A Sea Monster at the Bottom of the Garden

Between getting reaching double deadlines at work and getting ready for the festive season, there hasn’t been too much time to write. Ok, I must admit, I have also been watching more TV than usual and doing crafts (usually at the same time – must keep hands busy!). I’ve made quite a few quilled Christmas cards, am crocheting a couple of things for my home and busy with a needlepoint piece that I want to frame for the bedroom once it’s done. And I have been studying in-between, believe it or not!


I am really looking forward to some time off over the festive season and New Year. I always have a giddy pleasure to put up my new calendars and start using a new diary. For 2011 I have a Terry Pratchett wall calendar with Josh Kirby artwork – I love the covers he’s done for the Discworld novels and it is sure to put a smile on your face!

After struggling with severe headaches for the last couple of weeks the doctor has found a concoction that seems to be doing the job of keeping them at bay. So I’ve been jotting down a lot of ideas for stories, without doing too much to flesh them out – something I hope to be doing next week. I’ve only recently discovered Evernote and find it such a big help in keeping all the ideas in one place. That way, if I get the chance to write during my lunch hour, I can just log on and see what I was busy with last. It also helps to save articles and websites there where I have found inspiration. Brilliant!

Now you might ask why there is a sea monster at the bottom of the garden… well, when the summer rains really start to fall there are big pools of water that collect on the clay soil at the bottom of the garden. I am sure on one day there was enough to house at least a baby sea monster! But I am very grateful for the rain – especially that which have fallen in the Southern Cape where there is a severe drought.

Johannesburg is emptying quickly before Christmas with many people heading to the coast for vacation and every year I realize how pleasant it is to have a couple of weeks where the streets are much quieter and everyone slows down from the hectic pace of city life to stop and smell the roses.

May everyone be blessed this Christmas and may everyone find again in their hearts the truth of this celebration. May people’s hearts also be turned towards God and may Christians truly show the spirit of the season and show others what this time is really about.

Merry Christmas! Geseënde Kersfees!

“Cookies and Milk”, a flash piece for Christmas

Here’s a piece for Christmas, called “Cookies and Milk”.


Die Afrikaanse vertaling kan op die “flitse”-blad gelees word, of by www.woes.co.za of http://bit.ly/fx7W2S / The Afrikaans translation can be read on the “flitse” page or at www.woes.co.za or http://bit.ly/fx7W2S

Cookies and milk

“Do you think I’ve lost some weight?” Nick asked, looking at himself in the hallway mirror. The green carpet beneath his feet was scuffed and threadbare in places. It was much, much older than the new, box-like house in which it now lay. “I’ve tried to cut down on sugar and carbs, you know. Only fat free milk as well.”

“Spot of brandy?” Bob, the younger of the two asked as he made his way from the kitchen to the spare-bedroom-study, past the living room where a boot was thrown through the glass of the TV. He didn’t ask.

“Why not? Boeing's long gone.”

They sat down in identical leather chairs in front of a fake fireplace with fake logs and flames. A small nativity scene stood on a shelf. Bob looked at it and smiled. “I’m glad to see you still have it.”

“Of course, not another in the world that can craft wood like that. And the paint? Perfect. Don’t see much of them anymore.”

The younger blushed. Though wrinkled, his face and eyes still held youth pent up inside. “Made another sheep,” he said and took a small, white, wooden sheep from his pocket. “You need a flock. The shepherds can’t just watch three sheep. And you need a few more angels. I’ll make them next year.”

“Thank you.” The old man placed it reverentially on the mantle with the others.

They sat in silence sipping their drinks.

“How’s life treating you?” Bob asked.

“As it does all old people, Bob,” the man said. “They don’t want you around anymore. No more letters. Small house. Lots of people. The neighbour’s kid cursed at me yesterday for moving too slow and called me fat.” He sighed. “Most are like that now. I prefer to stay here with my memories and thoughts.”

A dull thumping sounded from the house next door.

“And my own music. Not this noise.”

“The TV?”

“They had Santa selling some awful pre-cooked soya turkey dinner. Then he strutted around drunk as sailor on leave, in a nightclub, with what looked like teenagers. I couldn’t find the remote, so I chucked the nearest thing. Let’s just say I’ve not felt that good in years. Didn’t like the damn TV anyway.”

They sat in silence for a while.

“I made a toy for my nephew. Wind up train. Built the whole thing by hand. Painted it. Made the tracks – a replica of the track outside town. Trees, people, buildings, you name it.”

“And?”

“He walked into the garage while I was busy. He laughed.” He took a swallow of brandy. “Later he and his friends set it alight. Apparently they wanted to see if painted wood burns faster than unpainted wood.”

“Did it?”

“The varnish wasn’t dry yet. It was like throwing a butt on dry grass.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Should’ve kept it in my room. The paint fumes just got too much.”

The older man grinned. “Ventilation’s the key, hey.”


Someone hammered on the front door.


The men looked at their watches. “Not four yet, he can wait.”

“I’m not getting in the car if he’s drunk.”

“It’s Christmas Eve, of course he’s drunk the useless –“

“O, say it. I’m thinking it too.”

“The sheep’s nice. I’m glad you brought it. Does look more real with more sheep. The donkey’s still my favourite, though. That hanging ear… the spitting image of old Daisy.”

“You know, my nephew asked me what the sheep was for,” he said.

“And?”

“I said for a nativity scene.”

“And?”

“He didn’t know what it was.”

“His parents?”

“Quite useless, the both of them.”


The knock on the door sounded again, loader this time.


“Not yet four. Anyway, we’re deaf old men.”

“Some cookies? Their home made.”

“Never say no to cookies and milk. Best time of the year for them as well.”

“And some music? We’ll have to put it loud if we want to hear it, what with being deaf and all…”

The eldest of the two turned the stereo on and a carol started to play.

The other went to the fridge to get the milk. It was filled with drinks and jelly shots.

“And this?”

“The neighbours didn’t have enough room in their house for all their liquor. They probably need it for the dry Christmas their having.” Neither of them laughed.

Bob ate another of the Pfefferneuse and took a gulp of milk while the hammering at the door continued. They turned the stereo up.

Come, they told me

“Funny how it’s suddenly two days of binge drinking. Or until the day after New Year’s if their livers last.”

Our finest gifts we bring

“And now all everyone’s wants is video games and expensive gadgets. Nobody even wishes anymore. Everything’s a have-to-have. Do you remember the gifts we made?”

So to honour Him

“And the music. And the lights. The joy of the children’s faces? Now their all greedy little buggers.”

I have no gift to bring

“And that feeling of peace when you walk into the church? That could calm your heart for another year, knowing you’re safe.”

Shall I play for you

“And now?” He didn’t have to say anything. They knew.

There was knocking again. “I’m leaving if you don’t come out now!”

Bob took another two Pfefferneuse and dipped them in the milk.

The ox and lamb kept time

“Do you think they’ll ever find the houses, Nick?”

I played my drum for Him

“No. Never. We made sure of that. Nobody will look there anyway. The whole story was a good idea after all, especially the bit about the elves.”

I played my best for Him

“Humph! Stupid Google Earth, it’s the North Pole! Who goes and searches the North Pole!”

Then He smiled at me

“More milk? There’s another tin Pfefferneuse here somewhere.”



END.

New Speculative Article for December 2010

A fictional account of a history and people that never existed


I am ecstatic to report that my follow-up article for the Speculative Grammarian can now be read at: http://bit.ly/hCXg8F

The name of the piece is A Brief Essay on the Language and Mythology of the Ekhié and the neighbouring Mákek Peoples of the Highveld Forests and the Ancient Watmákekhié Site and was written under the guise of By Mr. J. Doe of the International Centre for the Studies of Previously Presumed Mythical Beings and Peoples and is a follow-up piece by certain J. Doe that tells a bit more about the world that the travel piece used in November 2010 is set. Find the November article at: http://bit.ly/aXDkDe and learn about Sir C.J. Cockspur’s dastardly plans to void the world of all but one, very much simplified language.

