled up beside them. In it was the ranchero and a new woman, who was far more wealthy than Maria. As before, the ranchero spoke only to his children, ignoring Maria completely before driving off again.

As soon as they were gone, Maria, fueled by anger, jealousy, and frustration, took it out on the children, throwing them into the rushing river. As soon as she saw the children struggling in the current, it’s said she regretted her actions and went to get them, but it was too late.

In the morning, her body was found on the riverbank, but the first night after Maria was buried, reports started flooding in of a figure on the riverbank wailing as she sobbed ‘where are my children?’ From then on, they called her La Lorona.

There are some other variations on this tale, including the detail that she’s usually wearing a white dress. For that reason, she’s also called ‘the woman in white,’ and as testament to the ubiquitous nature of her tale, the hit television show Supernatural even adapted her story for their very first episode.

Her physical description varies from that of a beautiful woman, to a ghastly spirit, to a skeletal figure. The most common attribute she carries from story to story are her mournful cries that are said to be heard in the night. It was the spectrum of her description and her cries that I borrowed for la desalmada, with Emily Stafford rapidly shifting between a young woman with dark hair and a semi-skeletal monster.

As per the long, dark claws, I was inspired by several creatures from the miasma of Mesoamerican folklore, but most principally, the Tzitzimitl. Tzitzimimeh are similar to Cihuateteo in many ways, but instead of being associated with the heaven of the sun, these spirits went to Tamoanchan, the heaven where the gods created the first human (of the current human race, it took about five tries to get it right). This paradise is also associated with the creation of sacred books and destiny itself.

Anyway, the Tzizimimeh are also associated with the stars that can be seen around the sun during a solar eclipse, as they were said to be attacking the sun when it vanished. They are skeletal creatures–though sometimes said just to be severely emaciated, rather than lacking skin–with razor-sharp claws honed from stardust itself. Like the Cihuateteo, these creatures were usually created when a woman died in childbirth, but instead of defending the sun, they were a bit more antagonistic in their approach. In any case, this is a name to remember for the future, so keep it in your back pocket. We haven’t seen the last of them.

But between star-blade wielding baddies and vengeful ghosts, it wasn’t difficult to composite the idea of los desalmados. Taking you all behind the scenes, there was one draft of the book where I considered letting the humans possessed by De Leon free at the end, but ultimately decided against it because the creatures that I pulled from to create los desalmados were all undead. Their human lives had been cut short, and what came next was their monstrous existence. Bad news for the poor humans taken by De Leon in The Serpent’s Rise.

Unlike other mythologies, where magical creatures are purely that–magic–Mesoamerican folklore involves a fair number of creatures that started as human souls, but transformed after death. Although this can be a sad and scary topic, it also reminds me to have compassion for those around me, and to honor the people who came before me, much like the offerings given to Cihuateteo to appease them for the suffering in their lives. What if we were all just a little kinder to one another before it got to that point?

Last but not least, we’re going to talk about the Quinametzin. Also known as the Quiname, and in the noun’s singular version, Quinametli, these were, as the book explained, a race of giants that were said to live in the region of the Aztec capital, even building the Pyramid of Cholula and the city of Teotihuacan (Tay-oh-tee-wah-kan). Lending mythological credence to this legend, the Pyramid of Cholula happens to be the largest in the world. Seriously, it’s comparable to nine Olympic-sized swimming pools!

Now, remember what I said before about the gods creating multiple rounds of humans? Well, it’s a little more complicated than that. You might recall from Episode 6 that a special ritual has to take place every 52 years to bind the years or else the world will end. Well, according to Aztec mythology, it has ended. Four times, to be exact, and we’re now on the fifth era, also known as the Fifth Sun. The Quinametzin were said to have been created in era of the Rain Sun, or Sun of Rain, but were punished for their lack of reverence to the gods and were destroyed because of it. As the story goes, the gods sent down a fiery rain to annihilate them.

But they didn’t all die out. In the beginning of the Fifth Sun, four Quinametzin were said to hold up the sky. Now, it might help to explain that ‘Quinametzin’ just means ‘men of great stature,’ so the provenance of myth here gets a little murky. Were they the same Quinametzin? Were they different giants? I tend to read them as descendants of the Rain Sun giants that survived, and that’s the version of the myth that I leaned into.

