The Legend of Palinuro (Palinuro Primrose origin)

Christ statue, the Redentore, in Maratea, Italy.

Until I set out to write a novel that I would be engrossed in reading as a consumer, I did not realize the amount of research that would be required to write a good, believable story. The cool part about it was that I was able to first let my imagination run with the kinds of elements I thought would make for a fascinating plot and then research information and places that fit my vision.

            So, the legend of Palinuro was something I came across as I was researching remote places in Italy for my protagonist, Jessie Extebarria, to hide himself from the world. I picked Italy because it's history is rich and I have never been there, which required more research and pictures to be able to write about it with a realistic descriptiveness. I also wanted an image system that I could weave into the story to give it depth, beyond my original premise. I explored the flora and fauna of Southern Italy and came across a rare flower with a cool name and a legend: the Palinuro Primrose.
     

            The Palinuro Primrose has been considered by many to be a rarity biologically in that it is regarded as a living fossil and ancestor of all wild growing primroses in Europe.  There is a legend behind the name of the flower and Cape Palinuro in the National Park of Cilento, which is in the Campania region.  The legend of Palinuro asserts that the captain of the boat of Enea, a refugee of Troy who escaped during its siege, had a man named Palinuro as his helmsman.  Palinuro fell in love with Kamataton, a girl as beautiful as a anyone could be, but with a heart of stone. So she didn't return Palinuro's love.

The story varies as to whether Palinuro was lulled to sleep and fell overboard or intentionally went into the water in pursuit of Kamataton. He was said to have followed her image to the bottom of the sea, giving the Cape and the coastal Palinuro Primrose its name.  The more dramatic and tragic ending, however, involved Palinuro being  lulled to sleep off the coast of Cilento and falling into the crystal clear waters of the sea during a violent storm.  For three days and nights he struggled in the rough waters, being kept afloat by the wooden rudder of the boat. Upon finally reaching the shore, Palinuro was savagely killed by the locals. Wow!

 

The information gathered from my research allowed my plot to become richer and more layered, just the way I like it. My imagination kicked into gear and the primrose took on a significant role in the story imagery and development. It's an example of how a writer's research can have a tremendous impact on a story and how it unfolds. Who knew?

 

I think readers are going to find this novel fascinating. I hope a literary agent will share my enthusiasm once I am finished!

 

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An excerpt from Of Wolves and Primrose

1

It seemed as if in the twinkling of an eye time slowed to a crawl, if not suspended completely.  The window imploded with a fantastic boom, sending shattered glass whizzing through the air and scattering on the long conference table like a cacophony of little bells.  The force of this collision of metal, flesh, and glass propelled the four of them on an unpleasant and unexpected journey in airborne confusion.  Jessie was rendered unconscious in moments, the heavy, industrial trashcan striking him at the temple on the left side of his head.  Glass and cold metal made a mess of Jessie’s profile at the same time as consciousness faded. So little time to react or to think in this life.

            With Jessie on his back, the intruder released the trash can that he had ridden through the window and rolled over quickly onto his feet.  It was a maneuver full of more explosive and raw power than anything resembling grace. Glass crunched under the heavy, slow stride of this assailant, a man of unimpressive yet grossly overstated stature.  Mediocre procerity was made up for by the unbridled rage that he wore on his face like his own skin and the guttural groanings of an animal.  Those eerie sounds issuing from a human being seemed not to be a natural fit at all, but the pastiness of the man's skin, the ridge-like slope of his brow, lips cracked and rough like a scorched desert scape, the putrid, difficult to place stench of his breath, and the crimson stains covering his mouth and chin fit the audible and animalistic sounds quite well.

            Within moments, the ghastly ripping and tearing of human flesh was accompanied by the occasional scraping of teeth on bone. This unnatural sound acted as potently as smelling salts for Jessie.  It worked only to the point of bringing consciousness, not mobility. Struggling first to open his eyes, Jessie managed only to move his head slightly in the direction of the carnage that was taking place. The smells and screams of the event re-played in Jessie's mind before consciousness began to evade him again. His involuntary descent into darkness was aided by what had become the ambient noise of the stranger's ragged, heavy breathing and guttural growls.

            Jessie lay bloody, but untouched beyond the initial attack. His eyes opened again slowly. His olfactory senses were assaulted by the smell of horrible breath and a mustiness stronger than anything he had ever encountered before.  As his eyes began to focus, Jessie could only discern the outline of the man whose face was now inches from his own. Suddenly, a heavy, meaty fist slammed against his face and rocked his head backward, dragging his ear and cheek across the tightly woven loops of the Berber carpet.

            Though at an extreme disadvantage, and not yet completely possessing his faculties, Jessie’s body turned to instinct and to habit. Careful not to reveal his imminent strike, Jessie peeked through swollen and sore eye lids to identify the whereabouts of his target. His vision was blurred and dark, but a silhouette was all he needed. It felt to Jessie like trying to read a book after having a hot bowl of oatmeal splashed across his face. His eyes burned and he could make out only a distorted image of his attacker, but it was enough. Without noise and with smooth, quick movements from years of practicing the secret art, Jessie swept his legs in a rotary motion, clipping both the legs and one arm of his crouching attacker. His enemy tumbled to the ground. Jessie was too disoriented to launch a finishing parry, as he normally would have. Instead, he collapsed backward, his head spinning and body sore. The last things he heard were the sirens and the drum thuds of several pairs of shoes running along the carpeted hallways toward the room.  The intruder gathered himself and retreated through the window from whence he had come. Fading into nowhere, Jessie was faintly aware of the smell. It was a smell he had smelled before a long time ago. One might mistake it for flatulence, but it was unique. It was the odor of the layered, slimy green-brown leaves of rotten cabbage.