I had a lot of fun writing “A Brief Essay” because I could really let go (and use as many footnotes as possible) and sketch the peoples of the Highveld Forest which they inhabit. The idea of the builders of the pyramids building the first ones on the Highveld before moving on to Egypt was fleshed out with the idea of extraterrestrial people building them (or at least supervising) before moving on to Egypt. (And then, probably South America.)

I also got to play around with words in English and Afrikaans. For instance, “Watmákekhié” is taken from “Wat maak ek hier?”/”What am I doing here?”, while the greeting Hoo’gha’nitte is taken from “Hoe gaan dit?”/How are you?” (Lit. How goes it?), a phrase which in informal circumstances is sometimes assimilated so that it sounds like one word. Although Gha’nê is completely made up. Other words, like “broker” and “fairy dust” is just written with atrocious spelling to give them an exotic look.

I have a feeling Mr. J. Doe and the International Centre for the Studies of Previously Presumed Mythical Beings and Peoples will have some more research to share in the future. Maybe Mr. J. Doe will even manage to get his doctorate!

Good news for fans of Dean Barkley Briggs’ first book in The Legends of Karac Tor series. He has found a new publisher for the rest of the series! If you have not yet read The Book of Names, you will be in for a treat (and a belated Christmas present to yourself) if you can get your hands on it in January. I am going to post a review of the book on the blog “Ramblings of a Lone Bibliophile” within the next month (after a reread), but, until then, check out Dean Barkley Briggs’ site at: www.hiddenlands.net

Until next time.

A Speculative Article for November

With boiling temperatures every day, who needs a better excuse to stay inside (in the shade) and write? While having to move my study nook from upstairs (extremely hot until about 9 in evenings) to downstairs (not fun dragging oodles of books down a flight of stairs, but at least it’s a lot cooler below), and not having done much in the writing of fiction, I can at least say that I have a piece published in November. Yes, the long awaited article for The Speculative Grammarian has been published under the pen name of Sir C J Cockspur. Find it at: http://specgram.com/CLX.2/11.cockspur.npicml.html


I’ve spent some time on the earlier history of the Midlands of Airthai and ended up with two good ideas for two short stories and half an idea for a third. The rest of the half-ideas fluttering around still need to be pounded into something useful before I can post it. Now if I can just finish those maps!

Otherwise I’m knee-deep in Nineteenth century Dutch poetry, which is a lot more interesting than it may sound!

Food for the Soul – Some Musical Inspiration

I nearly always have some kind of music playing. Whether I’m studying, writing, quilling and, yes, even sometimes while I’m reading. I came into the habit of studying with music via my sister. If I remember correctly, I was in grade 4 or 5 and trying to study to Bon Jovi. In time I found my own kind of music that helps me to focus while studying – Celtic.


When writing, I often have music as background. Mostly I choose something that will fit the kind of scene that I’m busy with. The music that I play can range from epic and Classical that inspire the sweeping vistas of the Midlands and their plains, to the mournful sounds of the sea and upbeat ditties and alternative.

Early music brings the world of Airthai to life and Chant brings to mind the libraries and studies of the Ealda and the Keepers.
Of course, what with listening to a lot of folk songs, some of them start to seep into the subconscious of Airthai (for instance the tale of the River of Gold)…

Folk song of the Midlands: The Maiden of the Stars

The sun was fair, the sky was clear, no breath came from the east,
When Elven knight left the woods of green, and wandered forth to war.
The mist it decked the mountain side and singing filled the vale,
By far the sweetest voice he’d heard, t’was the maiden of the stars.
Sing maiden of the stars, sing maiden of the stars, By far the sweetest voice he’d heard, t’was the maiden of the stars.
She sang a song of olden thought, unknown throughout the vale,
And drew to her power to calm the beast t'was raging there.
The fiery breath of dragon stilled, and calmed was his heart,
When she sang thus, in olden form, the maiden of the stars.
Sing maiden of the stars, sing maiden of the stars, when she sang thus, in olden form, the maiden of the stars.
The evil there was thwarted thus, by her sighing voice,
Its words were pure, remembered still far west, where fire ‘fore moon dies.
And there they met, two lovers crossed, by stars of heaven named,
And stood he there, entranced by song of the maiden of the stars.
Sing maiden of the stars, sing maiden of the stars, and stood he there, entranced by song of the maiden of the stars.
The sun was fair, the sky was clear, no breath came from the west,
When Elven knight, and maiden fair wandered o’er the earth.
The mist it decked the mountain side, and laughter filled the land,
By far the dearest love of all, t’was for the maiden of the stars.
Sing maiden of the stars, sing maiden of the stars, By far the dearest love of all, t’was for the maiden of the stars.
But years of mortals short are cut, by illness or by sword,
And maiden young was slain in youth and her song grew silent then.
The Elven knight was damned to live, and wailed at his lover’s side,
And all knew love had died that day, with the maiden of the stars.
Sing maiden of the stars, sing maiden of the stars, and all knew love had died that day with the maiden of the stars.
And years of elf-kind long do last, and heartbreak will surely slay,
And wandered lost the elven knight and bewailed his lover’s loss.
The Elven knight was to grow old before his bones be dust,
And meet again, the maid and he to sing among the stars.
Sing maiden of the stars, sing maiden of the stars, and meet again the maid and he, to sing among the stars.

A Strange Ribbon and a Book Keeper…

Some good news! (Other than getting Riverdance tickets for the opening night!) Jou Wêreld have published "Die rooi lint", a sci-fi tale that plays out in my hometown.

Here's the link for the Afrikaans:
http://www.jouwereld.co.za/jf_rooi_lint.html
I'll also put up the English soon. In the meantime, here's another flash piece.

The Book Keeper


Bernhardt van der Hout started clearing his desk. It was amazing what one person could gather in forty-two years. He had worked for almost half a century at the Johannesburg National Library. The building itself was Victorian, complete with pillars and stone work, with the date 1886 above the front doors. One of the young, new employees led two others with trolleys into his office.

“You can start loading it up.”

Bernhardt shot daggers at the little man. Had he no sense? You don’t spend forty-two years in one place and pack it up in a day. He would never be able to pack all his memories anyway.

The cold hand around his heart did not want to let go. He gulped, and blinked and cleared his throat, but nothing helped. He had to ask the question he dreaded.

“What about the books?”

The young man looked puzzled.

“This is the library – the books will be here.” He smiled the smile that young people give to their elders when they thought they were being silly.

“You said there will be a new computer room.” Swallow, gulp, blink.

“One room.” He smiled the same smile. “We’re knocking a wall down. Building a new wing.” He sighed. “The books will just be moved to the top two floors.” Grin.

“I was referring to the books kept in the basement.”

The young man mumbled something.

“Excuse me?”

“Pulped. We will pulp them. They should fetch a couple of bucks at the recycling depot.”

Bernhardt lifted his hand to slap the man, but stopped himself, an idea popping into his head. “I’ll buy them.” The voice was bereft of the emotion he felt, as if it was not truly him that had spoken so brashly. “I’ll pay by the kilogram, or ton. I don’t know. However the recycling depot would have paid you. I’ll match them,” he rambled. He started figuring out what his pension was worth. He would still have some money put away for a rainy day.

The young man stood at the window, hands crossed behind his back. The stark summer sun fell on his face, bathing it in a yellowish light. Again he smiled that arrogant, young man smile. Bernhardt wondered if he had also looked like that the day that he moved into this office.

