Iowa State University Capstones, Theses and Graduate Theses and Dissertations Dissertations 2016 Talus Corrina Carter Iowa State University Follow this and additional works at: https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/etd Part of the Creative Writing Commons Recommended Citation Carter, Corrina, "Talus" (2016). Graduate Theses and Dissertations. 16509. https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/etd/16509 This Thesis is brought to you for free and open access by the Iowa State University Capstones, Theses and Dissertations at Iowa State University Digital Repository. It has been accepted for inclusion in Graduate Theses and Dissertations by an authorized administrator of Iowa State University Digital Repository. For more information, please contact [email protected]. Talus by Corrina Carter A thesis submitted to the graduate faculty in partial fulfillment of the requirements for the degree of MASTER OF FINE ARTS Major: Creative Writing and Environment Program of Study Committee: K. L. Cook, Major Professor Charissa Menefee Catherine M. McMullen Matthew Sivils Iowa State University Ames, Iowa 2016 Copyright © Corrina Carter, 2016. All rights reserved. ii TABLE OF CONTENTS Page PREFACE................................................................................................................... iii BOOK 1 ……………………………………………………………………………. 1 BOOK II ……………………………………………………………………………. 150 BOOK III …………………………………………………………………………… 228 BOOK IV …………………………………………………………………………… 331 iii PREFACE When, after considering several more literary projects for my thesis, I committed to writing Talus, I realized a grueling research project awaited me. In order to write a successful “talking animal” novel for a young adult audience, I had to revisit the classics of anthropomorphic fiction (my favorite genre as a child), study equine behavior, deepen my knowledge of the mustang controversy, a hot topic in the American West, and learn the natural history of Oregon’s dry side, where my book takes place. The task intimidated me, so I began with the most enjoyable part of my preparation: re-reading the literature that thrilled me in my youth. I tackled everything from Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty to Henry Williamson’s Tarka the Otter to Tad Williams’ Tailchaser’s Song to David Clement-Davies’ The Sight. However, two novels helped me shape Talus more than the rest. The first is Richard Adams’ Watership Down, an epic story of survival told from the perspective of a group of rabbits in search of a new warren. Adams increases the credibility of his speaking, reasoning, and often eloquent nonhuman characters by assigning them a species-specific lore. The rabbits pray to the sun god Frith, celebrate a trickster figure called El-ahrairah, and have their own words for concepts such as “night” and “day.” As a result, readers can suspend their disbelief with relative ease; Adams has acknowledged that animals are different from—but not inferior to—people through a single key literary strategy. Unfortunately, this strategy is now a cliché. Almost every work of anthropomorphic fiction published since Watership Down topped the New York Times bestseller list invests its cast with a similar mythology. Some even border on plagiarism. I decided to earn my horses’ human qualities in a different manner: complex yet equine- appropriate introspection. While the title character reflects on her life as often and iv philosophically as a person, she seldom thinks about anything that does not pertain to the struggle to survive. Seasonal changes, resource availability, competition with rival bands of mustangs, or the hazards of foaling inspire even her most abstract ponderings. Her ambitions, too, fall within the parameters of wild horse society. She yearns to become a lead mare like her dam, Spurge, mate with the handsome bachelor stallion Fireweed, and protect her frail sister Draba. Other than that, her needs are simple. While I fear my book is still overly anthropomorphic for some readers’ taste, I’m determined to differentiate Talus from the string of Watership Down knockoffs that precede it. The second major influence on my novel is Felix Salten’s Bambi, the source material for the Disney film. This underappreciated coming-of-age tale unfolds with the simplicity, beauty, and darkness of a fable, following a single roe deer from birth to adulthood to acceptance of mortality. When I re-read the book and its equally moving sequel, Bambi’s Children, I realized Talus would benefit from a similar narrative arc. Why complicate a universal and emotional plotline? My goal, after all, was not to break literary ground, but to tell an engaging story in lyrical yet immediate prose. However, I also recognized that Talus had to be a more multifaceted character with more multifaceted problems than Bambi. In the early 1900s, most animal novels were either didactic or quasi-realistic. (For example, in Jack London’s Call of the Wild, the sled dog Buck experiences love, hatred, and even vengeance but never speaks.) Salten’s deer, neither allegorical figures nor mute beings, did not fit into these established traditions. Their uniqueness appealed to readers to the extent that few criticized Salten’s thin characterization even though his protagonist’s defining traits are one-dimensionally positive. 