My Little Of Wolves and Primrose Experiment

This blog is an experiement for me and I have decided to blog in the voice of various characters, but also to post small excerpts from the novel in progress. So, please enjoy the excerpts and I will try to capture the depth and backstories of my characters in their blogs as well. Thank you for reading!

Marianna Rossi

H

Palinuro Primrose

e is beautiful. I sound so stupid saying it, but it is so true. He is a beautiful man. I want to cry knowing that my father sent him! I wasn’t sure I believed my father’s death bed promise once I became an adult. I know I wanted to believe it, but it seemed so unlikely later. Even as a twelve year-old I probably knew it was the stuff of fairy tales, but I truly wanted to believe. I think I eventually wrote it off to Papa attempting to comfort a twelve year-old girl and a man too young to die all at the same time. But there is no mistaking now that my Papa sent Jessie. His perfect Italian, the Palinuro Primrose. It is like the fulfilling of prophesy. There is no possible way that this man who shows up in my life so many years and thousands of miles from my Papa’s last breaths is a coincidence. I love him! It only took a moment, but I know that I love him. Foolish? No! It is sent from heaven. Jessie is sent from heaven.

Maratea, Italy (Marianna's birthplace)

Miklos Vadas

I

 do what I must to survive. Do I like to kill? I don’t think of it that way. Killing is natural for me. It is what I know. It is all I can remember doing and it was to survive. Do you know I still have nightmares about that place they took me to once I was captured that day in the Carpathian Mountains? And I still remember the boy’s eyes staring into mine when the gunshots rang out, killing the only family I have known. His life is my absolution. He has to die.

            I know that people look down on me even though they don’t know who I really am. They don’t like the way I look. They don’t like the way I smell. They don’t like the way I dress. It is those very people I hold responsible for what happened to me in that place. They represent everything wrong with the world.

Humans are more savage than I could ever be. They just disguise it as science or religion. The doctors poked at me and prodded. Some of them decided to fulfill their sick fantasies on me, because I wasn’t really human after all. I was just the boy raised by wolves. I am the man raised by wolves.

Now, I walk among those I despise the most and I am one of them on the outside, but inside I have not changed. Don’t feel bad for the poor feral boy: the sensational news story. I am who I am. I am fine with me. It is you I feel sorry for.

Welcome!

H

ello visitor! You are no longer a guest, you are home (warm smile and embrace). Assuming you are visiting because you love reading, you can understand that I started this blog because I love writing and I also want to write for a living! Yes, I said it. My current work in progress, Of Wolves and Primrose, is a richly layered delight to write and I hope it will share that same appeal for readers. By the way, this blog is for the purely curious also, so don't feel left out :)

I don't know for sure whether or not I will post excerpts of my work on this blog (it's a possibility), but what I am posting now are simply blog posts I envision my characters would write. They are not examples of the writing in this novel, but insights into the lives of the characters. I will have to admit, that aside for my love of writing, I am also trying to get the word out about this novel and begin to generate a buzz about it, because I do want to write for a living! Literary agents are welcome and readers are strongly desired. Enjoy!

Jessie Extebarria

 

I

 love Marianna. Sounds crazy even as I read the words I have written. I just met her! Maybe love is too strong a word. It’s possible that I just like her a lot, but that’s definitely not what I feel. I am not a teenager, and haven’t been for decades, so I know the difference between a crush and love. Damn it! I’m drawn to her and I know I can’t be. I want her and I know I can’t have her. Her eyes, her smile, her skin, everything about her is so alluring I can hardly focus in her presence. There is something inside me so strongly drawn to her even beyond the physical things I long for. In fact, even beyond her mind, which I cherish. Is it even possible to cherish something after such a short time? I just know I am meant to be with her.

But, I was also meant to be my mother’s son. She is dead. I was meant to be my father’s son. He is dead.  Edna Lomax, who was the sweetest woman, is dead. Ariel, the best friend I have ever had, was moments from death. What is it! Sometimes I am afraid to close my eyes at night because I think the devil himself might be pursuing me. Love has become a luxury I can’t afford because it is so closely attached to death in my life.

Be strong, right? I am supposed to be strong. But maybe I’m not everything people think I am. I do know that I’m scared. I don’t know how much longer I can take this. Death follows me and I can’t lose anyone else I love. I just can’t! But, how do I protect those I love, when I am being pursued by some shadow that wants my life for reasons that evade my understanding.

            People think I have been blessed in a lot of ways. I can’t exactly disagree with them, especially with the gifts that I have been given. I don’t know how or why I am able to do the things I do, but most days I wonder if I have been cursed. I am in a dark place right now.

            So, I have to leave. I can’t stay. I can’t love. I just have to go.