The
Fergus
by
Tori Grant Welhouse
Genre:
YA Fantasy
In
the mystical Highlands of Scotland, Rork, missing his beloved gran,
wakes up with the ability to hear voices. And not just any voices.
Fantastically Rork can hear voices of the dead, which lead him to a
charismatic banshee and a colorful near-death survivor. The three are
bound together in a time-tested banshee tradition with perhaps a
side-goal or two. In the course of their adventures, they are pitched
into an otherworld of before-death, after-death and
in-between-death.The Fergus will appeal to fans of ghost stories,
parallel universes and life-not-being-how-it-always-seems as in the
worlds created by Laini Taylor, Stephenie Meyer or Helene Wecker.
THE FERGUS – EXCERPT #1
Deadend
Prologue
“Loonie, hold my arm,” said Rork’s gran.
He caught up to her and held out his arm, wondering at her asking for help. She was a small, compact woman, less than five feet tall, agile and energetic into her eighties. Rork towered over her, and she had to reach up to take his arm. It was rare for her to ask for help, and he noticed she was flushed, her lips pursed with breathlessness.
She’d insisted he drive her to forage for nettles in the woodlands surrounding their Highland village. They walked slowly through the spring-soaked grass, one of her hands in the crook of his elbow, the other resting in the pocket of her pinny as her sturdy shoes crunched windfallen leaves. Heg-beg, she called nettles, and lopped the tops to use in concocting a tonic they drank each spring – Rork, his father, and his gran.
Rork scrabbled for his smartphone in the back pocket of his jeans. He wanted to write a few notes to help him code later.
His gran squeezed his arm. “Rork, the Fergus,” she said, “that machine language will wait. Right now, I need you to keep an eye out for —”
She was interrupted by a thought or a spasm and stopped walking for a moment, standing still and closing her eyes.
“Gran, are you —?”
“Don’t,” said his gran, holding up a hand. “I can’t abide any fussing. It’s why I —”
She didn’t finish her sentence.
Chastened, Rork kept silent. Her urgency unnerved him, and he concentrated on looking for nettles, a tall plant with serrated leaves and stinging hairs. The plants were not easy to harvest, which was why he carried a pair of gardening gloves and kitchen shears in his backpack.
His gran dragged on his arm. Rork slowed his step. The muted sun pierced the cathedral of oak, pine, and ash trees, casting into beatific light a small clearing to their right. His gran breathed out with effort. She gave Rork a reassuring smile and linked her arm tighter with his.
Rork and his gran stood under the canopy of trees for long seconds, minutes, inhaling the tang of ancient pine. His gran relaxed her grip on his arm, her eyes flitting about the clearing like Small Blue butterflies, rare and striking with their bright blue wings, white margin, and dark fringe. Rork loved his gran’s curiosity. Her interest in the things around her. Even the nettles were worthy of her wonder. But worry prickled the back of his neck. She seemed slighter. Less. Should he say something to his father? His stomach knotted anxiously. His father was the opposite of curious. His cold indifference made Rork want to run away from home. If it wasn’t for his gran, he might have.
His gran’s eyes, like balefire, found his. “I especially feel your grandfather in the woods, in doing the tasks we used to do,” she said with a shake of her pin-curled head. Rork had only a dim memory of his grandfather, how he used to tease Rork about his tousled head of hair like flame flower.
“Life and death go side-by-side, you know, loonie,” said his gran. She chuckled softly. “How that man could natter.”
Woodland light burst into smaller particles, twinkling.
Rork didn’t understand. It wasn’t like his gran to dwell on the deceased. Usually she only remembered them during the high holidays, and he felt her wavering at his side, like a boundary was blurring between past and present. What was she trying to tell him? What was she preparing him for?
Rork tried to lead his gran to a fallen tree to rest. She braced herself with one hand on the tree but remained insistent, pointing to a clump of nettles just off the path. While she waited, she lifted her face to the sun-dappled light of the clearing, her other hand resting on the front of her pinny, fingers poised near her throat.
Rork crouched down to pluck the veined leaves. Although semi-cultivated, nettles grew best in patches near busy areas of a trail or outbuilding. The garden gloves stretched tightly on his hands but protected him from the many stinging hairs. He followed the vine-like stems, crawling along the loose earth to reach for more leaves. In warm weather the plant’s catkins would grow tall with budding brown or yellow flowers. He hoped his gran would be happy with the harvest. He thought it’d make enough tonic to see them through the winter. Maybe she was in need of tonic? And that was the purpose of the outing? He hoped so. He was concerned about her. She didn’t seem herself, and Rork hoped the tonic would restore her. He was looking forward to an afternoon in the kitchen with her.