The Quinametzin were described as standing over ten feet tall and weighing 600 pounds. While massive, Lorenzo doesn’t quite reach those staggering heights, subtly insinuating that perhaps the Quinametzin have become less powerful over time. Lorenzo is still well over seven feet tall, but he’s certainly dwarfed by his ancestors.

Now, you might also recognize that this is not the legend of the Quinametzin that was discussed in the book. That’s because the original Quinametzin didn’t exist at the same time as the Aztecs. Actually, the account that Lorenzo gave in the story is a magical interpretation of real historical events.

Friar Diego Durán, a Dominican man of the cloth who lived in the 16th century, has been credited with writing one of the first Western accounts of the history and culture of the Aztecs. In it, it discusses the arrival of the Aztecs in Central Mexico, and the two groups that were living there at the time.

To the western mountains were the Chichimecas, a semi-nomadic group of people who fled when the Aztecs began to raid them for their land. To the east were the Quiname, who were said to be 7-8 feet tall. Here’s an excerpt from the article I’ve linked in the show notes.

The Quiname refused to give up their homeland and fought valiantly to defend it. But they were greatly outnumbered... Many were slaughtered through trickery. Others flung themselves from cliffs and precipices, rather than be conquered. They were harassed and pursued until almost all were destroyed. It is believed some may have migrated to other parts of Mexico, farther north.

Before I close us out for today, there’s one more thing I want to talk about, and that’s a rather significant mythological parallel. If my Classics buffs raised an eyebrow at the concept of the Five Suns, you’re not alone. The concept bears remarkable similarities to a theory that was developed independently on the other side of the world. I’m speaking, of course, of Hesiod’s Ages of Man.

Hesiod was a Greek poet who lived in and about 700 BCE, in what’s called the Archaic Period of Grecian history. He theorized that there were five Ages of Man, each of whom were eradicated for lack of reverence for gods, a decline in morality, and an increase in pain and suffering. His ages were the Golden Age, the Silver Age, the Bronze Age, the Age of Heroes, and the Iron Age, in which we find ourselves now.

Conversely, the Five Suns of the Aztec ages were the Jaguar Sun, the Wind Sun, the Rain Sun, the Water Sun, and now, the Movement Sun. Each Sun was ended by a cataclysmic event, and this sun, the Movement Sun, is prophesied to end by massive earthquakes. Hesiod, alternatively, suggested that humanity would destroy itself after they abandoned the gods.

Now, if all of this is starting to sound familiar, it should. The entire concept of the Age of Monsters is a patchwork of several mythologies weaved together. The term ‘age of the gods’ and ‘age of man’ actually comes from Norse mythology, since the stories of the gods like Odin, Thor, and Loki were all said to have happened long ago, before humans inhabited the earth to tell them.

If you remember our conversation about The Morrigan, the valkyries, and the valravns of Irish, Norse, and Danish mythology, respectively, you might wonder if the Aztecs weren’t influenced in some way by the Greek poet. After all, the legend of the Five Suns is said to have emerged between the 14th and 16th centuries CE.

We can’t assume, however, that this was the case, because the Spanish aren’t said to have arrived until the early 16th century, and by then, the mythology was already well-established. So, how did two separate cultures arrive at similar concepts with similar themes and even the same number of mythological ages? Well, it happens more commonly than you might imagine. We’ll talk more about the concept of Mythological Constants in later books, but for now, what you need to know about them is that they’re concepts and elements that are repeated over and over again.

For instance, both the Five Suns legend and Hesiod’s Works and Days–that’s the official title of the poem, by the way–have a flood story. And they’re not alone. Almost every ancient culture all over the world has a story of the Great Flood. You’re probably familiar with one of them: Noah and his arc.

Where things differ between the Aztec legends and Hesiod’s account is the age in which these events occurred. The Fourth Sun, Water Sun, ended in the flood by the Aztec account. Hesiod attributed the flood to his third age, the Bronze Age. I think it’s important to call out these similarities because I believe it points to some universal truths about our shared humanity.