The days he spent placing books back on the shelf, rearranging books, unpacking the new books with their heady scent of crisp paper and glue, seemed but a day old. Definitely not forty-two years. Maybe he was also arrogant once.

“What’s the difference if I take them or if you pulp them? Either way you’ll be rid of them and have the money.”

“It’s just a bunch of old books –“

“And I’m just an old man.” There he had admitted it. Yet, with those words, something changed in the eyes of the young man.

“I also love books, you know,” he said apologetically. “But we need to make money if we’re to survive.” He turned back to the window. Small drops of rain started to patter on the glass. He smiled. “Fox is marrying wolf’s wife.”

He suddenly looked very young for the task at hand.

“You know, I made it a point that they will not close this library while I can help it.” Swallow. Blink. He turned and left, heading for the basement.

The books arrived at his house three days later. They unloaded the boxes and unpacked the books for hours on end. They started stacking the books in his study, then the bedrooms and the hall before moving on to the lounge and filling the dining room. And the icy grip around his heart lessened as he picked a volume up.

Travels in the Petrified Forests of the Northern Highveld, he read the fading title. This was one he had rescued early in his career when they wanted to sell off the books no one borrowed. In the front there was even a signature and a photo of the author next to a giant baobab. Some piles constituted the libraries of whole families. One book case was totally filled with family Bibles, the names written in the front smudged, the pages scorched from surviving many wars. No, he would not forget them.

He sat down at his desk and took up a piece of paper. He licked the tip of his pencil and started writing.
Bernhardt van der Hout started clearing his desk. It was amazing what one person could gather in forty-two years. He had worked for almost half a century at the Johannesburg National Library. The building itself was Victorian, complete with pillars and stone work, with the date 1886 above the front doors.

Tiriane and the Tellerassar – A Glimpse of a Larger World in "A Dragon's Freedom"

The Tellerassar came into the world of Airthai quite early on. The first story I wrote about Airthai included one of the Keepers being a person that could turn into the form of an eagle and back to their human form at will. Soon I delved into their history – they had this gift (that they could also lose) and were a new race of people. Yet, they were part-human as well, which got me to thinking that they were normal humans once, which received the gift of shape-shifting from the Creator. They were also the "good guys" from the start, so they did not change their shape by using magic. It was a natural state of being for them.


The people of the Midlands called them "Heimfeie" according to the name that was given to their country. They, however, were not happy to stay on the fringes of the stories. In a set much later, an Elf referred to them as the "Tellerassar", a name which I felt had a lovely ring to it. It turned out that, in the Tellerassar's own tongue, they refer to themselves as such. "Heimfeie" is mostly used by those that are less educated in the peoples of the Midlands. Nasja, for instance, would only have learned to use the word "Tellerassar" from Tiriane.

The Tellerassar have their own tongue that was gifted to them when they received the gift of changing their shape. This tongue is mostly fictional, though there are some influences of the other tongues of Airthai, including the language that is used in "A Dragon's Freedom" to communicate with the dragons (Gothic). The Tellerassar language looks like this:

"A Agrai tellarias or s’agrélar silássa."

Which is translated as:

"May the Light of the One shine on your road" // “Mag die Lig van die Een op jou pad skyn.”

Note: The apostrophe is used to denote a glottal stop. "Tellar" means "Light" and "Tellerassar" means "People of the Light". "Agrai" means "One" and refers to the Creator. The Light of the One/Creator refers to a blessing

A Dragon's Freedom is published!

You can now find my short story "A Dragon's Freedom" at the Cross and Cosmos e-zine (http://www.crossandcosmos.com/), in Issue 5.

Also, the translated flash piece "Tournament" is up at Woes as "Die Toernooi".

Woes Posts & Airthai Map News

Ek het begin om van my Afrikaanse skryfwerk by Woes te gaan plaas. Die skakel na my profielblad is: http://woes.co.za/skrywers/9581_CarinMarais.htm.


Een van die stukke is die vertaalde weergawe van Eldarion Whargahn, met aangepaste spelling om by die Afrikaanse skrywyse te pas. Ek gaan voortgaan om kort stukkies daar te plaas, en dink dit is veral 'n goeie plek vir die vertaalde dele wat hier verskyn. Hopelik is dit dan makliker om tussen die verskillende tale te beweeg.

I have started to put some of my Afrikaans works up at Woes. The link to my profile page is: http://woes.co.za/skrywers/9581_CarinMarais.htm .

One of the pieces is the translated version of Eldarion Whargahn, with the spelling fitted to that of Afrikaans. I'm going to keep on putting some pieces up there, and I think it is a good place to put the translated pieces that I put up here. I hope that it will then be easy to move between the different languages.

In ander nuus is ek steeds besig om die kaarte vir Airthai oor te teken en vind dit vat bietjie langer as wat ek gedink het. Om die hele gedeelte van die wêreld in een (A4) kaart te sit wat in "A Dragon's Freedom" verskyn is ook nogal moeilik – dit begin in die Suidelike Lande en eindig in die Middellande. Dit beteken dit strek oor 'n woestyn en 'n paar lande. Aangesien ek die Tellerassar insluit in die verhaal, moet mens ook darem kan aandui waar hulle land is! Wel, vanaand is dit ek en 'n paar penne om die kaarte klaar te teken! Dan kan ek dit hierdie week plaas.

In other news, I am still busy drawing the Airthai maps and finding that it's taking a bit longer than I have anticipated. To put the whole part of the world that is featured in "A Dragon's Freedom" into one (A4) map is quite difficult – it starts in the Southern Lands and ends in the Middle Lands. That means it stretches over a desert and a couple of lands. Seeing that the Tellerassar also plays a part in the story, you have to be able to show where that is! Well, tonight it's me and a couple of pens to finish drawing the maps! Then I can still post it this week.

Clearing Out The Attic

It is very interesting to go through your computer's attic (or that handy 'to file' folder), especially if you find some forgotten bits and pieces. Here are two of my first flash pieces. I'm still practicing at getting a whole story into 1 000 words (or less), but really hope I'm getting better at it as time passes!


I've mentioned before that www.sffworld.com has a monthly flash fiction contest, which is a very good way of stretching your mind to think up a new story with just one word or phrase as inspiration. More importantly, it is not a phrase that you, yourself, chose!

Both of these pieces were written from the first concept that I came up with when I read the theme, and Laudanum was the first flash piece that I wrote for SFFWorld.

The Tournament

Jeremy stared at the table standing on the beach. It was quite a pleasant day, or would have been if the sky was blue and not grey even though there was not one cloud in the sky. The table was bare, its two chairs having inappropriate frilly cushions on them. He realized it was the same cushions as those his grandmother had had in her kitchen. The cushions were tinted in grey as well, as if the pinks and greens had washed out of them leaving only their shadows. He looked behind him. The palms forming a distinct line between sand and forest looked like it was taken from a black and white holiday catalogue. The salt water was a clear grey. A voice next to him said: “Choose a game.” The figure was dressed in black – the only pure black he could see anywhere. His mind raced.

“Trivial Pursuit – no,” he stopped himself. He would not know the answers. He thought and thought. Chess? Checkers? Poker? Bridge, for goodness’ sake?

“Choose, human, or I will choose for you.” The voice was louder, impatient. He tried not to look at the scythe it held in one grey, bloodless hand. “You wanted to play, so let us play.”

Jeremy swallowed hard. “Dice, we will play at dice.”

Two dice appeared in his clenched hand. When he opened his fist, he saw one was of the purest white, the other pure black. When he looked up the figure was already seated at the table.

“Come,” it said, cracking its fingers. “Time for a game.”

