Hank Angus's Blog

Heart and Soul
It certainly was not the first time that Sally had made the journey from her parents’ house over Tussey Mountain to her grandparents’ house which lay in the next valley nestled among a cluster of Hemlocks beside a babbling brook. This day felt no different than the other days. Her mother had packed her a backpack with some bread, an apple and a gunnysack filled with fresh water that came from their spring house that sat one hundred feet behind the house. The sack had kept her cool for a good bit hiking up the trail to the top of the mountain, but it was a humid spring morning. She could feel the beads of sweat slowly trickling down her back, and her dress gradually becoming damp enough to stick to her. As she crested the top, she had to wipe her brow to keep the perspiration from going into her eyes causing blurred vision and that nasty sting that seems to last entirely too long.
The trail winded its way along the ridge occasionally giving her a view of the valley below. At one point she could see the smoke rising from her house. She wondered if her mom was making one of those pies that she plus many others had enjoyed over the years. Sally could not decide which pie was her favorite. They would come in rapid succession in the order of when the wild fruit arrived in central Pennsylvania. Strawberry pie was always first coming in late May or early June. Huckleberry was next in July followed closely by black and red raspberries. She would keep the berries in the spring house. That way the fruit would stay fresh for weeks. There was always a break before the fall pies of pumpkin and apple.
Sally’s stomach must have heard her. Grooowell! It seemed to reverberate the whole way through her body. Ahead she could see an opening in the dense canopy above her. As she approached, it became clear that an outcropping like a giant hand stretched out over the ridge giving a majestic view. Before her stomach decided to take its revenge Sally sat down pulling off her backpack. A long drink from the gunnysack was in order. The water was no longer cold, but it still felt cool sliding down her throat. The bread had been baked that very morning. It was wrapped in a towel and was still warm to the touch. It smelled amazing.
It had been still to that point, but the sun was at work. Heat thermals had already started rising from the valley floor and Sally was greeted with a refreshing gust of wind. The wind was warm and sticky. Nonetheless, she could feel her brow and face starting to dry off. Way off in the distance the first of what would soon be many puffy clouds were forming. The sky was robin egg blue and white cotton balls. She was at peace. A chipmunk scurried on top of the rock right in front of her, stopping but a second to look at her seemingly pondering why she was there before rushing back into the forest. The forest seemed alive with birds chirping fluttering from tree to tree. She noticed something moving to her left, initially startled, then relaxed upon realizing the motion was a toad no bigger than her thumb nail.
Her bread was gone, and she decided to take one last gulp from the gunnysack. Slinging the backpack and gunnysack over her shoulder, she headed back to the center of the ridge to pick up the trail to her grandparent’s house. The path was well worn and been traveled by many over the years. She swerved back and forth, always remaining on top of the ridge. Boulders could be seen left and right sometimes near the trail. Logs were hewn in two in places to keep the trail open. She always slowed down and listened near logs and boulders especially if the sun shown on them. On more than one occasion she happened upon a timber rattlesnake or copperhead. The rattlesnakes didn’t bother her, because they usually let you know when you were getting too close. Copperheads were a different matter altogether. Once, she had crested a hill near her house and reached to grab up for a log and grabbed a copperhead instead. Lucky for her that the snake was startled too!
Up ahead, it appeared that the forest was growing brighter. Her brow was all covered with sweat, sometimes dripping down and stinging into her eyes. Both of her sleeves on her dress were already soaked and she was now using the bottom of her dress to soak up the perspiration.
It was an opening which she knew was there having made this trip many times, but today somehow it felt different. Upon clearing the last of the trees into the opening meadow, she had to momentarily cover her eyes from the sun. The grass was glistening with the late morning dew, looking like thousands of tiny crystals blinking back at her. She could see the edge of the forest at the end of the meadow with the path weaving through the tall grass to an opening in the trees. Half way in the meadow was a pile of timber. It was neatly stacked as if someone wanted to make a rather large bonfire. It had been there for years. Sally had never paid it much attention, but today somehow it was different.
If it was for a bonfire, why hadn’t someone burnt it down a long time ago? She could understand the location. At night when burning a fire, it is best to have an open space in case a black bear or mountain lion decides to take an interest. It still was a mystery. Besides, she thought to herself. She needed a drink and a break. As she got closer, she noticed something she had not noticed before. There was a path leading to the pile of sticks. There were fresh tracks in the path, but not any kind of animal track she had ever seen. Hmmm?
Before she knew it, she was standing in front of the pile of sticks with a puzzled look on her face. Someone, or something had scratched the grass away to the bare ground. With a stick there was a crude message.

WE AWAIT YOU!!