The kitchen was his gran’s domain, a place where she was quietly and emphatically in charge, and Rork had many happy memories of helping her bake bread or oatcakes, cauldrons of soup or mince and tatties. Endless cups of tea. Steam from the stove and fragrant food, much laughter. Rork and his father had only basic kitchen skills. When his father was home, he would wander into the farmhouse kitchen for a cup of tea and a taste of whatever they were making. Rork would catch his father’s eye over the head of his gran, and there’d be a moment. An out of the ordinary, isolated moment. A moment when they felt like a family. Rork was happiest in his gran’s kitchen. She was the connection between his father and him. The only language they spoke.
In the woodlands, Rork sat back on his heels to gently arrange the plants in his backpack, careful not to crush the soft leaves. They reminded Rork a little of mint but without the distinct smell. Still, they were wonderfully fresh and green, like shade on a hot day. He got to his feet unsteadily, his hiking boots shifting in the soil.
“Gran,” he said, opening the pack wide for her to see the verdant pickings. Looking up, he saw her perfectly illuminated by the sun’s rays, light dispersing around her in a hazy halo that seemed somehow to also buzz. Or maybe Rork imagined it, but words stuck in his throat at the unexpected sight of his gran—glowing.
“Och,” she said, barely above a whisper, as if in surprise. “Are you coming for me, then?”
Rork grew alarmed. Who was she talking to?
Suddenly, his gran folded to the ground and lay peacefully on her side, head pillowed on the bend of one elbow.
“No!” yelled Rork, startling the birds from the trees. He cinched the backpack and flung it onto his back. In three frantic strides, he was lifting his gran in his arms, holding her gently under her knees and head. Her cheek rested on his chest. He lifted her, lurching back the way they’d come, willing the car to come into sight. She was heavy with collapse, and fear made Rork’s heart race. The sound of his own panting was loud in his ears.
“No, no, no,” he kept saying. With superhuman effort, he got her into the backseat, laying her tenderly on the cushion, using the backpack as a bolster against the door. As he made final adjustments, his gran gripped his hand fiercely. Surprised, Rork sucked in a breath and stared into her opened eyes.
“Find a way —” said his gran. Rork leaned nearer. He could hardly hear her.
“What?” he asked.
“Find. A. Way. To. Connect,” she said, haltingly. Her eyes stuttered and closed, and the strange buzzing from before returned.
Rork climbed into the driver’s seat in shock, not sure what to do or where to go. His clumsy thumbs could hardly operate his phone. “Da,” he said, his voice breaking as his father answered. “It’s gran!”
“Bring her home,” said his father, abrupt as always, somehow understanding what Rork was too incoherent to put into words.
“But Da —”
“Bring. Her. Home,” repeated his father, and then added in a gentler tone, “I’ll call the doctor.”
THE FERGUS – EXCERPT #2
POSSESSION
SUNK IN HIS OWN THOUGHTS, Rork looked up finally and took in the vast stretches of treeless wasteland that surrounded them on all sides. He and Deirdre were completely and utterly alone. He felt exposed, and he didn’t like it. Walking dispelled the feeling of vulnerability a little. At least he was doing something active.
“How’re you doing?” he asked Deirdre.
“Fine,” she said. She watched the ground, looking up reluctantly. “You know the moors when the heather’s fairly blooming? Great swathes of purple flowers? As far as the eye can see?”
“Aye,” said Rork. “This looks a little different.”
“Aye,” said Deirdre, tucking her chin.
Rork noticed Deirdre held her hands together in front of her, as if protecting something. He thought he caught a glimpse of color.
“What do you have there?” He motioned with his head.
“Nothing,” said Deirdre.
“It looks like something,” insisted Rork.
Deirdre didn’t answer him, and Rork let it go. Certainly, they had enough to contend with without him prying deeper than was acceptable to Deirdre.
Companionably silent, they continued to walk the lonely, sweeping landscape, the wind whistling through the weedy heaths. Peaty soil muffled the sound of their boots.
They stopped for water, Deirdre handicapped by her two already occupied hands. At last she looked at Rork.
“I have a stowaway,” she confessed, opening her hands to reveal a bedraggled daisy, still thriving coin-eyed in the palm of her hand.