Jeremy took a deep breath, smelling the salt in the air and walked to the table, placing the dice in the centre before lowering himself into the chair.

“You first. Highest out of three wins.”

Jeremy took the dice, shook them in his hand and let them fall. Two sixes. He let out a breath. So far so good. The figure did the same. It landed. Two ones. It was Jeremy’s turn again. He threw. Two and three. The figure threw. Two sixes. Jeremy threw. Four and one. The figure threw. Two sixes.

“Well then,” it said. “Come along.”

“Wait.” Another hand pushed the dice towards the black-robed figure. “Best one out of one.” The figure took the dice, threw. Two sixes. “He’s still mine.” The other figure threw. It landed. Two sevens. “He is mine," the voice boomed as colour returned to the world.


**** The two sevens at the end came as just a surprise to me. I wanted to write a tournament between a mortal and death where the mortal won. When I reached death saying "Come along", I thought that was that for Jeremy. The dice landing on seven, the "voice" saying "He is mine" and the colour returning to the world added so much more to the tale, especially in a Christian perspective. This is now one of my favourite pieces. ****

Laudanum

Laudanum stared at the blank page in front of him. Below him, in the kitchen, he could hear muffled voices that only sometimes rose too high or too loud for a few syllables to act as if it was a normal conversation. Nothing here seemed normal. You just had to look at his name to know that he was not normal. No normal person would name their child Laudanum. It was a wonder his newly born sister was named 'Rose' like any other normal child and not something like ‘Latrine' just because his parents liked the way the word sounds.

He kept his eyes on the page and stared intently at the darkness that lay behind them until he could see nothing but the darkness. Then, after the darkness had come, the other world came. The world that was created in the darkness behind his eyes. He knew not if he had been the creator, he was quite sure he wasn't. A few people here and there, a couple of dragons, a mythical quest or two. Those he did create. But the rest he was not so sure of. He remembered the first time he visited the place. It had no mountains then, but was simply grassland as far as the eye could see. Then he thought ‘mountains’ and the next moment they were there, on the horizon. One even had snow on top. He had never even seen snow. He also changed the weather patterns that day with his gigantic mountains. And crushed a few villages. After that he tried not to think too much while he visited. But, sometimes, a thought or emotion did slip through. And, today, it rained although rain did not seem to be the right word to describe the amounts of water falling from the sky. It was more like a monsoon rain, more like torrential rain that fell and turned all the ground to mud. And it was cold, so cold. Up in the mountains an avalanche started and slid down the great mountain.

Laudanum thought as hard as he could about sunshine, rainbows, and the absence of water. The mud sprouted into flowers as far as his eyes could see. But the sun was too warm. Just enough water, he concentrated, and could feel the water rising to the surface. The sun not too warm, he thought and could feel the sun's rays fading, although sudden flashes of light streamed from the mountains like northern lights gone berserk.

The lights he did not understand and tried not to look at them lest they blind him where he stood between the sprouting flowers, but the lights kept on flickering until he looked at them briefly and then they went away only to start again once he concentrated on the ground and the living things there.

“Not too warm,” he mumbled again, staring at the world behind his eyes.

“He’s been like this for days now doctor,” Laudanum’s mother said. “Is there nothing we can do?”

The doctor took his small torch and shone it into Laudanum's right eye. Then he shook his head.

“Not until we can figure out what is going on in there,” he said. “There is a response, but so slight…” his words trailed off as the boy mumbled again.

“Not too warm.”

The nurse sadly shook her head and removed one of the piles of blankets covering the boy.



***** My first piece's inspiration came while I was drawing an early map for Airthai. After drawing a river's course, I saw that it was completely wrong to what I had already written. Out came the eraser and I drew a new line. The sight of a whole river drying up and vanishing in seconds before appearing in another place suddenly formed in my mind.

When you stop to think about world building, you find that you can think of a few characters and a geography that just 'works'. What if the boy was so part of his secondary world that he almost had to die in the real one to give enough energy to just one part of his created one?

And, yes, I chose the name 'Laudanum' mostly because I like the sound of it. *****

An Airthai Fairy Tale

When the name "River of Gold" presented itself in the Midlands of Airthai (when the world was just coming together), I had to know why it was called that and why, if there are gold for anyone to take, no one would take it. The gold as the dragon's bed was formed early and from there the knight and his lady followed. Aune has become a dear, bittersweet character to me. And yes, that song does sound a bit like "Rose of Allendale"...

Aune & Everard : Or, How The River of Gold Got Its Name


Once upon a time the river that is now known as the River of Gold, in the Kingdom of Ellanda, was known as Brightwater because its water was so clear and pure. It sprung from a fountain in the Cloudstep Mountains and flowed west, through Ellanda and the Ringwood that stood at the roots of the mountains. On the banks of this river, in the small village of Greenhill, lived a fair maiden called Aune. Her hair was as dark as the night sky and her eyes shone like the morning star. She had a heart as pure as virgin snow and a voice like an angel. All the town loved her dearly for she was also a healer and could cure any ailment and fever, so that people came from many miles away to be healed.

The king of Ellanda at that time was Godfrey the Bold. He was a good king and kind to his people and many a young man went to the castle hoping to serve as one of his knights. But he would only choose the very best to defend his kingdom, for he knew of a dark menace that lay south - a dragon had been spotted making a lair in the Dragonberg. He knew that soon the dragon would sense the riches of Ellanda and come to steal it to build his bed. Two years passed before he got word from the southern mountains that a dragon was stirring from its lair in the Dragonberg.

Now Godfrey knew that there was a lot of treasure to be had in Ellanda, and he also knew that in the village called Greenhill, not a day’s ride from the castle, was an old grave of one of his forefathers and that the grave was filled with enough gold and jewels to tempt even the smallest dragon. No doubt it would not be long until the dragon ventured north and smelled the buried gold. And after it had laid waste to the village, the castle with its great treasury would be next.

So Godfrey called together his seven most trusted knights, the finest of who were the young Everard. For though he was barely twenty four, he had more skill with his blade than the sword master and could hit a running mouse in the night with his longbow.

Godfrey sent his knights to the village of Greenhill where they were to keep the people safe and guard them from the dragon if it should come. Everard was charged to slay the dragon with his bow and the king gave to him arrows tipped with white gold and dipped in the poisonous juice from the Blackroot.

Now, when the knights reached the town, they went first to the inn, but Everard walked to the green hill that gave the town its name. There, at the foot of the hill, he heard the voice of an angel singing and looked up. He recognized the song as a lay about the star-crossed lovers Sildu and Ameragh and the part he heard went like this:

The sun was fair, the sky was clear, no breath came from the west,
When Elven knight, and maiden fair wandered o’er the earth.
The mist it decked the mountain side, and laughter filled the land,
By far the dearest love of all, t’was for the maiden of the stars.
Sing maiden of the stars, sing maiden of the stars,
By far the dearest love of all, t’was for the maiden of the stars.

With all haste Everard climbed the hill, hoping to see the angel singing. As he reached the top of the hill he saw that it was a mortal maiden that was singing the beautiful song – it was, of course, Aune, and he fell in love with her the first time he saw her. He went to her and wooed her and she too, loved him in turn and it seemed as if the summer would last forever and that the dragon would never come from the south to harm the kingdom.

But when Autumn fell upon the land the dragon came to the kingdom of Ellanda and burned great swathes of land with its fiery breath as it followed the scent of gold. Everard soon learned that the red-scaled dragon was called Blauthan and that it was one of the oldest dragons in all the lands, one that the old king Marcus had used in his wars. On the sixth day after the Blauthan had reached Ellanda, the dragon reached the town of Greenhill and burned half of the houses to the ground. Then it alighted on the green hill and tore at the ground with its great claws. Chunks of dark earth and grass was thrown amidst the smouldering ashes of the town while the people hid in the Amber Wood outside the village, or farther abroad if they owned a horse or donkey.

