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Writing Wendl...

I really did want to write a light-hearted tale in case this one turns out to be my last novel (assuming it yet becomes a novel), but it's headed currently toward the shadows. I thought I knew Wendl Von Trier pretty well, having trekked with him through my previous book, The Winged Child .   There, Wendl presents as an elusive solitary, moving above all worldly fray while at the same time nudging events and characters toward a satisfactory conclusion. Sharp and intimidating on the outside and tender and motherly on the inside. A friend to the world, something of a trickster, but in all things working for good outcomes.  That is how I saw Wendl VonTrier. A  púka, mischievous, but essentially harmless, even benevolent, capable of presenting in whatever form or gender the moment required. Wendl seemed the ideal candidate to carry readers off into the literary sunset in good spirits after an exhilarating romp through a fantastical fiction. But all along, it seems, there were depths to

Some folk talk...


Some folk talk to trees, I've heard,

Though the wise ones just listen,

The trees already know more

About us than we'll ever know

About trees. What they can tell,

If we have ears to hear with,

Or hearts large enough to hold

Their secrets, would haul us

Right outside our confining

Skins, and make us brothers

To the mountain, and sisters

To bright air and watersong.

 

Henry's books.


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