Sally was scratching the side of her nose as she often did when she was in deep thought. Who are we? They are awaiting you for what? Did this have anything to do with the great battle her grandparents had told her of? It could not be true. They talked of dragons, trolls, orcs and goblins, witches good and evil and some kind of curse. She thought it was all rubbish. She was more afraid of bats at night than any of these things. The mere thought of bats sent a chill down her spine, the way they fly randomly always getting too darn close. Swoosh!
She came out of her trance looking rather foolish. Then, the breath in her lungs left her. As warm and sunny as it was, she could feel no warmth. Among all the sticks in that burn pile were bones, human bones and skulls to match. They all were neatly placed, jammed together to keep them in place. The skulls were all pointed downward as if looking at a single spot. That is when she saw it. The sun had shot a ray through the sticks and bones upon a square block of red, somehow clear but not. It was wrapped in wild raspberry vines all covered in spikes sure to draw blood. She reached for it then quickly pulled back as blood appeared on her finger tip.
What was it? The skulls, what could they mean? Why was all of this covered? Sally licked the blood dry. Now she was beyond curious. She had to have that red block, and she was not going to stop until she had it. As she walked around the pile, it appeared that the sticks were less thick on the opposite side. They were thin enough that she detected something else under the pile. Was it stone? She started frantically pulling sticks away and threw them into the meadow one after the other.
Morning sprang into afternoon. Dark clouds were growing to the west, but none of this mattered to Sally. She was now possessed. It was stone. Not just any stone, but a gravestone. Half the pile of sticks was gone. There was an inscription on the stone, but the years had worn it down. She put her hand to her sweaty brow and rubbed it against the stone. It was another riddle, or so she thought.

KATE
YOU GAVE EVERYTHING FOR US
SO THAT WE COULD LIVE


The sun was jumping in and out of the ever increasingly dark clouds. Off in the distance, a very light rumble of thunder could be heard, but Sally was now in a frenzy. Kate? Who is Kate? What does she have to do with the skulls or the block or this never ending pile of sticks!? The sun was dipping on the horizon. Sally had no thoughts of her parents or grandparents or where she should be or what she should be doing. Her dress was now tattered and torn. Her face and hands were covered with dirt. One stick after another into the field her hands threw. So furious had her pursuit become, that she did not even notice the bones or worse the skulls landing in the grass.
The sky was pitch. It was not near dark yet, but the oncoming storm was almost upon her. The sky sent down a cold blast of wind sending some leaves into the meadow from the forest beyond. A hawk dove out of the darkness looking for cover. A lightning bolt struck a tree nearby. CRACK!! It was almost like nature itself had been drawn into Sally’s obsession. Then she had it. She just grabbed it. The briars jabbed into her hands, blood now leaking down her fingers. She pulled and ripped seemingly unaware of the pain being bestowed on her. The blood had now soaked into both of her sleeves when Sally finally grabbed her prize.
The storm was a fury all around her. The wind was howling. Hail had started to fall from the sky mixed with very heavy soaking raindrops. The lightning strikes went from cloud to cloud or to ground, splitting trees and so bright that sally was temporarily blinded. None of that mattered as she held what looked like a square block of ice. The cold felt so good on her bleeding hands. Her blood soaked into the ice, as the ice quickly melted away until all the ice was gone and so was Sally.
In her last moment before all went dark, she held a human heart. It was beating.

Where do legends start? I am not sure, but one thing is for sure, is that there is no lack of them. I think there are as many as we have imaginations. As I have stated in an earlier blog, I wanted to have some familiar characters that you would see in a fantasy novel, but each with some kind of twist. I despise predictability. About a quarter of the way through the writing, it occurred to me that creating a species of a new unheard band of creatures would be fancy fun. Then what popped out of my head was quite unexpected. I remembered reading about a mythical bird only found in north central Pennsylvania. It was rumored to be at least six feet tall sitting down and was quite often seen near mountaintops. I was just a child when I read this in a local newspaper. Now, the rest I added myself. In the end, it was a wonderful way for me to tie different aspects of the plot together. A plot is much like a puzzle in that when you finally put it all together and see the finished product, it is very gratifying.

I am writing my second book, which will be the second part of a trilogy. I know the title, but will withhold that information until a later date. Two of the characters in "The Magic Pouch," since the first writing have become dear friends. It made me ponder what is a true friend? The question has never been one that I did not know the answer. A friend is that person who will always no matter what, be there for you. They will tell you the cold hard truth when you need to hear it. They know how you think, what you are apt to do and see all of your greatness or flaws.

Now, the harder question is why are acquaintances just that and never more than that? What causes one person to be your friend for life and another a passing shadow or worse someone who comes to hate you? I am fond of saying that some will hate you for your mere existence. This is a brutal truth. Very difficult if you are seeking the approval of others. The flip side of that is that friend who overlooks all of your flaws and inconsistences and loves you just for being you.

It would be a wonderful world if we could fall short of judging others. Would it not be a better place if we could just agree to disagree and not ridicule or belittle others simply because they view things through a different looking glass? The world of what if's not a game I usually play. I am way too pragmatic. Judging others is built into our DNA. It protects us from bad situations or warns of impending danger. We cannot simply turn off who we are. For me, I am grateful for the friends that I have. I hope you are as well.

