Ageless Words Friday: In Darkness Let Me Dwell

About a year ago I happened upon Sting’s Songs from the Labyrinth CD while browsing the Classical Music room at a local music shop. The CD includes songs by the English songwriter John Dowland, as well as snatches read from a letter written by him. One of the songs, “In Darkness Let Me Dwell” (c. 1603), is one of the most woeful songs I have ever heard. Although very dark, it is also extremely beautiful.

In darkness let me dwell; the ground shall sorrow be,
The roof despair, to bar all cheerful light from me;
The walls of marble black, that moist'ned still shall weep;
My music, hellish jarring sounds, to banish friendly sleep.
Thus, wedded to my woes, and bedded in my tomb,
O let me dying live, till death doth come, till death doth come.

My dainties grief shall be, and tears my poison'd wine,
My sighs the air, through which my panting heart shall pine:
My robes my mind shall suit exceeding blackest night,
My study shall be tragic thoughts, sad fancy to delight.
Pale ghosts and frightful shades shall my acquaintance be:
O thus, my hapless joy, I haste to thee, I haste to thee.

Worldbuilding Wednesday: A Map of Airthai

The following map of Airthai was inspired by T-O maps of Earth. It is not supposed to be a realistic representation of the world, but rather a symbolic one. It was only drawn and used after the Great Sundering of the Lands.

Just as there are four directions (north, south, east and west) and four seasons, there are also four stars that aid travellers in finding their direction and Airthai is divided into four parts. Three of these parts (the Continent and the Eastern and Western Isles) are placed against the fourth; which is the Sundered Lands. The map is therefore also used to show that the Sundered Lands are only a small part of the world and that its people would never be able to overrun and rule the whole of Airthai.

Much later, a similar map was drawn of the Continent as a form of protest by a scholar from Trelkanor after the Khalvér and their Nightwatchers had infiltrated the country. In this map he placed the “Southern Lands” – of which Trelkanor is the farthest south – in the place of the Sundered Lands. He had hoped to get some sense into the rulers of the country and its people, but was stricken by the Illness shortly after the map was made public and most copies of the map was destroyed out of fear.

Other fiction: For Part 12 of Virgin for Hire, click here.

The Strangeness of Half-remembered Ideas

If someone ever steals my phone – or rummages through the ‘notes’ application – they would probably think that the owner is not all there; probably referring to “Earth”. I admit a lot of the time my mind is wandering off on its own somewhere, especially right before I drift off to sleep; which brings me back to the phone. Because I use it as an alarm clock (there’s nothing like a jig to get your mind up and running at 4:45am) it’s usually on top of the pile of books I am reading and the notebook I keep next to the bed. And I can type a note without having to turn the room’s light back on and waking the pets. As a result, my note entries are in a jumble of Afrikaans and English and look something like this: “cross map”, “Azah – naam”, “Storie ‘they came from the forest/wood’. In afr? Beide?Afr, tuin wat aangelê is ens sit by ander storie” – yeah, I’m still trying to remember what “other story” I meant at 12:30am, but it seemed logical at the time. I also sometimes forget that I had made a note.

Some notes are even the (proper) beginnings of stories:  I saw them when I went outside to feed the garden birds. It wasn’t normal. It hadn’t even rained. But there they stood, a whole cluster of them under the acacia. Toadstools. Acrid yellow smoke was curling from a tiny chimney protruding from the one in the centre. It had started. And it wasn’t even spring yet… Which meant that they could only be Winter Gnomes. Now, If only I could remember where I was going with this… 

Ageless Words Friday: Bede’s Death Song

A well-known author and scholar, Bede (c. 672 A.D.. – 26 May 735 A.D.) is most famous for his work Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum (The Ecclesiastical History of the English People). Bede (also referred to as Saint Bede or the Venerable Bede) was a monk at the Northumbrian monasteries of Saint Peter at Monkwearmouth[1] and Saint Paul in Jarrow. He was also a skilled translator and linguist, and wrote many works of a scientific, historical and theological nature. On his deathbed he is said to have composed the following five lines of verse, known as Bede’s Death Song.