“Oh,” said Rork, dribbling water down the front of his shirt. “How are you doing that?”
“As long as it remains in contact with me, it will survive. At least for a while.” Deirdre smiled like the Flower Girl he’d first encountered.
“That’s quite a trick,” said Rork.
Deirdre touched the daisy’s petals. “I have a memory of my mother with daisies in her hair. She had long, wavy hair like me.”
He thought she was looking for something from him. Understanding? Compassion?
“I don’t know what the occasion was, but I can still see her. Vaguely. Her face creased. Smiling into the sun. Daisies tucked in her hair.” Deirdre placed the daisy carefully behind her ear. “Eventually it will need more nutrients than I can provide.” She took a gulp of water from her canteen and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Don’t tell me when it dies.”
The moorland waited for them, unrelenting into the distance. Rork had no idea how many days they’d been hiking. If it even had been days. Increments of time didn’t feel the same in Shufftie. He’d figured at least that much out about where they were. He wondered what kept the banshee. Should they stop for the night? Or would-be night? He reached for the bag of Deirdre’s trail mix he’d looped on his belt. Suddenly, he felt strange all over. His heart began to beat rapidly. His skin tingled. Supernatural feelings were beginning to feel all too common to him.
“What the…tell?” he said, explosively, trying to avoid again offending Deirdre.
An uncanny cackle reverberated in the air around him, through him. It seemed to be emanating from him, but it wasn’t him.
He began to hyperventilate.
Deirdre looked at him, concerned.
The cackle grew louder. “I am you, and you are me!”
Rork’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell. He clawed at himself. “Get out of me!” he yelled again. “Deirdre!” he yelled, simultaneously a cry for help and a warning.
Deirdre took a wary step towards him.
“No!” he commanded.
Deirdre backed away, moving closer to the ground, crouching as small as possible.
Rork contorted in the throes of his backpack. “Off, off!” he cried. He threw his backpack to the ground. It kicked up gray dust, but still he struggled, seemingly at war with himself. He felt like he had a fever, a tightness in his chest, a heavy binding. “Get. Out.” The words were strangled, tortured.
The cackle filled the whole of his skull. “We are one. I squat on your bones! I feel what you feel.”
“No!”
“Yes!”
Rork threw himself to the ground and rolled back and forth as if possessed, continuing to slap at himself.
“I love your granny. Maybe I will meet her. Yum. Yum.”
“Shut. Up!” Rork could feel thoughts he didn’t recognize, strange, dark thoughts lurking, as if he were being taunted, stalked. He felt like ripping the heads off dolls, chickens. Doing damage.
“And you feel something for this one. Yes?” That infernal cackle! It was an assault to his ears.
G-a-a-a-h, Rork thought, rolling into a clump of vicious-looking scrub. He’d rather feel anything — discomfort, pain. Any. Thing. But. This.
Distantly he felt the jagged slicing of skin, the stinging of nettles, pickers, the air-wrapped coolness of many small wounds.
“Stop that,” said the ghost, an edge of annoyance creeping into his voice. “No pain! Pain, I’ve had enough of! I want your other thoughts.”
Rork rolled deeper into the scrub, protecting his face with his forearms. He didn’t think. He tried not to regard the piercing into his flesh. Thorns, sharp edges seemed to find him. His clothes bunched up, exposing his shins, stomach, lower back. The scrub lacerated him. Now in his head the sound of ripping, small tears.
“Nononononononononononononono,” whined the voice.
A ghostly head erupted out of Rork’s chest. Rork paused in his self-immolation.
“Why’d you have to do that?” the ghost asked Rork, nose to nose. “I want my fun.”
“I don’t want your fun!” gasped Rork, dripping blood from countless small cuts crisscrossing his forearms, hands, neck.
The rest of the ghost emerged from Rork, a short, dumpy man with waxy skin and a sparse comb-over. He had a large belly and short, fleshy arms.
“I want my fun,” he continued to pout, the shadow of whiskers darkening the loose folds of his neck. His pants were too short, revealing pale ankles, incongruously manicured feet in walking sandals. “Fun, fun, fun is what I’m about.”
He spied Deirdre, kneeling in the moorland, limp daisy petals drooping from behind her ear. Her eyes were huge, cumulus, but she seemed frozen in place as the ghost parasite almost skipped towards her.
Rork panted on the ground, watching in dread as the ghost closed the distance between them. “Come back!” he shouted, trying desperately to disentangle from the scrub.