I’m not saying giants really built the pyramids–or aliens for that matter–but I am saying that there are some things that are inherent and crucial to the development of humanity, no matter what corner of the globe you hail from. Things that time, distance, and conflict haven’t managed to destroy yet. And that, my friends, is as real a magic as I’ve ever known.

Thanks for listening and remember to tune in next week for Episode 9! We’ll be discussing familiars, Hildegard of Bingen, and runes. In the meanwhile, feel free to leave a comment and share with your friends! And if you love The Serpent’s Rise, consider giving my book a review. It’s one of the best ways that you can help my work reach more people. Thanks again for your support and catch you all in the next episode.

Music

Jingle Punks
Lucas King

Thanks to generous donations, and one dollar-for-dollar donation match pledge, the audiobook Kickstarter was fully funded. Woohoo!

Now, I’m looking for someone to lend their acting talents to voice The Serpent’s Rise! The perfect voice actor for this project is fluent in both Spanish and English, has a wide range of voices, and a great sense of humor. If that sounds like you, or someone you know, please audition or help spread the word!

Get the Audition Script!

The Night the Stars Fell - Explorersweb

Taurus Constellation - Picture the Stars

Makara, Myth or Fact? - Swami B.G. Narasingha

Balladspot - Valravnen

Morrigan - The Order of the Crows

Vampires in Balún Canán - Ariel Zatarian Tumbaga

Transcript

Welcome back to The Book, The Myth, The Legend! My name is L.M. Sypher, and I’m the author of The Serpent’s …

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Skipping the first story? Go to timestamp:

Mexican Monstresses - Nzumel
Cihuateotl - The Met
260-day Aztec Calendar
The Fire Ceremony - World History Encyclopedia
Of Ducks, Russian Folklore, an the Mysterious Gamayun - Who’s Out There?Gamayun, Ancient Origins - Gisele Santos

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Welcome back to The Book, The Myth, The Legend! My name is L.M. S…

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The Devil’s Bible - Mark Milligan
Visiting the Codex Gigas - Strong Sense of Place
The Book of Sacred Magic by Abramelin the Mage - S.L.M. Mathers
The Book of Thoth - Kamat Radio
Curse Tablets - Georgetown University
Spellbound - HarperCollins Publishers
Hungarian Embroidery - Europeana
When the Tunkuluchú Sings - Diego Michel
Indigenous Owl Perspecti…

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History of Modern Spiritualism - BBC
The Elusive Force - Rosemarie Pilkington
EHS - National Library of Medicine

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Welcome back to The Book, The Myth, The Legend! My name is L.M. Sypher, and I’m the author of The Serpent’s Rise.

Today, we’re going to be covering the mythology of Chapter Four. These episodes do contain spoilers for the whol…

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Show Notes

Hop O’ My Thumb
Ogres of East Africa - Sofia Samatar
The House in the Wood, etc. - Frederick Warne & Co
Gremlins WWII Posters - Wikipedia

Transcript

Welcome back to The Book, The Myth, The Legend! My name is L.M. Sypher, and I’m the author of The Serpent’…

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Then came the wreck of ‘77. And all at once, the coastline was drawing attention, the reasons right and wrong. Despite the tragedy, vacationers flocked to the beaches in spades, so long as they could afford it, and real estate ventures made for prying eyes.

One careless move shouldn’t have been enough to topple West Battalion. Then again, it wasn’t a single action that compromised the gate, but instead a perfect storm. And at the center of it all was a child by the name of Eli Madison.

But that’s a story for another time.

In their hard leather armor, they came in droves; beetles scurrying from the light. They were Red Swords, scouts with a mission to save their crumbling Jericho—and by any means necessary.

It seemed like would soon recognize like.

See, West Battalion wasn’t the only hidden place with a secrecy problem. Not when there were thousands of people flocking to a brave new world for the promise of gold. It had started in the canyon west of Denver 20 years before. The Colorado gold rush swept through those lands like fever.