Now the knights readied themselves to battle with the dragon and to slay it before the dragon could make more destruction. All seven armed themselves with hauberks of the finest chainmail and swords of the strongest steel. Everard hung his arrow-filled quiver at his side and strung his great longbow. They waited until twilight fell and then they marched on the dragon, for their horses were too skittish at the smell of the dragon to venture near to it.

When they came upon the dragon he had already broken through the hill into the tomb and lay on the gold and jewels that had been entombed with the old king many generations ago. It mocked the knights and with the first swipe of its great claw sent one of the knights to his death. The wyrm spewed fire into the air and scorched the very air, but Everard’s heart did not quail. He knocked an arrow and pulled it to his cheek. He waited for the dragon to rear and loosed the fateful shaft. The arrow flew from the great bow and hit the dragon in its soft underbelly, boring through the scales there. The dragon roared and set the grass about the hill aflame. Then he lunged at the young knight. With one blow of its massive claws sent the knight’s soul to the afterlife as the dragon’s lifeblood ebbed away and the Dragon's Bane poison consumed him and the great beast died upon its bed of stolen gold.

Deeply bereaved, the remaining knights loaded their fallen leader onto a makeshift bier and carried him through the scorched grass of the hill towards the town, leaving the dragon upon the pile of gold and jewels and not one of the knights wanted a single coin of the hoard.

The villagers, meanwhile, watched the fight from a distance and when they saw the dragon die and its fire go out, most rushed to the hill to see what gold or jewels they could claim for themselves. Aune went to look for Everard, with an awful knot in her stomach and tears in her eyes. She came upon the knights and the bier and cried and wailed when she saw the lifeless body of her love Everard. As the villagers rushed past her, she grew angry and when they started press her to gather some of the gold for herself, she gathered golden coins and jewels in the large pocket of her apron. Then, when she could barely walk from the gold’s weight, she kissed Everard on his brow and stumbled to the river. There she stepped into the dark water, but instead the water claimed her in the darkness.

When the rest of the village realized what she had done they went to the river bank, but saw only gold glittering on the river bed. Most of them then realized that they had fallen prey to the bane of the dragon that made them want gold and riches more than anything in the world. They did not even think of all those that lost their lives at his claws and fire. One by one the villagers also threw the gold into the river to be buried there or to wash downstream with the strong current to find new masters. But though gold is still seen on the river bed of the river now called the River of Gold, no one will touch it, or claim it for their own, lest the dragon’s bane come upon them.

As for Aune and Everard, most agree that they are now living the life together that they did not have a chance to live upon the earth, and that where they are now living; there are neither dragons, nor pain, nor death. Only love.

Vikings and gods and elves, o my!

You can never have too many translations of a piece you're studying! It was with glee that I read a small part of Carolyne Larrington's translation of the Poetic Edda while reading up on Voluspa and Gylfaginning. After some searching, I found the book online and bought it, as much for my studies as for myself. I am not disappointed and would really advise anyone that wants to read the Poetic Edda in English to get themselves a copy of this translation. It contains both the mythological and the heroic poems of the Elder Edda and really brings the poems to life in a contemporary voice.

Voluspa starts as follows:

Attention I ask from all the sacred people,

greater and lesser, the offspring of Heimdall;

Father of the Slain, you wished that I should declare

the ancient histories of men and gods. Those which I

remember from the first.

So, I like mythology (or folklore)… where do I start?

Ok, I'm not going to act as if I'm the guru on this topic, but I can give a few pointers with regards to books that I like or have found helpful.

If you just want an overview of world mythology or a certain mythology (e.g. Norse), have a look around for an encyclopedia of mythology. These books help to give you a feel of the different myths and some of the key characters. I quite like The Complete Dictionary of Symbols in Myth, Art and Literature (ed. Jack Tresidder). Then there is always the Bulfinch Mythology books – as a classic being reprinted, it is easy to get and a lot cheaper than many of the books out there and probably available as a free e-book as well.

If your favourite authors make use of mythology in their books, have a look where they get their inspiration. (Like Tolkien? Why not get your hands on a copy of Beowulf?) Or have a look at the actual works of different mythology – for the Norse & Germanic there is the Elder and Younger Edda, if you want to learn more about the Finnish mythology, get a copy of the Kalevala. Classical Mythology more to your taste? Try the Iliad and the Odyssey.

For Norse mythology I find John Lindow’s Norse Mythology: A Guide to the Gods, Heroes, Rituals and Beliefs very helpful to refresh the memory.

Mythology Books Recently Stumbled Upon:

The Mythical Creatures Bible by Brenda Rosen – “The Definitive Guide to Legendary Beings”
- This book not only covers many well and little-known creatures of myth and legend, but also some of the gods of the different religions.
- Includes helpful tables describing different types of dragons, giants, etc.

Myths & Legends: An Illustrated Guide to Their Origins and Meanings by Philip Wilkinson.
- Includes some pieces on Africa, The Americas and Oceania, though focusing a lot more on the mythologies of Europe, West and Central Asia and South and East Asia.


What I am working on:

After being away from www.sffworld.com for almost two months, I am working on a flash piece for their September Flash Fiction competition. I have also started musing about a type of follow-up for "A Dragon's Freedom", also set in Airthai, but with a glance at the Sundered Lands to the south, where the Dragon Guardians came from.

I have decided to rather put a novel-length work on the back burner for now while I finish my postgrad studies. It is a lot easier to focus on a small work and is also helping to flesh out more of the places on the Airthai map that I still know fairly little about.

An Airthai map: Busy re-drawing some of my Airthai maps (yes, I still do it the low-tech way, by hand), mostly to make them a bit neater around the edges and, most importantly, sticking to one language (either English or Afrikaans).

Also updating and re-typing the Airthai timeline. Will put a shortened version up when it's ready. Holding thumbs it will be at the same time as the map and before the end of September.

Some notes about "A Brief Essay"

Some more good news! I received the html version of my piece: A Brief Essay on the Language and Mythology of the Ekhié and the neighbouring Mákek Peoples of the Highveld Forests and the Ancient Watmákekhié Site to check and will be published in the Speculative Grammarian. If you have studied language or linguistics, give this online journal a try. Although the writers act extremely serious, it is an extremely fun and funny journal to read.


In a previous blog post I mentioned that I felt let down when I found out that the "lost city" that had been "discovered" was just an advertisement for a casino. In the last two pieces that I've written for the Speculative Grammarian, I found myself not only writing a diary entry for an expedition into the mythical "Highveld Forests", but also constructing a whole mythology for the people of the forest.

In a spoiler (of sorts) I can say the following: no, there are (in at least some realities) no dense, tropical jungles (with pyramids) in the Highveld. But there are a lot of gold and gold mines and Johannesburg is often referred to as "eGoli", which means "place of gold" in Sotho. I did have a lot of fun in creating the "Ekhié" and "Mákek" mythologies and the few words of their lexicon which is given in the piece. The name "Watmákekhié" is made up of a contraction of Afrikaans "Wat maak ek hier"; which literally means "what am I doing here", but sounds (and looks) exotic enough. O, yes, and I just had to add some extraterrestrials and fairy dust into the mix…

I will definitely post the link when it's available.

If you'd like to check the journal out, here's the link: http://specgram.com/

A Bridge, a Dragon and Some Magic

Some good news!



Yesterday I received the wonderful news that my short story, "A Dragon's Freedom" will be published in The Cross and Cosmos in October 2010! The story is set in the world of Airthai and tells the tale of Nasja, a Dragon Guardian, and Skáhag, one of the dragons of the Southern Lands. I will paste a link here as soon as it's published – and some information on how Nasja and, especially, Skáhag fit into the bigger picture of Airthai.

