The Tangle Box

“A promise to some people. That’s all I intend to say.”


“Then let’s discuss your characters and try coming into your life through the back door, so to speak.” The interviewer harbored hopes of publishing a book himself one day. He fancied himself very clever with words. “Are they based on real people from your old life? For instance, the misguided King of your magic land, his inept court wizard, and the snappish dog who serves as his scribe?”

Kraft nodded slowly. “Yes, they exist.”

“How about your protagonist the renegade wizard who saves the day in each book? Is there some of you in him?”

Kraft cleared his throat modestly. “A bit.”

The interviewer paused, sensing he was finally getting somewhere. “Have you ever dabbled in magic? You know, played at conjuring spells and the like? Has that been a part of your life?”

Harold Kraft was lost in thought for a moment. When he came back from wherever he had been, his face turned serious. “I’ll tell you what” he said. “I’m going to make an exception to my rule of never talking about my past and tell you something. There was a time when I did play about with magic. Small stuff, really—nothing serious. Except that once I did stumble quite inadvertently on something that turned out to be very dangerous indeed. My own life as well as those of others was threatened. I survived that scare, but I made a promise to certain people that I would never use ... that is, dabble, in magic again. I never have.”

“So the magic in your books, the conjuring and the invocations of spells and the like, has some basis in real life?”

“Some, yes.”

“And the tales you weave, those spellbinding stories of monsters and elves, of mythical creatures and wizards like your protagonist—do these have a basis in real life as well?”

Kraft slowly raised and then lowered one eyebrow. “A writer writes what he knows. Life experience enters in. It usually takes a different form than the reality, but it is always there.”

The interviewer nodded solemnly. Had he learned anything from this exchange? He wasn’t sure. It was all rather vague. Like Harold Kraft. He covered his confusion by checking the tiny tape recorder sitting on the coffee table. Still spinning. “Would it be fair to say that the adventures you write about in some way mirror your own life?” he tried again.

“It would be both fair and accurate, yes.”

“How?”

Kraft smiled. “You must use your imagination.”

The interviewer smiled back, trying not to grit his teeth. “Do you have other stories left to tell, Mr. Kraft?”

“Harold, please,” the author insisted with a quick wave of his hand. “Three hours together in the journalistic trenches entitles us to conclude our conversation on a first-name basis. And to answer your question, yes. I have other stories to tell and some time left to tell them, I hope. I’m working on one now.Raptor’s Spell is the title. Would you like to see the cover?”

“Very much.”

They rose and walked from the living room down a short hall to the study, which served primarily as Kraft’s office. Word processors and printers sat at various desks, and books and paper were piled all over the place. Framed book covers hung on the walls. A koa-wood desk dominated the center of the room. From the stacks of writing on the top of this desk, Kraft produced a colored photo and handed it over to the interviewer.

The photo showed a bird that was all black save for a crown of white feathers. The bird was in the act of swooping down on a malevolent being that resembled a mass of thistles. Lightning streaked from the bird’s extended claws. Dark things fled into a woods at the bird’s approach.

The interviewer studied the photo for a moment. “Very dramatic. Is the bird representative of someone from your earlier life?”

Horris Kew, who now called himself Harold Kraft, nodded solemnly. “Alas, poor Biggar, I knew him well,” he intoned with a dramatic flourish. And gave the photo a nostalgic kiss.