[2]For þam nedfere    næni wyrþeþ

þances snotera,        þonne him þearf sy

to gehicgenne                       ær his heonengange

hwæt his gaste                     godes oþþe yfeles

æfter deaþe heonon            demed weorþe.

English Translation:

Bede’s Dying Words – Translation by Anthony Cronin

Before the inevitable hour looms

When, however unwilling,

You must face the final court

You cannot give enough thought

To the state of your account,

Its balance of good and evil,

For when that hour arrives

It will be too late

To add or subtract,

Regret or amend.

For more information about Bede, his works or the time he lived in, visit the Labyrinth; a wonderful assemblage of links and resources by Georgetown University, or visit the Christian Classics Ethereal Library. Wikipedia also has an article about his life and works, including various links.

I'll be back on Monday with some more fiction and the next instalment of VfH. Enjoy your weekend!

Bede

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[1] Today part of Sunderland.

[2] Anglo-Saxon text and translation by Anthony Cronin taken from The Word Exchange, published by W.W. Norton in 2011.

Some Worldbuilding and a Flash of Fiction

The Battle of the Black Field has been fought. The Khallahna has split into the Khalvér – Servants of the Dark– and the Khalné – Servants of the Light. Now, three centuries have passed and the great cities of Trelkanor, including Ahrlea, are haunted at night by servants of the Khalvér who spread fear, death and the Illness that can take memories or even leave your mind an empty shell.

Uninvited Visitors

“Who was it that ratted me out?” Gretha glared at the dark clad Nightwatchers in front of her. “Tell me!”

The Nightwatchers remained silent. One of them moved. He was taller than the other Nightwatchers and towered over the short frame of Gretha.

“You can at least do me the favour of telling me who it was that ratted me out before you take my mind!” She bundled her wrinkled hands into her sides, glaring up at the masked man as if he was a boy caught stealing apples.

“Do you have a daughter?” The Nightwatcher’s voice was muffled under the black mask he wore over the lower half of his face. The embroidered, golden sigil he wore upon his heart caught the lamplight.

“She’s long dead, ask anyone.”

“A son?” He stepped closer, cutting her off from escape from the room.

“Dead the same year.” Gretha didn’t move.

“And do they –”

“Don’t waste my time blathering. My whole family died of the Fever not ten years ago.” She stepped up to the tall man. “Some say the Werlea made it and the Watchers brought it. Everyone agrees the Watchers know when anyone dies – or when they get ill.”

“The Illness is given to those deserving of the punishment,” the man said and drew himself up.

Gretha looked past the man to where one of the other Nightwatchers was lighting what seemed to be thin twigs wrapped in paper with the flame of one of the lamps in the room. It smoked heavily and Gretha pulled part of her scarf over her face, shielding her nose and mouth.

“Do you do it here or do you take me away?” Gretha asked and felt her mind getting fuzzier by the second as she inhaled the strange fumes.

“We’ll take you away. We won’t just leave you here with the Illness. You deserve far worse.” The watcher’s voice was only a rumble and he snatched the scarf from her face, forcing her to inhale the smoke. Within a few seconds it had done its work and she blacked out.

“Bind and take her outside. I will search the place again.”

The Nightwatchers bound the old woman and carried her to their horses while their leader walked slowly through the small house.

Beneath the floor, Leandré could hear the footsteps coming closer and closer to where she lay hidden beneath the crude floorboards. Her great aunt’s voice had been loud enough for her to hear everything. She crouched down further, her knees digging into the loose black soil. Beside her was a pack, filled with clothes, food and other necessities. In one hand she gripped a large kitchen knife, ready to put up a fight if the Nightwatcher found the trapdoor. Smoke started to seep through the cracks between the floorboards. The smoke smelled both sweet and sharp at the same time. She tried to hold her breath, keeping her lungs filled with clean air as she waited. She had heard that the Nightwatchers – servants of the Khalvér – can only be killed by a wound through the heart or head. Head or heart, she repeated in her head. Her hands began to shake and she could barely keep the knife from falling from her grip. Her vision began to blur and she shook her head, trying to clear it. She could not tell if the footsteps were moving towards her or away from her. She dared a shallow breath, her lungs burning with smoke. Then world turned to pitch and she heard and knew no more.