Digging in the dirt

A few days ago I attended one of the Archaeological Society of South Africa's lectures. This lecture was about the Vikings – piquing my interest, of course, and the invitation to the lecture luckily sent to me by my study leader.

At one time during the lecture the talk turned to the Battle of Stamford Bridge and the legend (which may or may not be true) about the lone Viking on the bridge… This made me remember a poem I had written a couple of years ago about the man that was "sent to the bridge" alone to fight while the other soldiers ready their armour and weapons.

I wanted the man to be brave and heroic where he fought alone, but instead of thinking of Valhalla and becoming one of the Einherjar, he was thinking about the family he has left behind.


Send me to the bridge

Send me to the bridge
While the men their weapons gather
Send me to the bridge
With the war-host marching hither.

The wood of spears that flow like a river
Flows to me where I stand above the water.
The wood of spears alight in the sun
And blinds me where I stand above the water.

To the bridge we have come,
Our days weary with the sun of an unknown land
For our king we came across the sea
To meet our doom in an unknown land.

Send me to stand upon the bridge
While the others their weapons ready,
Let the sword of fate send each
Man to his doom upon the bridge.

My brother is waiting behind me,
My mother is at home,
My wife and only daughter left behind
And I am left to meet my doom.

Send me to the bridge to fall
Upon the wood so dark and cold
And let me gaze upon the river
And the faces of those that I take with me.

Carry me from the bridge.
Nameless I have fallen,
Bury me unmarked and unknown
Nameless known I will be still,
Nameless known while ages pass,
Nameless known after my bones be dust.


For more information about the battle, you can visit http://www.historyofwar.org/articles/battles_stamford.html

The Magic and Talent of Airthai

As seen in the creation-story of Airthai, the Creator gave Talent to all the persons and races. Though this Talent is later, after the Diminishing, sometimes seen as being the same as magic, it is not so. The Talent is power given freely by the Creator and was given to be used for good.

The actions of the Lewjan, however, brought the use of Magic into the world of Airthai. They fed on the Shadow Power, twisting their Talent until it was so full of malice that they could do no good with it anymore. This power used only twisted Talents and mortals called upon the Betrayers and their demons to grant them the power to use magic. This gave the bearer more power than the Creator in His wisdom gave to mortals. This power was not used for good, but to bring more Shadow into the world.

In this age of the world great wars were fought as people found how to make weapons to hurt and kill each other. This was before the Sundering of the Lands. It is said that, after the Sundering, the people on the Great Continent broke and burned all the great siege machines that had been built before, hoping that the knowledge to build them and use them would die along with them. These machines would not be seen again for two ages of the world.

The Creator saw what the power was doing to the people of Airthai and decided not to give so much Talent to all people, but only give the full power of the Talent to a few. These few were born to different families, poor and rich, and many became Ahma – People of the Spirit – and were endowed with great healing power and great power over the Shadow.

But the Great Continent was not totally devoid of Lewjan, just as the Sundered Lands were not completely devoid of those that had not betrayed their Creator. On the Great Continent, in the Southern Lands, the great House of the Khallahna (Followers of the Spirit) was formed. They kept the good knowledge alive and the few remnants of books remaining on the Betrayers they kept secret, fearing that they might one day again have to fight them and then they would have to know how to fight them.

Unfortunately, some of the Khallahna that read these remnants found their hearts changed and yearned for the power they saw in the Lewjan and their followers. In secret, they formed a society inside the Khallahna that betrayed the Creator and became Shadow Followers. These Shadow Followers were helped in their fall by the Werlea that had remained in the Southern Lands. These Werlea were Shadow Lords, but were created as mortals, not as immortal Airus.

The Tearing of the Khallahna

It was at the Battle of the Black Field that the Shadow Followers of the Khallahna made themselves known. A war then broke out between the different factions of the Khallahna. They fought on the battlefield and at their towers. Soon the Shadow Followers became known as the Khalvér, which means Follower of the Shadow, and the others became known as the Khalné, which means Followers of the Light.

After a truce was reached, the Khalné thought that they could turn the Khalvér away from their ways, back to the Creator, and they gave one of the three towers that belonged to the Khallahna to the Khalvér, while they kept one and shared the middle one. The folly in this was soon realised, but by then it was too late and they stood again on the brink of war. But that is another story…

Some Enthused Ramblings on Mythology, Legends and Folklore

If you look at the books I own or read, you'll find a horde of titles about myth, legend, folklore, history and archaeology. The past stretches out so far behind us today – here in the twenty first century – that we sometimes forget that we had to start somewhere to come at last to this point in time. The borders of the world's countries have shifted, whether due to human interaction or by the forces of nature. Rivers change their courses, climates change, and sometimes continents may even sink beneath the ocean to be lost forever…

One thing that still fascinates me about the Old Testament is the glimpses of all the peoples you get to see. The Egyptians in their grand palaces, the Philistines, of course, Assyrians… I could go on and on and on. I find Biblical archaeology especially interesting and can't resist the news of new Viking or Anglo Saxon hoards being found. At the moment I'm busy reading "Unearthing Atlantis: an Archaeological Odyssey" by Charles Pellegrino which is proving to be quite interesting, but also very explicit in the destruction caused by volcanoes. Do not read before bedtime!

http://www.literatureview.com/moxie/travel/atlantis.shtml

The city of Petra and its sister city Hegra (see the July/August 2010 issue of Archaeology Magazine at http://www.archaeology.org/curiss/ ) also holds fascination and have in part inspired some of the new fiction I am busy with concerning the Ealda people of Airthai. The kingdoms and peoples of the "old days" have always held a type of glamour (also in the magical sense of the word) for me. I remember how thrilled I was when I was about 5 years old and heard on the TV that a "lost city" had been found in South Africa – and how crushed I was when I was told that it wasn't a real lost city, but one at a big casino and hotel complex!

Of course I learned of the Aztecs, the Mayas and their frightening human sacrifices and the Amazon have always held a strange attraction for me. (Try Lost City of Z by David Grann.) But I also learned of Van Hunks that was in a smoking contest against the Devil, lost the contest, and was fated to sit on Table Mountain and smoke for all time. That is, of course, where the blanket of cloud on top of the mountain comes from… Then, of course, there's the Flying Dutchman and other (real) South African legends like Wolraad Woltemade, whom I've always pictured on a white horse… go figure.

I learned of Classical mythology along with Norse mythology, King Arthur and Robin Hood – I only later learned more about Celtic mythology, which I also fell in love with and learned about the Kalevala after reading The Lord of the Rings.

I ended up reading more and more about the different mythologies and learning about the people behind the mythologies and the legends. Could we ever truly understand how the people who believed these mythologies thought? And yet I still can only read these myths and legends with the knowledge that I already have.

But I can see worth in these tales even though I do not believe them to be true. To be sure, my heart breaks every time I read of Balder's death at the hands of his brother. (How must poor Hoder have felt when he realized he had just killed his brother?) And I can laugh heartily at Thor's doings when he meets Utgarda-Loki, but they remain for me fantastical tales. Some, of course is more believable than others, and some we wish to be real even after scholars say they can't be… Some stories tell of things that might have happened a long, long time ago in another world… And some stories may inspire us to make this world a better one…

For Wolraad's story, visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wolraad_Woltemade

In the next blog post I will tackle the creation story of Airthai and the question of magic and Talent in the world of Airthai.