But it was too late.
The ghost chanted. “Fun, fun, I will have my fun. Get ready, because here I come.”
With that, the ghost pinched his nose and dove feet first into Deirdre.
“N-o-o-o-o-o!” said Rork, renting the open sky of the vast, open moorlands with his shout.
Deirdre’s arms buckled, and she sunk lower to the ground, absorbing the ghost’s impact. She began to breathe fast, shallow breaths through her nose. Like the Little Engine That Could. Or couldn’t. Rork dragged himself out of the scrub, watching her anxiously. How would she react to the ghost’s invasion?
Deirdre got up hesitantly, unfurling upwards, as if testing her limbs.
“Ooo, ooo,” squealed the ghost. “Lots of room. Such tidy thoughts!”
She turned almost coyly and looked at Rork. Something Deirdre in her storm cloud eyes. Something not.
“Not immune to you either, the Fergus.” The ghost’s godforsaken cackle rang in the air.
Rork had managed to haul himself to a standing position. His skin was starting to welt and throb, but he ignored it. He took a few cautious steps towards Deirdre, thinking that perhaps he could wring the ghost out of her.
“No, no, loonie,” said the ghost. “I am not such a fool.”
Deirdre closed her eyes, facing what would have been the sun. She bunched her hair in a makeshift ponytail, letting the bulk of her hair remain in a loop. It was a uniquely Deirdre gesture. As well as the squaring of her packless shoulders. That was Deirdre all over. Her quiet resolve.
“What are you thinking, my girl?” said the ghost, a note of concern creeping into his voice.
Deirdre took off running, her long legs churning across the moorlands. She didn’t seem to care where she went. She just ran. Forging forward. Like a deer or gazelle. As if speed and distance and sheer propulsion could rid her of the cackling menace.
Rork took off after her, doing his best to keep up, but he was tired and sore, and his clothes rubbed against his poor, abraded skin. It took everything he had to keep her in view.
She was so fast. He’d had no clue of the ground she could cover.
She raced through LEVEL FOUR: THE MEADOWS, the dry grasses waving as she sped past, the rushes, too. Flowering marsh plants seemed to perk up and pay attention, Eyebright, blue-white in the gray light, but distinctively striped, with leaves like parsley, and hairy lousewort with their waxy, flowering tubers.
There was static in Rork’s head. Was it exhaustion? Fury? Had the voices in his head changed channels? Rork inhaled a ragged breath and tried to close the ever-widening gap between him and Deirdre. Whenever his gran had needed to cajole him — to try something new, to expend a little more effort — she got round him by calling him her pet name, “the Fergus.”
“Come now, the Fergus.”
“You can do it, the Fergus.”
It was part of the shared lexicon between he and his gran. Private.
Rork growled at the thought of a ghost violating this revered space and got a spurt of energy. Up ahead, Deirdre’s legs flashed on the trail, gleaming in the gray glow. Rork hoped the ghost would find all the exertion upsetting. He looked like a particularly indolent sort of ghost to Rork.
Deirdre galloped past the trailhead to LEVEL FIVE: THE LOCHS, and then they overlooked a valley of glistening tarns, reflecting silver-glint in the overcast sky. The lochs were movingly beautiful but shadowed by looming mountain precipices on all sides, hinting at more treacherous terrain to come.
Rork stopped for breath, clutching his side. He took in great lungfuls of air, the static in his head continuing its white noise distraction. The dead chorus was on hiatus, and it worried him. Like something bad was about to happen. The calm before all-hell-broke-loose.
He watched Deirdre continue to run, her legs rippling with muscle, grit, sweat. Unable to stop. Desperate. And so far, the ghost was unshakeable. Rork could hear its cries echoing back to him.
“Giddy-up, young lassie!”
As if Deirdre was a wild mustang for the breaking.
Even the water plants, the ones that liked their roots wet, water lobelia and water plantain, shook their lush abundance with worry.
The white noise began to gather, getting louder in his head. Rush. A premonition of fear gripped him. Rork ran and hobbled, ran and hobbled. A strange sound came out of him as he tried to catch Deirdre. He hissed to himself. “Keep up, the Fergus. Keep up.”
Deirdre’s desperate run dead-ended at a bluff. There was nowhere for her to go. A raging river coursed below, agitated by the fall of water from above them. The waterfall dropped from the jagged foothills of the mountain summits.
