Today we're saying hello to J.W. Hawkins, who has stopped by to answer our three fave questions:
Tell me a little bit about your main character of this book.
So, it’s a collection of dark fantasy short stories, each with its own central character, but all set in the mysterious Wythenwood. One recurring character throughout is that of Great Oak. Great Oak is no ordinary tree; she has spread her roots throughout the forest, intertwining them with those of the other trees to make her an almost omnipotent force, whose consciousness is exuded through every branch, leaf, and twig in the wood. Like any power, many of her actions are morally gray, making her an incredibly enjoyable character to write.
2. Do you believe in the paranormal and if so, do you have an experience you can share?
Well, I’m usually a hard-minded empiricist who believes firmly in science, yet much of the paranormal could be perceived as things that science simply has not been able to explain—yet. So, I’m open-minded, as we really don’t know what forces may be out there.
An experience? Yes, I have had one. Whether it was truly paranormal or a coincidence, who knows? My dad died when I was fifteen; it was sudden and unexpected. While holidaying in Crete, he was pulled under by a riptide when we were spending a day at the beach—despite the water only being waist-high. After searching for him for what seemed like hours, though in actual fact was only about twenty minutes, he was pulled lifeless from the water.
A few years later, a friend and I took a trip to the Lake District in Northwest England, a beautiful mountainous part of the country, interspersed with, as the name suggests, lakes. Large, exquisite bodies of water in which, on a clear day, you can see stunning mirror images of the surrounding mountains. This was one of Dad’s favorite places, which he would regularly frequent to spend time walking the fells. After one of these trips, he returned with a photograph of an unusual sapling he had come across that had taken root in one of the lakes—Derwent Water—and grew directly out of the water. This is where, after the accident, we had scattered his ashes.
Going back to my trip, when we arrived at our hotel, there was a mistake with the booking, and instead of a twin room, we’d been given a double bed. We requested to be moved to another room, which was quickly arranged by the hotel staff. When we arrived in our new room, there on the wall, lo and behold, was a photograph of the exact location where Dad’s ashes were scattered, with the little tree jutting majestically out of the water.
A couple of days later, Dave (my friend) and I decided that we would visit the spot where Dad had been laid to rest. So, on an unusually hot day (for Northern England), we bought some beers and a disposable barbecue and set out in search of the peculiar tree. We walked back and forth for hours, unable to find it. So, we gave up. We flopped ourselves down, tired and, by this point, extremely hungry where we were, lit the barbecue, chatted a while, and knocked back a few of the beers. Then, heat, full stomachs, and beer combined in the way they inevitably do; and under the warm sun, we both nodded off to sleep.
When we awoke, the tide had gone out, and right where we sat, the retreating water level had revealed the little tree—we had somehow inadvertently ended up in the exact place we had wanted to go without even realizing. We did wonder at the time, could this have been Dad guiding us? Was it just a coincidence? Truthfully, I’ll never really know, but I definitely prefer the thought of the former.
3. What titles are you working on now that you can tell us about?
Currently, I’m working day and night on the release of my upcoming book Tales of the Wythenwood, which, as mentioned earlier, is a collection of short stories set within the depths of a mysterious wood. Great Oak, an omnipotent power, hatches plans to crush dissent. An injured Desideria is helped by a mysterious creature—but what is its real intent? The Taker of Faces stalks the night for her next victim. Will this be the one that sates her need and provides all that she craves? Indoli, a benevolent master of manipulation, learns the consequences of teaching his ways too well—and soon, the fate of the entire wood is at stake.
All the stories help build a cohesive picture of the world that is the Wythenwood. Throughout, there is a fairy-tale-esque aesthetic, though these stories are definitely not for children. Themes in the book include revenge, greed, friendship, betrayal, and the corruption brought by power, which are explored through the characters and how they evolve throughout their dark and often magical adventures.
Tales of the Wythenwood is available exclusively from Amazon for a launch price of $3.97: Amazon US, Amazon UK, Amazon Canada and Amazon Australia, as well as other international Amazon sites.
Excerpt From Tales of the Wythenwood: The Artfulness of Stupidity
PrologueThe eagle sat watchfully, the wind ruffling its feathers as it swirled unimpeded atop of the spindle of rocks on which the eyrie sat. The foliage below swirled hither and thither in a great maelstrom of assorted detritus. Yet none came so high as to bother the winged guardian as he remained alert upon his perch looking down on the outstretched canopy of the seemingly endless Wythenwood below.
Hand over hand, foot over foot the troupe climbed upwards; silently. Their simian faces grimaced as the cold gusts of air bombarded them in a continuous effort to break their will. Never had they climbed so high, yet they knew not why they climbed and knew not what they sought. All that was known were the tempting whispers of a prize beyond prizes, the reward of all rewards that could be found uttered in the darkest nooks and deepest crannies of the Wythenwood, where all utterances came under hushed breath.
The eagle was as eagle-eyed as eagles are and had long since espied the intruders, yet he waited until the baboons had climbed high enough to ensure that any fall would return them to the soil once more, to nourish the roots of the endless number of trees that was the Wythenwood. He must send a message to those who would consider trespassing on the hallowed stones of Eramana’s needle he thought. The message needed be to clear— and final.
Higher and higher they climbed up the thrusting edifice; wrought by rain, winds and eons passed. The eagle looked down over its beak and upon its sacred charge, a ward that it had been born to guard and would also die to do just so. It bore the mottled patterning common to all eggs of eagle kind, yet this egg was swollen to an enormous size, large enough for an eagle fully grown at birth to erupt from its dappled shell. Though the shell itself was interspersed with a multitude of tiny holes and through every hole; like the most intricate and ornate of weavings grew the most impossible of vines. Leaves of red, leaves of gold and green, nestled amongst them was every shade between. Leaves of oak, leaves of acacia, pine and yew holding every color from spring to fall. It was not one tree; it was them all.
Although it seemed that the vine belonged perhaps to every tree that ever was, in some ways it belonged to none at all. For no roots did it bare to earth, instead it just lay wreathen around the great egg from which it protruded with the long tentacular strands of the chimaera vine smothering all the other eggs nesting within the eyrie in a nurturing, motherly embrace.
The eagle dipped its beak so that it all but touched the leaves of the wreathen egg and whispered so gently that even the air itself, through which the eagle’s words did pass could have barely heard.
Hand over hand, foot over foot still the baboons climbed on, eyes wild with the greed of anticipation, up and up they rose. And then it happened…
Yellow beaks and wings as black as the reaper’s cowl descended from the mists above. Gray tendrils of cloud ran amok as flailing arms grasped for them in panicked desperation, only for their brief hope of salvation to disappear into corporeal nothingness upon little more than the promise of a touch. Wrenched from the rocks by ferocity and talon the baboons one-by-one began to fall. A final glint of life dancing in their eyes with maddened fright as they plummeted to the swiftly encroaching ground.
The intruders lay motionless with eyes now glazed by death. The soil shall have them once more thought Reinhardt.
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