Die drakelied van Ameragh/ Ameragh's Dragon Song

Here is a short "song" I wrote for another character in Airthai, Ameragh. In one instance, she sings a dragon to sleep by using the "Ancient tongue" gifted to some of the peoples to be able to communicate with the dragons. This is sang to the dragon Skahag, another wild dragon. His tale is told in part in "A Dragon's Freedom", a short story I hope to get published in the near future.

But, until then, here is the Dragon Song - followed by two translations.

afdóbna slépan


nachts diuzis-winnan

funins diuzis-winnan

aírthós diuzis-winnan

aftra aflinnan aírthái

aftra aflinnan afdumbna

afslagan bileitha

afdóbna slépan

slépan nachts diuzis-winnan!



wat beteken:



wees stil, slaap

draak van nag

draak van vuur

draak van aarde

gaan terug na die aarde

gaan terug na stilte

moenie doodmaak nie

wees stil, slaap

slaap draak van nag



which means:



be still, sleep

dragon of night

dragon of fire

dragon of earth

go back to the earth

go back to the silence

do not kill

be still, sleep

sleep dragon of night

 
In the next post I will give a few thoughts of my own about mythology, legend and the like and share the "Creation Story" of Airthai. Every world needs a beginning...

The Guardian

This is a Flash piece I've written for the monthly Flash Fiction contest over at SFFWorld.com. I'm drawing on the world of Airthai that I've created, but decided to rather do this piece completely in English, 'translating' the ancient language where needed.
This month's theme is "Redemption"... and out of it was born a new character - Liuter, a Dragon Guardian.

Read on...

The Guardian


Liuter went to the town expecting to be killed. He was chosen, as a Dragon Guardian, to rid Tonburg of a wild dragon. Around him the town lay in smouldering ruins. Almost none of the people dared to remain in the gutted town. The dead had been buried and most of the people had fled to the farmlands. It had taken a Liuter a week to reach the town. At first, when the Dragon Guardians had heard that a dragon had been spotted to the south of the Great River, they had rejoiced at one of the stolen kin returning to the coast. But then the beast had started to wreak havoc on its way south, burning and killing and it became clear that the dragon was one of the wild ones that had escaped the clutch of Marcus of Guldargan.

Liuter switched his shoulder bag from his left to his right shoulder. In it he carried some rations, a field book and a vial of distilled Dragon’s Bane poison. At his hip hung a short sword. Around his neck hung one of the stones called a Dragon’s Gift. He hoped that he would not need to use the poison or the sword.

He made his way from the town; following the charred land to the ridge the dragon had made its home. He did not try to sneak up to the beast – its sense of smell was far too good. But he did start to sing a song in the ancient tongue the Dragon Guardians used to communicate with the great beasts. He sang for calmness and rest and to let the dragon know that he was coming in peace. The poor thing must have been through hell in the fighting force of the old king. The king had sent out mercenaries to steal dragon eggs from the southern coast. He even kidnapped some of the Guardians to be able to communicate to the beasts. None of the Guardians were seen again and the dragons had become wild, dumb beasts.

Liuter stepped up to the overhang where the red dragon laid, stretched out and apparently asleep. The young Guardian seeing that the dragon was entirely scarlet in colour, instead of the sapphire hue of the sea. He started speaking to the dragon in the ancient tongue that held the Talent to communicate to the beasts. He asked the dragon its name. A yellow, cat-like eye glared at him from beneath the bony blood red brow ridge, but did not give an answer. Instead, the thoughts that pelted him were wild, wordless and full of malice.

He took the Dragon’s Gift from beneath his brown tunic. “See,” he said. “This was gifted to me by some of your kin. I’ve come to take you home.” He went on to tell the glaring dragon of the shimmering sea and the tall cliffs where his kin lived. The language was melodious and musical and even put him at ease before this great dragon.

The dragon stirred and lifted one of its great claws slowly, stretching it out to the Guardian; his eye fixed on the stone he held in his hand. Luiter glanced down and felt bile rising in his throat, for beneath the scarlet claw was a severed human limb. When the beasts pulled back its scaly lips to reveal its great teeth, Liuter saw that they were stained with gore. He quickly uttered more words of peace to place the dragon at ease and then bound it in place with an old rhyme – used only as a last resort, and only to those beasts fallen to the shadow. Those that, against their nature, revelled in killing men. The dragon struggled against its invisible bonds, but managed only in scratching at the dirt and rocks beneath its great claws.

Liuter took the distilled poison from his pack and walked closer to the dragon. He could not help the tears that flowed over his cheeks as he tipped the vial of poison into the great beast’s maw. With more words and promises of peace he watched the fire in its eyes die. Then, when he was sure that the nameless dragon’s heart had stopped beating, he cut out its heart and buried it some way away. The last thing he needed was someone skilled in the dark arts using the dragon’s heart in his spells.

When he turned to leave, his eyes caught a piece of smooth quartz not far from the dragon’s lair and his heart skipped a beat. He went closer to remove some of the soil and saw that it was indeed a dragon’s egg. With a heavy heart he placed it in his bag and made his way back to the town.

There, the people had been told of his coming and was waiting for him to return. They cheered and clapped their hands when they saw his clothes stained with the blood of the dragon. “You’ve saved us,” one of the woman said, bowing low to him as if he was some great lord.

He wanted to ignore her. He had killed a wonderful animal, but they would not understand. They had never talked to the dragons like he had. They had only ever witnessed the destruction caused by the dragons that had gone wild, seeking revenge and losing themselves in shadow. He kept the egg a secret. The only thing that would redeem him from his act of killing that day would be to deliver the egg to the Guardians for safekeeping.

***

"Oom Apie se skop" gets translated

Here's the translated version of "Oom Apie se skop" that was published in Jou wêreld this month:

Oom Apie's Kick


"It's his father's quirk, that," the people of Eland Street gossiped after Duifie's death.


"Yes," whispered another woman a matter-of-factly. "His father was drunk the day he was born – his real name is Albertina." She shook her head slowly, sadly. "And yesterday he carried a bottle of brandy home – again."

Nobody really knew where Oom Apie picked up his problems and quirks. Maybe at his birth when his father called pastor Cloete through a happy daze induced by his grandfather's secretly distilled mampoer and proclaimed that he brought a child – Albertina – into the world. Maybe it was twenty years of living close to a busy road. Maybe it was Duifie – his wife's – sudden death after forty years of marriage.

Unfortunately Apie's grandfather and father was long dead and took their mampoer recipe with them to their graves. Apie quickly realized that he could not keep on looking to the bottle – it was too expensive and nothing had the kick of that mampoer. But after a birthday present of brandy he couldn't help himself and drank a few tots. In this drunken state he got hungry and went to rummage through the kitchen cupboards. There he found the recipe book of his late Duifie. She had copied the book diligently as a monk from her mother, which had copied hers from her mother and so on until sometime before the printing press was invented.

His tears fell on every page – especially the one with the well-guarded recipe of her grandfather's mampoer recipe. Right at the back, after a few open pages was the grail of her cooking. The recipe, he had heard her say once, she had inherited from her mother's aunt – or aunt's grandmother – a long, long time ago. It was apparently just the thing you could survive on when you fare into undiscovered Africa.

He read the entire recipe. It had been worked on, but not like the other recipes. No, this one's handwriting was good enough for Sunday school. He studied the recipe over a mug of strong coffee. Flour and butter and those types of things he knew, of course, but that all those seeds and stuff were eaten by anything other than birds was a revelation for him.

He ordered a take-out dinner that evening and ate it alone in the living room. On the TV a woman was busy making a dessert with chocolate and sherry. The next program was one he had seen his wife watch. A young man that proclaimed to the world that you, yes you sitting there eating your take-away, can live healthier by making your meals in foil.

He stared at the screen while memories of his past surfaced. Before he went to bed he poured himself only a glass of milk and took the recipe book to bed with him.

