It’s funny. One literary agent rejected Red Tiger because my main protagonist, Galen Sinclair, was a Lawful-Good character from the Dungeon & Dragons universe. Only he’s not, not really. He is someone who always wants to do the right thing, but he sometimes chooses to do things that he believes are incredibly evil in the hope that some good will come of it.
In the scene below, he’s feeling so lost and alone that he sees no way forward. And then something in the natural world connects him to a memory where he felt unconditional love. And he hopes that might help him survive.
I didn’t know what memory might do that for him, but then I plagiarized my nonfiction self.
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Aurora borealis—this first appeared in Endless Vacation, a travel magazine
We waited for the aliens—the only explanation that made sense to three small boys on a midsummer’s night. Red and green lights had overwhelmed the sky, slowly descending upon the city, gaining in intensity, at once both beautiful and ominous. Could the spaceship be far behind?
Alas, the Martians never landed. But the mystery and magic surrounding that 55-year-old memory remains. Aurora borealis—the northern lights—are an otherworldly gift to the lands of cold winters and long nights, an unforgettable spectacle that inspired Canada’s First Nations long before the days of Lief Erikson or Giovanni Caboto.
For untold centuries, many of this country’s indigenous peoples rejoiced beneath the auroras, believing they were witnessing their ancestral spirits dancing before the Great Spirit. For the far north’s Inuit, the arsaniit are sky people playing.
What wonderful legends! Mystical, whimsical, gentle. No wonder. Watching the northern lights proves humbling, then and now. It’s impossible to see the aurora and not believe this country is sacred.
Even scientific analysis fails to dim their luminosity. According to accepted theory, auroras begin with the solar wind’s electrons, attracted by the Earth’s geomagnetic poles. The electrons bombard the upper atmosphere’s oxygen and nitrogen; the atomic and molecular particles absorb the electrons’ energy and later release it as iridescent light. Emerald greens, fire-engine reds, vinous purples. Nature’s silent fireworks—which sometimes last for hours—make ordinary nights seem extraordinary. I’ve seen northern lights flicker along the horizon, a soft cosmic light show where land meets sky. And I’ve seen auroras usurp the blackness overhead, like colorful waves billowing through the heavens.
Only in Canada’s far north do auroras regularly grace the midnight skies, in every season. They are best seen there, where manmade illumination is scarce and the horizon seemingly limitless. But occasionally auroras will venture southward to skies near more populated regions, like a cherished friend making an unexpected but welcome visit.
Those nights are blessed. This country is blessed.
Scene from Red Tiger
This scene occurs after an epic battle in which Galen, a teenager from our world, confronts an evil act he committed to saved innocent lives
Galen strolled outside along the broad battlement that overlooked a sleeping city. The stars were shimmering as brightly as they did during his first moments in Bodun, when he was concussed and the forests hummed with song. From this height, as he looked out over the harbour, he could see this world had a second milky way that crawled along the oceanside horizon like a caterpillar encrusted with priceless diamonds. His wonder reached across the wine dark sea, wonder that was beyond his ability to name.
The city was perched precariously on towering cliffs overlooking the ocean, and the panorama snatched his breath from him. So much drama swirled in the spiralling heights, and crashing waves on jagged rocks far below. The breeze felt like loving fingers through his hair, and he smelled iodine and fish and freshness and life and decay.
He found so much beauty here, but it couldn’t erase the hollowness inside. He’d killed a reviled king, and while the story might one day inspire song, it now buried him in rubble. He said nothing to Erasmus or Mathias of the battle, but he could not only see the life draining from the warrior’s eyes, he could feel his soul fleeing, running up his blade like a scorched demon, and filling his heart with desolation.
Nothing could touch that pain. Nothing ever would.
Until something unexpected did.
It began with a soft, gentle green flicker along the long, caterpillar of stars he had admired, and then it deepened, gaining in intensity until it became a rich, royal tapestry billowing through the heavens. Nature’s silent fireworks. Emerald greens. Fire-engine reds. Vinous purples.*
He’d seen the Northern Lights many times, the last in the Cape Breton Highlands, with his father at his side, his mother’s arms and her gentle scent wrapping him in a love unbreakable by time or distance.
He swore he could feel their love now.
He cried with loneliness. Then he sobbed for his loss of innocence and the cruelty of men in this impossible world. And finally he wept for the beauty of a lush nighttime sky that lifted him yet again with hope that he would find his way.