Deirdre stomped around the bluff’s edge, snorting through her nostrils.
The crash of water filled Rork’s skull, building pressure behind his cheekbones. It appeared to be the source of all the static he had been feeling. If only he’d known.
Deirdre paused to look back at Rork who was hurtling towards her, streaked with blood and sweat and grime.
For a moment it was really Deirdre. Rork was close enough to see it in the flash of starburst in her eyes. She moved her lips, trying to say something.
The damned ghost cackled.
Deirdre gave him her version of a smile and turned back to the bluff. Then she long-jumped into the rampant river, hanging purposefully in the air, surrounded by the thunderous sound of white water.
“Deirdre!” yelled Rork. He bent over at the edge of the bluff, panting, and saw Deirdre’s boots disappear in a sweeping wave of water. The ghost pulled out just before Deirdre plunged below the surface.
“What have you done?” gasped Rork.
“And so, we become our fears,” said the ghost. He waggled his eyebrows, and the scant pelt on the top of his head moved up and down.
“I could kill you,” said Rork, through clenched teeth.
The ghost cackled. “Already been done, dear boy. Already been done.”
Rork could not even feel relief when the ghost took off into the sky. He watched Deirdre struggle to keep her head above water as she was carried relentlessly downriver, telltale letters following her: RIVER OF FORGETTING.
What inspired you to write this book?
A few things converged in the writing of The Fergus. Grief. I lost my first husband and then a few years later I lost my sister. These were my first significant losses, and they hit me hard. I did not know what to do with the vast sense of emptiness. A dare. Then my younger brother, a huge fan of graphic novels and Dungeons and Dragons, and a graphic designer, dared me to write something mystical, so he could illustrate it. Nostalgia. Although my son had been born in Scotland, we lived in the states, and after his father died, I worried he would have no sense of national heritage, something that was particularly important to his father. The novel allowed me to combine all these things, conjuring a different system of death.
What can we expect from you in the future?
I am working on writing novels about the other characters in The Fergus, starting with Deirdre, the storyteller’s daughter. The book tells her story before she ends up in the grove with Rork and the banshee.
Do you have any “side stories” about the characters?
Yes, they will be the source of other novels. Stay tuned.
Can you tell us a little bit about the characters in The Fergus?
I wanted to write the story from the viewpoint of a teenaged boy because I was thinking about my son, his grief after his father’s death and his absent connection with his Scottish heritage. My son had years of wandering in the weeds after his father died, and I was writing a version of him that got through to the other side of sadness and regret. Gran is based on his actual Scottish grandmother, who he only got to meet once. Deirdre is a recurring character in Celtic myth, although I made her my own — a mix of many literal and nonliteral characters, including my daughter, my sister, who I lost. I wanted a female presence, perhaps a love interest, because I adore love stories, and I wanted to explore the male-female continuum.
How did you come up with the concept and characters for the book?
The character of the banshee came to me first, in a distracted daydream during a business meeting, no less! I was thinking about creatures of fantasy — vampires, werewolves, demons, fairies, witches — and wondering if there were any less written about. I was obsessed with Deborah Harkness’ A Discovery of Witches trilogy and Laini Taylor’s Daughter of Smoke and Bone trilogy and aspired to world-build in a similar way.
Where did you come up with the names in the story?
The name for Rork came first. I wrote the first chapter in response to a dare by my younger brother. Because I was already thinking about my son, and writing for my younger brother, it felt natural to write from viewpoint of a teenaged boy. I had always loved the Celtic name Rory, so I just tweaked it. For a while, I spelled it Rourke.
Deirdre is named to honor Celtic mythology.
For the banshee, I wanted “Boo” to be her nickname, so I researched Celtic names that might make sense to abbreviate in that way.
What did you enjoy most about writing this book?
I loved the worldbuilding. I really did escape to inbetween while I was writing The Fergus. I also loved learning more about the characters, as I thought deeper about them, and got feedback from others.
Tell us about your main characters- what makes them tick?
Here are actual novel-writing notes from my notebook:
WANTS
Rork wants to be reconnected to his gran
Rork wants to be accepted by his father
The banshee wants to graduate
Deirdre wants to be part of a family
Rork’s father is a "worker bee"... he does not know how to guide a son who is not like him...Rork: You do not have to guide me... you just have to love me...
Hamish wants the pain of loss to stop
How did you come up with the title of your first novel?