Before the neighbor's rooster crowed Apie was already awake and sat in the kitchen, making a shopping list over burnt scrambled eggs and toast. He went to the corner shop at eight and waited for them to open their doors. He walked past the wine and alcohol to the isle with the baking ingredient. For a long time he wondered and wavered over the strange names on the list until one of the workers in the shop saw him and helped him gather all the ingredients. He found the seeds promising to keep you healthy and happy between dried fruit and other health products.

Another shopper smiled at him knowingly. "Shame, did your wife send you?"

Apie nodded. "She makes the best rusks in all of South Africa."

He walked to the car with the heavy bags and opened the boot. For a moment he wondered why he had been unable to remember to buy milk before today. At his house he asked the neighbor's kids to help him carry the bags. He locked every door and window and started unpacking the mixing bowls and ingredients. He baked the whole day and sat up 'til late watching TV while he waited for the rusks to dry.

By the next morning he had three containers full fresh rusks and he threw the crumbs to the birds outside. And there the thing bit him.

At first he only gave rusks to his neighbors and ignored the funny looks they gave him when they found out he had baked it. "If that English-chap can do it, I can too," he said to some of the neighbors. "And anyway, it's the twenty-first century!"

After a while he posted a parcel of rusks to London for his son. When his son asked for more, he brought Apie to a very important decision. The rusks were so expensive to bake that he had to get some more money for the ingredients. He went to the home industry shyly, a packet of rusks under his arm. For the woman at the till it was love at first sight and he quickly left with the promise of three dozen packets by the end of the week. Soon he had to hire more people to help him bake. He even moved the TV into the kitchen. And there, in his wife's kingdom, he made himself at home.

After his son wrote from London to say that one of the shops selling South African food also wanted some of the rusks and he started getting orders from New Zealand and Australia, he was featured on the news. On a talk show he told the whole story for the first time.

"Oom Apie, why do you do it?" the presenter asked him.

"My wife always baked. It's her recipe that I'm using, just like she wrote it down. She deserves to be world famous and be remembered."

But it was on the day that he got a call from a talk show queen in America that his heart beat for the last time. His son inherited the recipe and the house. For a few days he only stared at the kitchen. Then, one day, he looked at the recipe. Then he tried to bake the rusks. And there the thing bit him as well and he moved his whole family back to South Africa.

Almost three months after Apie's death, his son, Albert, paged through the old recipe book. There the mampoer recipe was still untouched, except for the thick line his father had drawn through it.


Notes:

• "Oom Apie" – Apie (meaning 'little monkey') is what everyone called "Albertina" because his given name was a female name. "Oom", meaning "uncle" is a sign of respect and younger people will call older people (whether family or not) "Oom" or "Tannie" (Aunt).

• "Duifie" – not her real name, but the name she was called by Apie – meaning 'little dove'.

• Rusks – called "beskuit" in Afrikaans. Delicious and usually dipped in coffee when eaten. A very nice breakfast…

• "Mampoer" – also called peach brandy, it is an extremely potent alcoholic drink and can be made from many different kinds of fruit.

"Oom Apie se skop" gepubliseer

Goeie nuus, een van my kortverhale, "Oom Apie se skop" is vandag deur die Jou wêreld aanlyn tydskrif gepubliseer.

Gaan lees dit by:
http://www.jouwereld.co.za/julie2010_joufiksie.html

News from the outside:

For those intrigued by language – have a look at the following. The sad thing is that most people will only hear about the language this way – after it’s last speaker passed on.


Vir dié wat deur taal bekoor word – kyk bietjie na hierdie artikel. Ongelukkig sal meeste mense tien teen een net op hierdie manier van die taal hoor – nadat die laaste spreker gesterf het.


“Native Eyak language may have a follower”

http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5hrqT6WkMHBg8l0PodFFbnDbndOZQD9GKFIC00

Ramblings on bibliophiles, gatherers and a labyrinth (probably part1)

Bibliophile/byb-li-oh-fyl/ noun a person who collects or loves books. (Compact Oxford English Dictionary. 2005. p.86)




I think I am addicted to books. It takes all the will I have to walk past a book shop. A second-hand book shop is even worse, especially if I already bought something there. Then, about a month ago, a fellow bibliophile gave me a small classified advert for a library book sale. Needless to say, I went to the sale and walked away with a bag o’ books for the price of one new paperback.

Now, I didn’t just buy books by the yard, but really found some interesting pieces –

including a book with woodcuts from a Bible in the renaissance, various classics and even a leather-bound reprint of medieval romances with the names of the various owners in the front cover. The first date being 1932.

But it was only as I dusted the books and arranged them on the shelf that I found the names on the inside cover. My mind started to wander over the people that had held the book and the places it had been. It also made me think of a wonderful book that I had finished reading not long ago:



The History of Reading by Alberto Manguel

http://books.google.co.za/books?id=QrdZHgAACAAJ&dq=a+history+of+reading&hl=en&ei=5B4fTKbDFMmI4QaL2bmmDg&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=2&ved=0CDQQ6AEwAQ

As it traces the magical, joyful, and mysterious craft of reading, this book spills over with scandalous tales of book thieves, book burners, censors, and anarchists; of the women of 11th-century Japan, who had to invent their own reading material; of the African American slaves forbidden to read under penalty of death. Replete with over 140 arcane and beautiful illustrations, this witty and ambitious book will delight every reader--from the browser to the bookworm.



My eye fell on another volume I had picked up a year or so ago; judging it by its cover and title:

The Island of Lost Maps by Miles Harvey

http://books.google.co.za/books?id=UuLmRgAACAAJ&dq=the+island+of+lost+maps&hl=en&ei=WB8fTL6wKaCK4gbS8N2vDg&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=1&ved=0CCoQ6AEwAA



Harvey himself sometimes seems obsessed as he explores the obsession of those who collect maps. Still, this is a challenging and erudite exploration of the explosion in "map culture" and the damage wrought by one determined con man with cartographic passions. Harvey's primary narrative (which originated as an article for Outside magazine) concerns the exploits of Gilbert Bland, a man who on the surface, according to Harvey, did indeed seem bland but who stole approximately $500,000 in antique maps from poorly secured rare-book libraries. Bland was apprehended in 1995 at Baltimore's Peabody Library; he was ultimately charged in several jurisdictions after numerous universities discovered extensive losses, but he plea-bargained for a light sentence. Harvey painstakingly reconstructs the map thief's various identities--for Bland, a "chameleon," had abandoned a number of spouses and children and had engaged in questionable business ventures. Thus is Harvey launched into a larger meditation on the lure of "terra incognita," both literal and metaphoric, whether of Bland's enigmatic life or of undiscovered continents. Harvey uses the Bland case to explore both cartographic history and the dangers of obsession. One collector he examines is controversial map megadealer Graham Arader, considered responsible for cartography's newfound commercialism. Harvey's pursuit of all possible tangents (he even visits a map factory) causes his narrative to become unwieldy at times. But he offers dry wit and a fine sense of the dark places in our contemporary landscape, and he successfully captures both the story of Bland's bizarre "map crime spree" and the underexamined history and politics of contemporary cartography. Agent, Sloan Harris. 50,ooo first printing; 8-city author tour. (Sept.)



Then, of course, there’s the exceptional The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco and his labyrinth-world-map of a library, leading me back to Jorge L. Borges, The Secret Garden, The Neverending Story, Elantris – and then, of course jumping to Atlantis – and on… and on… not to mention those that I have yet to read… that have yet to be written… and is yet growing in ghostly shadows of tree rings, waiting to be released.



The irony is that I inherited my grandfather’s enormous collection of matchbooks. No, I do not keep these collections in the same room.