21st century fans of anthropomorphic v fiction expect more complex characters. Talus had to have personality. Flaws. An unbecoming willfulness. And her mistakes would allow me to deviate from a tidy bildungsroman narrative. I next dedicated myself to the study of equine social structure and behavior. Like the majority of consumers of Wild West films featuring stallions fighting to the death over mares or thundering along at the front of large herds, I assumed mustangs lead violent, male-dominated lives. This conception proved woefully inadequate. I am indebted to many sources for correcting my misperception, but Robert Vavra’s Such is the Real Nature of Horses and Hope Ryden’s Wild Horses I Have Known stand out. Vavra’s text, a compendium of photographs and written observations, documents the complex relationships that exist between stallions, mares, and their offspring. While reviewing Real Nature, I realized male mustangs do not run at the head of their bands but at the rear, where they are better able to keep their mates together and safe. Furthermore, their battles seldom result in serious injury. Most conflicts begin—and end—with ritualistic posturing, including pawing, snorting, and exhibitions of speed. Skirmishes erupt only if these “negotiations” fail. More valuable information gleaned from Vavra: fillies stay with their parents until their first estrus, colts until they turn two or three; adolescents then either breed with a stud or join a bachelor band depending on their sex; and stallions sometimes steal each other’s mares by herding them from the group, after which their allegiance switches to their new possessors. Ryden’s book, also a combination of images and prose, was even more useful. She devotes just as much attention to the female as the male, a key move for my purposes, given that my protagonist is a filly and the bulk of wild horse research pertains to stallions. What I discovered surprised and delighted me. Mares play an active role in the safety of their bands. Every family has a high-ranking female, often a seasoned or athletic individual, who takes vi charge during crises and picks out the best forage sites. She is not her mate’s subordinate, but his co-leader. My main character could be as strong-willed, physical, and dynamic as Walter Farley’s The Black or Elyne Mitchell’s Thowra. An understanding of wild horse social structure is one thing. An understanding of wild horse body language is another. I am familiar with equine behavior—my great-grandparents trained thoroughbreds and infected me with the racing bug—but I had to move beyond that knowledge to immerse myself in Talus’s world. The occasional pinning of ears or flaring of nostrils would not be enough to make my mustangs believable. They had to display a range of mannerisms that could be combined or conflated much like human language. Otherwise the average reader, as opposed to someone with a high tolerance for anthropomorphism, wouldn’t buy their ability to speak. Fortunately, I happened upon a copy of Tom Ainslie’s and Bonnie Ledbetter’s The Body Language of Horses. This indispensable guide to equine communication covers the psychology behind retracted nostrils, arched necks, raised tails, and other seemingly meaningless gestures. Thus, I was able to pair my mustangs’ words with appropriate actions. For instance, when Talus quarrels with a bandmate, she doesn’t just admonish the other horse; she also tosses her forelock or pulls her muzzle taut. Ainslie and Ledbetter clarify the way horses see, smell, and listen to their surroundings as well. I started Talus with an acute appreciation of the powers of the equine ear and nose. However, I didn’t know very much about how ungulate sight differs from our own. Most prey animals have laterally placed rather than forward-facing eyes; this gives them excellent peripheral vision. On the other hand, they can’t hone in on minutiae with as much accuracy as people, and their ability to perceive red and its variations is still up for debate. After some artistic vii soul-searching, I decided to ignore these facts. I’m too visual a writer to sacrifice either my attention to detail or nuanced color palette. The joy would go out of my prose. I saved the most daunting task—to educate myself about the controversial roundups of mustangs in the American West—for the later stages of my research. My home state, California, has a low wild horse population compared to Utah, Oregon, Nevada, Montana, and Colorado. As a result, I had a poor grasp of the subject. To begin Talus with the proper context, I read a number of scholarly articles, books for laymen and women with an interest in natural resource allocation, and literature by mustang activist groups such as The Cloud Foundation.