It had long been known that there were places in the mountains a person shouldn’t go, but there was no one left to pass along those warnings. Not after Sand Creek. Blinded by greed and uninhibited by the displaced keepers of those ancestral grounds, the miners swarmed like hungry ants straight into the den of a monster.

Rumors spread of missing miners. Search parties were organized, and not just by the regular humans. They came on horseback, armed with swords of steel and iron, ready to slay a beast. What they found instead was an old Arapaho cowboy with violet eyes and fishbelly hair who spoke of a world five hundred years younger.

What the humans had seen as antagonism, the Red Swords knew as retribution. After all, there was only so far one might push before expecting a shove in return. In the stalemate between the serpent and the soldiers, desperation made for strange bedfellows. One party was as needful as the next. None might have imagined the alliance to strike a deal with a monster, but that’s exactly what they did.

In more ways than one, that valley would become the last battalion.

Chupacabra Cryptid Wiki
Chupacabra Timeline with Dates + Locations - Princeton University
Mike Clelland VICE - Tamlin Magee
Chaneque - DBpedia
José’s Account - Brooke O’Connor

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Get the book here!

At the beginning of this process, I had my sights set squarely on traditional publishing. To be honest, I was approaching the industry with a fair amount of bias. I wanted the perceived legitimacy that a traditional publisher could offer me. Naive and ambitious, I believed I was Big 5 material.

To be fair, I still believe that, but I’ve come out the other side of this 8-month ordeal wiser, stronger, and far more realistic about my prospects. To start with, I had to come to terms with the fact that most people can’t just waltz into the publishing industry and come out with a book deal, especially not if they haven’t made a name for themselves. In this day and age, agents are looking at audiences. They’re looking at follower counts and fan bases. I don’t really have that yet, so that’s strike one.

Strike two was the sellability of my series. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good premise and a fascinating story, if I do say so myself, but based on subject matter alone, there’s going to be push back. From my experience, an agent won’t want to take a risk on something that might be banned from the start. But you should, so swipe a copy before I get put on the “woke mind virus” blacklist.

Strike three was timing. It takes a traditional publisher several months to a couple years to get a book out, and my timeline had to be more immediate than that. All I’ve been doing for the last year and a half is working on this book. I couldn’t put my life on hold any longer and I didn’t want to wait for a publishing contract to come through. Besides, I’ve never waited for anyone to hand me anything, so why should this be any different?

I made the tough decision to strike it out on my own sometime in May of this year. I had hit the 1-year mark on this project where I promised myself I’d either get traction or call it quits. At that point, my query leads had gone dry, but I had a strong third draft, a burgeoning social platform, and beta feedback that the book had real potential. In short, I knew I wasn’t giving up, which meant I had to learn how to be my own publisher. And really, how hard could it be? Famous last words.

I started with editors, because I knew I needed them. I had it covered from a developmental standpoint, but there were perspectives that I needed that I was missing. I mean, hello, white person writing a highly diverse cast and a main character outside of my cultural experience? I knew I couldn’t do it alone. That’s when I enlisted the help of a sensitivity reader. After her read-through and a 21-hour crash editing session later, it went to my cultural editor.

At that point, I was looking at a couple different considerations. From a marketing and deliverability standpoint, there are a few things you need to know about your book before you hit publish, especially if you’re writing for kids. While my cultural editor was fixing my lukewarm Spanish translations and helping me refine certain points of the story for additional cultural accuracy, I was running SEO sweeps. An SEO sweep, if you are not aware, is a search on the biggest aspects of your story to see what comes up on the World Wide Web. That’s when I ran into a big problem.

See, in March of this year, there was a book published by an author whose name happened to be similar to the name of my main character. We also had a similar topic insofar as both of our books dealt with monsters. Very similar monsters, I might add. Other than that, it was completely different, but that didn’t matter. Her book was–from what I saw of it–well-written, engaging, and appealing to its target audience. It was also completely inappropriate for children.

Now, years in the marketing industry has taught me that even if one thing is a name of a character, and the another thing is a name of an author, they can easily be confused, especially if you haven’t established your brand identity. The last thing I wanted to do was accidentally send parents and families to a site where middle grade readers might be exposed to very adult concepts, especially when the subject matter was vaguely similar between our work.

