The Real Evershade

There is a grove of trees quite near my home that has always caught my eye. On the north side is a low field, which becomes the meadow in my book. A little stream wanders through it, separating the meadow from the High Field. The real Evershade, you see, is situated at a place where the land slopes abruptly downward. The stream has cut away the hillside over time, and trees have grown from the hill's base. They tower over the meadow, but the treetops are almost level with the grass of the High Field. 

This fact is made clear when one sees Evershade in the wintertime through the naked branches of the grove. Naturally, this is not when I took the photos, so to you it may simply look like a clump of trees.

At the western of edge of Evershade, the High Field slopes down to the meadow, and the land levels out again. I decided that this would make an excellent place for Mr. Barkwhistle to construct his dam and create his pond. The old beaver is, after all, responsible for burying the dead of Evershade, and it is simple for them to float the bodies down the Fray to his pond on tiny rafts where he can add them to the burial mound.

The western edge of Evershade where Mr. Barkwhistle makes his home, right in that gap where the cattle are grazing...

 

At last, the real Evershade with the meadow where the Walnut Keepers gather herbs and seeds--and where one amazing mouse changes his fate--stretches out before it...

More Locations that Inspired Evershade

July marks the release of my debut novel, "Evershade: Season of Crows," so I am adding more photos of the real locations that inspired the world of the Walnut Keepers.

Torzeria is the "The Holy Place," and it is south of Evershade across the High Field. There is a natural bowl in the land, and where it slopes up, a little grove of trees sits clustered on the edge of the field. This is where I see many turtles cross the stone river each spring, so it seemed natural to make this particular grove the home of the turtles in my book. 

The turtles speak the common language as well as Tortuli, the ancient tongue remembered by the turtles alone. Elder Veil, their leader, is particularly wise and at all times knows more than he lets on. His shell is carved with intricate designs that are filled with beautiful colors. A healthy thatch of moss drips from his shell, and his bright orange throat pulses as he breathes. 

He may be called upon to help Evershade in its hour of need, but what can a single turtle do to change the fate of the kingdom?

This is the real Torzeria as it sits beyond the natural bowl of the High Field:

The Locations that Inspired Evershade

Rather than write a bit of backstory this week, I have decided to share with you some photos of the real locations that inspired "Evershade: Season of Crows." The locations are on private property, so I must take the photos at a distance from the stone river. Otherwise, I will get shot, go to jail, or get severely talked at. I don't want any of those things to happen this week...

The area near our home has inspired me for years. We live in the Ozarks about five miles from the nearest town. The countryside is dotted with rolling fields of fat cattle and little groves of trees that occasionally develop into extensive forests.

In my novel, there is one particular grove of trees that is simply called "the Little Grove." When Evershade's Watcher, Roan, banishes two mousemaids during the drought, they are forced to cross the stone river into the neighboring field. If they have any hope of survival, they must shelter in the Little Grove and ride out the drought the best they can.

This is the real Little Grove:

It is from here that one of the banished mousemaids, Aster, hatches a plan to exact her revenge on Evershade and its king. Her wicked scheme leads her across the field to the East, where the thin strip of trees harbors the Crow Council--and her destiny.

The trees in the distance are part of the Crow Kingdom:

"Marked"

Part 5

 

The young white squirrel clambered down the tree trunk to the forest floor where the blue jay he'd killed only moments before lay in a crumpled heap. Ripple and Twilight, his gray siblings, raced over to him when he reached the dead bird. They stared at the beautiful, lifeless blue jay.

 

"Why did you do that?" Ripple asked, clutching her throat.

 

Storm stared hard at his sister. "He tried to kill me."

 

"Well, he didn't do a very good job," Twilight observed, a hint of awe coating his words. "He's deader than a drowned rat."

 

Storm looked upon his enemy's corpse. The powdery blue feathers caught in the light that filtered through the canopy above. He spotted something dark pooling beneath the bird's skull. Blood. His enemy's blood.

 

The white squirrel crouched down and dipped his paw into the dark liquid.

 

"Storm, don't," Ripple warned.

 

He ignored her and lifted his paw to examine the sticky red lifeforce. It was bright against his pale coat. He wiped the blood across his hind leg and stared down at the three short lines smeared into his fur, smirking. It made him feel powerful to wear his enemy's blood.

 

Storm dipped his paw into the drying pool again and stained the opposite leg as his siblings watched with an equal mixture of horror and awe. He marked his forelegs and his chest, tipping the long hairs of his tail with the crimson lifeblood. At last, he smeared a circle around one eye and slashed a line through it from his forehead to his cheek.

 

He rose to his full height, standing before Ripple and Twilight. They looked back at him with jaws open.

 

Storm's transformation into an elite warrior had begun.

 



"The Storm is Here"

Part 4

 

Storm leveled his gaze on the creature before him. The white squirrel's tail swished irritably as he held his staff in a defensive posture.