I am not sure where upon the way in running our charity, it dawned on me, that tradition isn't something that has always been there. It has to start someplace. Universities are a classic example of this from alma mater to pre game to gown there are traditions interlaced everywhere.

Suddenly, my wife and I had started a charity where the thought meant so much more. We were creating traditions without even knowing it. At first, it started with us just doing things from year to year because we felt they worked. Over time, I became more aware that mere repetition was not the key. To me, it had more to do with the "magic," that doing a certain thing presented.

There were two instances in which the "magic," was so profound that in the moment I knew we had started a new tradition. In both cases I laughed and maybe cried at the same time. In both cases we were after a singular goal, attempting for years, looking in the bottle and finding nothing but air.

We had pushed and pushed to no avail. Funny how when you stop pushing and you start asking poignant questions the answers present themselves. There right in front of us was the answer. What a pleasure it was to be in that moment, to see the hard work of so many being fulfilled.

To all of you, whatever your endeavors, may it be that you experience such a moment. Traditions should be magical!

In running my charity, The Hope Express, for over ten years, my perception of what defines a hero might be different then yours. As my son battled Leukemia, and then my wife battled breast cancer our paths crossed many who could be tagged with that moniker.

Adversity is fickle. It does not discriminate. You cannot look upon the heavens and choose the trials that you must live with. Rather, those burdens are unleashed on you.

There have been many over the years that have tried to call my family heroes. I do not accept that. Quite simply, we had no choice. Just like you have no choice. We all must deal with the hand that we are dealt. It is what defines us while we spend our days on earth.

I see heroes in places where most people do not. It is the softball or little league coach, or the mom or dad who support their children in whatever endeavor they are interested in. It is the everyday person doing what they do every day. Those acts of humanity and kindness that go unseen or unheard of are acts of heroes. They ask not for themselves. It is the deed, or the act of giving that gives them all the reward they need.

Where do you see heroes?

Not to get to boring with the PA grand canyon, but I just got back from there. While fishing on Saturday we got to witness a bald eagle. What a terrific symbol they are, so graceful, so powerful. We were literally feet away. So close in fact, that when it flew over we could hear and feel the wings flap. I hope one day you can be lucky enough to experience what I did this past weekend!

I grew up a short distance from the PA grand Canyon. Pine Creek is the name of the creek with flows from near New York State down to the town of Jersey Shore which lays beside the Susquehanna river. Not much has changed since I was a boy in this remote part of Pennsylvania. There are many more deer than people in this neck of the woods. I always thought it fascinating that writers like Stephen King have their stories told in which they are familiar. In writing "The Magic Pouch," it seemed more than appropriate that the story be based where I grew up. It is not difficult for me to describe scenes in places that are real.

Even though my book is fantasy, I hope that you get a glimpse into a very special place. I am going back there in just a couple of hours. It is my "happy" place. I hope that each of you has a similar place that you can go and refresh your batteries. It is good for your soul.

I have often pondered how anyone can become evil. There are those rare individuals that seem to be born that way, but I think that is an extreme exception. The rest of us are born into this world innocent. Over time bad influences corrupt our thinking and the seeds of evil become implanted. Herein lies the battle, always good versus evil within ourselves. Each day we arise to continue the battle again. Sometimes we win and sometimes we do not.

In "The Magic Pouch," the character Cancer not only is evil, but she embraces it. It was not enough for me to just have her that way. I wanted to have the reader come through her life and see how she got to be evil in every way.

Like the rest of us, it started with choices. As she made one bad choice after another, her heart became hardened. Over time she became bitter and angry. Hate consumed her. Then, it was a short walk to evil. It is sad to watch this in real life. I hope we can all learn from Cancer's back story.

In "The Magic Pouch," I wanted to bring some of the familiars such as dragons, witches and wizards, but it was important to me that they have a twist. A troll was not good enough, so I created a toadtroll. The orcs were still orcs, but not in the fashion in which you might expect. The elves are not regular elves, but moss elves who have a devilish side to them and some magic powers. I felt this was necessary because of the evil that they must fight.

Ok, it has taken quite a bit to get moving on this. I am still trying to figure out this self publishing thing and the marketing of my book and it has been over a year. There are other complications, but I will not go into that. Anyway, I have started the second book which will be the second in a trilogy. "The Magic pouch," was just the beginning of what I want to say about cancer, and I have a lot to say. My wife still suffers from the after effects from stage 3 breast cancer and my son is a leukemia survivor. I wrote my first book in my attempt to try to communicate as best I could the ravages of a cancer diagnosis. The reality is so brutal, that just telling our story and that of others would be to hard for most people to read. This is why I chose to do it as fiction. Now, for those of you that have not read "The Magic Pouch," I will not let the cat out of the bag. In my next book the tale will take on a totally different twist. Reality and fantasy will become intertwined in such a breathtaking way that you will have no idea which way the story will go next. Not sure at this point when the release date will be, but I will be spending a lot more time writing in the coming weeks and months. What exactly came of the evil witch Cancer? Your book seemed so final. How can there be a sequel?