Now, you may or may not know, the character of Jorden has been with me since I was about 19 years old. That means I’ve had him cooking in my head for almost a decade. Deciding that I had to change his last name was a hard call, but it was a call I felt an agent or a publisher would have made, and had to put my author cap aside in favor of my editorial one. After two weeks of deliberating, and a list of names three pages long, I went with perhaps the most lateral move available to me. It still hurts, but that’s showbiz.

Next, I had to figure out the formatting. Luckily, I’m a graphic designer, so I was more than capable of setting up a document to create my final format, it just became a question of what software to use. Because my resources are scarce and editors are expensive, I started in Canva. That was also a mistake.

What I learned really quickly was that any inconsistency with a single page in Canva meant overhauling whole sections of the document because none of the pages flowed together. It was a nightmare. After experimenting with 100 pages or so, I fell back on my corporate training, caved, and bought a monthly subscription to InDesign.

I also had to determine which publisher I wanted to go with, be it KDP, Barnes & Noble Press, Ingram, or something more obscure. This was an easier choice for me because I hate Amazon and the cloud it rode in on, I wasn’t impressed by the reach and scope of Barnes & Noble Press, and IngramSpark seemed like a one-stop-shop for pushing the book out far and wide and getting paid. Because seriously, I need to get paid eventually for all this work.

Now, everyone warned me that Ingram had a lot of issues, but I have this fun little thing called insanity where no matter what the odds, once I feel I’ve set my course, I believe I can overcome any obstacle. That’s how I bridged into copyright, price balance, and the formatting of an epub.

A lot of indie books run about $20 each, which is a fair price, but I had to think through a different cost structure. Because of my genre, most people purchasing this book will not be adults with disposable income, but families. In other words, affordability had to be top of mind. That meant that I had to make decisions on interior maps, photos, and chapter breaks based on what would print best on low-cost paper. It also meant that I had to figure out how to maximize my own profit, which meant offering brick-and-mortar distributors less incentive to carry my book in their stores (50% wholesale discount as opposed to market-preferred 55%), and make it so retailers could not return excess books. If they did, I would have to eat the cost of that return personally, and I don’t have endless capital to manage that potential. Normally, this is something a publisher would manage, but I don’t have one of those, so I had to make yet another tough call.

The upside of my decision is that I make the most I can from every sale at my price-point. The downside is that I probably won’t get it into physical stores unless demand suddenly skyrockets. One can dream, right?

Next, I had to apply to the United States Copyright Office with my final manuscript and cover art. This is a relatively simple process, but does cost money. Because of this, I decided to turn in my print files after I had adjusted them after my first run of the text. That way, I knew I wasn’t going to need to send in a second application, especially because applications come with a cost!

Lastly, I had to consider my e-pub. Now, I won’t get into the weeds of reflowable versus fixed text, or how to edit embedded text files for open source font code, but what I learned is that it’s a beast in and of itself. I had to learn quite a bit in a short amount of time, including formatting a table of contents.

In truth, I’ve barely scratched the surface of walking you through the process, but some of it is just too grueling to recount, like reading my own book 4 full times in the span of a week. I’m lucky it’s entertaining!

And, on top of everything, I’ve had to consider your social media approach, reaching out to reviewers, website presence, and everything else that actually gets your work in front of people. I won’t lie, I’ve been slacking on the marketing aspect in recent weeks, but I’ve also been planning a vendor booth at a festival, a launch party, and working my actual job(s).

All that to say, if you take the indie author route, expect to do as one person in a few months what it would take a team of 5 a year and a half to do in a traditional publishing company. Expect roadblocks, expect delays, but don’t give up.

Now that I’m roughly one week before publication, I can say that this has been one of the most eye-opening and transformative experiences of my life. If I had to do it all over again, I would. Actually, I might just, because book two, The Last Battalion, is already in production.

This path isn’t for the faint of heart, but nothing worth doing is easy.

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Among them was a grandma of a tulevieja (too-lay-vee-eh-hah) named Constanza. A bird of a woman, she wore a …

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