After reading the first few lines of my fantasy, and no doubt filling in more of the details with her keen sense of recall, Mom said, “I know that place.”
A spur-of-the-moment walk through the woods of his childhood leads an ambitious young man to an extraordinary gift.
“The setting is real,” I admitted, “but the story and all the characters are fiction.” I hoped to allay any fear of collateral damage from the memoir-posing-as-fiction syndrome, a type of story which “Master of the House” most emphatically is not. Yes, I did live in a house that backed onto an expansive wood; and yes, there was a beaver pond and a trail by it; and it’s true, I spent a lot of time gumming up my hands on lofty pine boughs and cavorting with chipmunks. But that’s where the historical record ends—sort of.
What I mean by the “sort of” is that, when I had the chance to take a closer look at “Master of the House” during its final edits, something of a non-fiction nature ambled out of the woods and surprised me.
(Don’t worry. No spoilers here!)
The basic elements of fiction were there: a young protagonist who has lost his enthusiasm for just about everything; a traditional celebration which, for him, has grown a little thin; an unexpected and welcome reprieve from said compulsory ritual; and, for the fantasy genre, the requisite tumble-down-the-rabbit-hole.
For me, and I assume most readers, “Master of the House” is an illustration of the surprising ways in which God can infiltrate a closed system—an insular, oft-times barricaded life. For some, like Saul of Tarsus, the Ruah strike is dramatic, heart stopping, blinding. For others, like hard-as-rock brown sugar sharing its jar with a slice of bread, the transformation is unhurried, with the “stony heart” eventually yielding to the irresistible therapy. Still others, like Dickens’ Ebenezer Scrooge—though I know of some true-to-life cases, too—beg a visitation from the fantastic. Our God is a clever and kindly trespasser.
I actually wrote this story a long, long time ago, but while preparing it for Christmas with Hot Apple Cider, an unexpected element emerged. It may be unique to me, or it might appear to others as well, but the insight came from distance and hindsight. At the time of the story’s conception, I don’t think I had any other choice but to write it or burst at the seams. “Master of the House” was art therapy—a way to reconcile the world I had known intimately since childhood (thus the collage of settings from my youth)—with the intrusion (which is what it felt like at the time) of something wholly “other.””
So, while in conventional terms, the plot and characters remain a fantasy, in figurative terms, the story is quite true. Who would have thought?
Even now, those tall pines are whispering secrets to me.
It is in that mingling of memory and imagination, of fantasy and fact, I offer a Christmas walk in the woods—with an other-worldly twist.
“He does not despise real woods because he has read of enchanted woods; the reading makes all real woods a little enchanted.”
– C.S. Lewis, On Stories: And Other Essays on Literature.
John Paul Tucker lives in Cabbagetown, a Toronto downtown neighbourhood abounding in rare birds and odd bods. He is currently at work on his fourth children’s novel inspired by George MacDonald’s fantasy classics Lilith and Phantastes. Keep an eye out for Shelter Island and its sequels, in his children’s fantasy series, The Song of Fridorfold (Brownridge Publishing, Spring 2018). Drop by www.johnpaultucker.com to watch a book trailer, read a poem, check for updates, or learn how to cook your Christmas turkey in a garbage can.
John, Really like your writing style.
I thought that your story was a deliberate parallel to an encounter with God.
I’ve found it fascinating how God meets each of us in the way we need to be met, not two people exactly the same.
Definitely interested in reading some of your other work, now that I’ve read this story and we’ve “talked” with you at the Christmas with Hot Apple Cider Launch.
Thanks for the encouragement, Patricia.
I should have mentioned somewhere along the way that God also reaches us with a great sense of humour. I remember getting in an argument with one of my co-workers years ago. Driving home, I was mulling over my part in the squabble. A panel van pulled up beside my car with a large decal on its side of a guilty looking cat with a mouse tail hanging like a noodle from its mouth. The Caption? “Your bedside manner could use some improvement.” I chuckled the rest of the way home. It also helped with the apology.
JpT