100 Posts: Looking back on a year – and some new fiction

I really hope that I have grown in my writing. What started out as a platform for bits and pieces, thoughts and scribbles soon became a way – especially in these last few months – to keep me committed to writing. But, more importantly, to writing better.

The most popular pieces during the year included the current serial about the We R Dragon Slayers Company, the problem posed to a neighbourhood when an elderly neighbour isn’t seen for a couple of weeks, and the world of Airthai’s dragons and stories.

But, although I have learnt much over this past year, I know that there is still a lifetime of learning about crafting and creating with words ahead of me.

Something Old, Something New:

Here’s a bit of fiction set in a world I am tinkering with. The world is called Icurn and a first glimpse of the world was in the NaShoStoMo piece The Tree Reader earlier this year.

WIP (working title): The Fountain

The stone started speaking to her four years ago. Elrith hated when it was her turn to collect water from the fountain on the corner of the street. It is not that she minded the heavy burden the water posed on the way back to their cramped living quarters in the north of the city of Serenia. She also did not mind the talk of the other young women. It was the fountain itself, or, to be more exact, the stone from which the fountain was constructed.

The fountain had been constructed long before this part of the city became home to the poorer classes .The light brown stone had been specifically imported and used because it was strong, smooth and seemed to keep the water cool even in the heat of summer. The centre of the fountain was a sculpture of four fish  out of whose mouths the water poured clear and clean. For everyone else, the fountain was just that. Nothing but that. Except for a girl she only knew as Maritha’s daughter. Rumour had it that she had heard the fountain’s water speaking to her. But, whatever the rumour, the truth was that she had been living in one of the city’s houses for the mentally infirm. And it was this fact which scared Elrith the most.

And There's More...

Keep on reading for today’s episode of Virgin for Hire, or click here if you want to catch up on the story so far.

Until tomorrow,

Á Agrai tellarias or s'agrélar silássa.

 Virgin for Hire: In Which the Magic Spell Bears Fruit and Something is Stolen

During all of this, the rest of the WERDS Company sat inside the carriage and watched Eldridge enjoy being the hero.[1] The wrangler was well known one of the roads in the next province, where he not only scared the daylights out of a band of thieves, but also had them donating all the stolen goods they kept in a cave nearby to the poor[2]. For, while Philip was the best sword fighter of the group, he also looked like a hero. A chivalrous hero – a hero who would fight fair and who would therefore be quite easy to kill.

Poetry-loving Eldridge, however, looked like the kind who would use the ripped-off arm of the first bandit he could catch to pommel the rest of the band to death before they even had a chance to apologise for trying to rob him. The same man uttering magic spells was even more frightening. The bandits fled before Eldridge’s outstretched hands and Jake even left his monocle behind in his haste to get away from the summoned dragon. Eldridge simply stood there and grinned with a glint in his eye.

“Which one did he recite today?” Philip asked.

Therese, who had the best mind for remembering such things, said: “A riddle about gold. It’s one of Berty’s favourites if I remember correctly.”

The sound of the wrangler rummaging for something in the luggage tied to the back of the carriage, while still having a good laugh, was suddenly cut short. Then his very worried face, white as a very clean sheet, appeared at the window. “We have a problem,” he said. “The dress is gone!”

“Gone?”

“Stolen! The robbers had the arrogance to steal the dress!”

Therese stumbled out of the carriage as fast as her fashionable[3] travel dress allowed to make sure that the wrangler was not mistaken. But he was not. The sturdy carpetbag, in which her specially made damsel-in-distress-dress had been packed, was gone and the straps which had kept it in place had been cut.

After an initial cry of dismay Therese pulled herself together. “Go ask the driver where the closest town with a Magician-tailor is. Tell him we’ll pay him extra.” And then it dawned on her; the driver had been very quiet through the whole robbery.