 

The large blue jay stared at the red-eyed squirrel. Storm watched the wicked bird clack his beak.

 

"I asked your name, Child of Snow," the blue jay said dangerously.

 

The young squirrel straightened to his full height. "I am called Storm. And I don't care who you are."

 

Storm swept his staff toward the bird's legs, and the blue jay jumped, landing lightly on the branch again. The white squirrel scowled. He thrust the staff at the bird's chest and grazed the jay's feathers before it leapt back.

 

"Feisty little morsel," the bird taunted.

 

Storm growled and lunged forward, driving the staff into the blue jay's abdomen. Thrown off-balance, the bird stumbled backward, and Storm pounced. He struck the jay repeatedly, attacking the body, face, and wings. At last, Storm heard a loud crack when his staff thwacked the blue jay's right wing.

 

The jay looked into the white squirrel's eyes for one startled moment before he lost his balance and tipped over the edge of the branch. Storm watched the bird flap its one good wing in vain as its broken wing trailed helplessly through the air. The jay's body collided with a branch and spun in sickening circles, striking a second branch before it landed on the ground with a satisfying crunch.

 

Storm gazed down at the bird's lifeless form. His remorseless red eyes flashed with understanding.

 

This was his first kill. 

 

It would not be his last.

 



"Before the Storm"

Part 3

 

"No, Storm! You're going to get in trouble," the little gray squirrel called up to her younger, larger  white brother.

 

The robust white squirrel pup raced along a low-hanging branch above his sister and brother, who watched him from the safety of the ground.

 

"Mom's going to kill you," Ripple called again, stamping her hindpaw on the packed earth.

 

"No, she won't," Twilight whispered in her ear.

 

The two siblings stood with their jaws open, watching their pale brother flash through the canopy.

 

Storm moved along the branches like a ghost. The early days of infant plumpness had disappeared, replaced by stout, solid muscle--even at his young age--and he carried himself with quiet, steady confidence.

 

The white squirrel flicked his tail and switched directions as he launched himself onto the neighboring branch. His heart beat wildly as he carved his path along the outstretched limb, dodging leaves and nearly invisible spiderwebs. Storm smiled to himself in an almost manic way. He felt alive. And strong. And invincible.

 

He leapt onto the trunk of an old oak and shimmied up the bark until he was certain he was hidden from his siblings' view. Storm reached a sturdy branch and crawled onto it. Above him, a straight twig that had been stripped of its bark jutted out from a hollow in the trunk. In one mighty leap, he reached up and snagged it. The hollow served as a perfect stash for weapons. It housed a collection of stones for throwing, but the staff was by far his favorite instrument. 

 

Edging along the branch, he thrust and twirled and snapped the staff at invisible foes. His blood-red eyes sparked with fire as the imagined enemies fell.

 

Abruptly, the pale squirrel stopped. He froze in place, and the fur prickled on the back of his neck as a foreboding sensation overwhelmed him.

 

A dry, sinister voice spoke from behind.

 

"And who might you be, little morsel?"

 

 



"Naming"

Part 2

 

Healer Slate held the pale, newborn baby squirrel to his chest as he wiped the birthing muck from his eyes and nose with a clover leaf. The little squirrel blinked up at the Healer and made a squeaking sound in his throat.

 

Feather stared at the plump white newborn, an equal mixture of horror and fascination washing across her face. She glanced over at her husband, Dusk, who held their two gray newborns in his lap. He looked just as dumbfounded as she felt.

 

Feather's gaze shifted back to Healer Slate. "Is he--okay?"

 

The old squirrel grunted. "He seems healthy. He's hefty enough."

 

The Healer looked down into the white squirrel's eyes, squinting as he examined them.

 

"Oh, stars! His eyes..."

 

"What is it?" Feather asked, alarmed.

 

"His eyes...they're as red as blood."

 

Dusk stood up and crossed the burrow to hand the gray newborns to Feather. She accepted them gingerly as her husband edged closer to the Healer.

 

The old squirrel handed the robust newborn to Dusk, and the little white squirrel gazed up into his father's eyes.

 

"Red and pink--I've never seen anything like it."

 

Dusk glanced up at Healer Slate, a questioning look etched across his face.

 

"I have heard of a white deer who walks these woods, but I have never seen it." The Healer placed a reassuring paw on Dusk's shoulder. "Do not worry, my friend. Perhaps he is destined for something great."

 

Feather and Dusk looked at one another. Dusk turned and brought the pale baby to Feather's side.

 

"What shall we name him, my love?" he asked.

 

Feather gazed upon the little white squirrel with the bright red eyes.

 

"He is the color of snow, but he has eyes of fire. How about Storm? He reminds me of a winter storm."

 

Dusk smiled. "Storm it is."