“Fergus” is the actual given name of my son, but in the context of the novel, I intend it for its Celtic meaning, which is “the chosen.” I wanted to investigate this idea of being chosen by the universe, or something like the universe, for a purpose.
Who designed your book covers?
My younger brother, Mick Koller, designed the book cover based on a pivotal scene in the novel. He is a talented designer and illustrator, and it was fun to work together. We also meant to work together on books.
If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your latest book?
Over the course of ten years, I rewrote the book many times, with insight from fellow writers, my editor, family, and friends. I believe it got richer each time, so I cannot even fathom how I would go about changing it. The final book fulfilled the initial idea I had for it, so I am happy about that. There might be a few inconstancies I would fix, but these are minor.
Did you learn anything during the writing of your recent book?
The biggest thing I learned in writing the novel was I cannot assume readers will *know* what a character is thinking unless I am very deliberate and intentional with conveying it with narrative and inner monologue. The logic of a novel is also considerable work to maintain. It feels like spinning plates if you have ever seen a magician do that. I kept a broad stroke outline and character sketches to help.
If your book were made into a film, who would you like to play the lead?
Finding a teenaged version of Ewan MacGregor, James McAvoy or Sam Heughan would be fun. Of current teen actors, I would love for Asa Butterfield or Logan Lerman to play the lead role.
Anything specific you want to tell your readers?
The words the banshee speaks came to me in a dream. “I shuttle between this life and the next.”
How did you come up with name of this book?
For a while, the tentative title of the book was, “Herald the Fergus.” I meant “herald” in the sense of “bring forth.” In the end, we elected to simplify it.
What is your favorite part of this book and why?
I really let my imagination roam in coming up with the citations. Obviously Rork’s gran had to be the last one. But how would they re-meet? The others were based on village lore, historical characters the local Scots speak about proudly.
If you could spend time with a character from your book who would it be? And what would you do during that day?
I would love to spend a day in the kitchen with gran, learning the recipe of her nettle tonic and other long-forgotten secrets.
Are your characters based off real people or did they all come entirely from your imagination?
The ghosts are based on good and bad bosses I have had throughout my career. The character of the “pall” was my revenge on a particularly negative one, who could suck the air out of a room immediately upon entering.
Do your characters seem to hijack the story, or do you feel like you have the reigns of the story?
The characters certainly suggested twists and turns, which I followed, but ultimate I decided what made story sense and what did not.
Convince us why you feel your book is a must read.
The book works on a few levels. It appeals as a coming of age story for Rork, as he searches for approval and a sense of belonging. I feel this seeking is at the core of being human. At heart, we all remain 17-year-olds searching to belong. The book is also an imaginative romp into a make-believe world, filled with ghosts and strange phenomena. And it is about first love, that impossible miracle. Lastly, I hope, it proposes another system of death, not that I am expecting readers to embrace the system verbatim, more that I want them to be open the to the possibilities.
Have you written any other books that are not published?
No, only half-finished attempts.
If your book had a candle, what scent would it be?
The floral and herb-like fragrance of Highland heather mixed with the earthy scent of moss from the River of Forgetting and a sweet note of vanilla birthday cake from the banshee.
What did you edit out of this book?
In the first draft of the book, I alternated chapters from Rork’s point of view and Deirdre’s point of view. At a writer’s conference, the mentor and members of the critique group suggested I should write the story from only Rork’s point of view and go deeper with it.
Is there a writer which brain you would love to pick for advice? Who would that be and why?
I would love to hear the advice and stories of Scottish novelist and activist Naomi Mitchison. She was an irrepressible feminist and force, completely ahead of her time.
Fun Facts/Behind the Scenes/Did You Know?'-type tidbits about the author, the book or the writing process of the book.
I eloped to Scotland with my first husband. His mother and the court photographer were our only witnesses. My husband wanted to avoid a “blackening,” a traditional custom where his friends would “capture” him, cover him in treacle and parade him around town in a trailer or wagon.
Tori
Grant Welhouse is a poet and writer from Green Bay. Her most recent
poetry chapbook Vaginas Need Air won Etching Press’s 2020 chapbook
contest. Her YA paranormal fantasy The Fergus won Skyrocket Press's
2019 novel-writing contest and will be released Summer 2020. She is
an active volunteer with Wisconsin Fellowship of Poets.
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Here's a mood-making trailer created by my talented illustrator brother. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gphd399fQpo Enjoy! EXTRAS on the website, too. www.torigrantwelhouse.com/the-fergus
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