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[1] The driver, however, was not as lucky as to not be left unscathed by Three-eyed Jake’s poison, but was lying fast asleep upon the driver’s seat.

[2] And a small amount to the local branch of the Fund for Retired Dragons.

[3] (and very unpractical)

Ageless Words: The Battle of Stamford Bridge and Two Poems

This post follows the AWF post about Anglo-Saxon poetry about the Battle of Maldon.

The Battle of Stamford Bridge

The date is 25 September 1066. The place is Stamford Bridge in Yorkshire. On this day Saxons and Vikings will meet in battle. Swords will clash. Shields will break. And poetry will be composed.

(The Old Norse text can be found below the English translation.)

Men say that King Harald recited this verse:

“We went forth in the ranks,

byrnie-less, with blue edges;

helmets shine, I have not mine,

my coat lies on the ship below.”

His byrnie was called Emma; it went all the way down to the middle of his leg, and was so strong that no weapon had any effect on it. Then King Harald said, 'That was poorly composed, so I shall now devise another better verse', and then recited this:

“We do not creep in battle,

before the clashing of weapons,

behind the curve of the shield –

so commanded by the lady of the hawk’s land, true of speech;

the lady bade me, where meet

skulls and the ice of battle,

long ago to carry on high

the helmet’s seat into the clash of metal.”

Now the Angles give the Norsemen a charge and a harsh reception comes in return, and so the long spears were set and it hit hard against the horses.

And the Old Norse:

Þet sæghia menn, at Haraldr konongr kvǽðe vísu þessa:

"Fram gengom vér í fylkingu,
        bryniulausir meðr blár æggiar;
        hialmar skína, hæfkaðek mína;
        nú liggr scrúð várt at scipum niðri."

Emma hét brynia hans; hon tóc ofan í mitt bæin hanum, oc svá stærk at æcki festi vápn á henne. Þá mǽlti Haraldr konongr, "Þetta er illa ort, oc scal gæra nú aðra vísu bætri." oc cvað þá þetta:

"Kriúpum vér firir vópna
        (valtæigs) brökon æighi
        (svá bauð Hilldr) at hialdri
        (haldorð) í bugh skialdar;
        hátt bað mec, þer's mœtozt,
        mennskurð bera forðom,
        lackar ís oc höusar,
        hialmstal í gný malma."

Nú væita Ænglar Norðmönnum áreið oc varð á mót viðrtaca hörð, oc svá váro sættar kæsiurnar oc koms þet mest viðr hestana.

This translation is courtesy of www.utexas.edu – Lessons in Old Norse. For more information about the Battle of Stamford Bridge, you can visit http://www.britainexpress.com/History/battles/stamford-bridge.htm

The Epic Story of a Snail

Sometimes an idea-scribble just needs to be scribbled; and sometimes there is even something tangible to show where the inpiration came from. I received the lovely photograph below on my RSS feed of Ressurection Fern.

To Margaret – who reminds us to look at the little things and share them every day – and to the snails saved in front of the school hall after the rains[1].

The spark for a story of epic proportions

Dreaming of Wings

She was sitting on the flower, eating one of the bright orange petals. She did really have a name. She had heard herself being described as ‘slimy’ once and liked the sound of it, even if it had been meant as an insult. It was said, after all, not long before the owner of the voice returned, sprinkling a fine white powder as it moved past the bush where she was hiding. That had been a couple of days ago, and she had ventured to the plant with the bright flowers that tasted so sweet.

But there were others on the plant as well. The small ants whose chirping voices was the exact opposite of the ones that had given Slimy her name. A cricket crawled between the roots. And – most magnificent – a butterfly with wings like jeweled flowers alighted on the bloom to drink.

How Slimy envied her! What sights she must see! And how fast she moved, flitting about from bloom to bloom. Slimy would give anything to be able to grow wings like that and flit about the bedding and the great, green world beyond.

She made her way down to the ground for a nap and crawled onto some leaves. As she fell asleep, she realised that the leaved looked very much like elegant light brown wings. And Slimy dreamt of flying and flitting among the beautiful butterflies.

Postscript: The human throwing salt down in the garden should not be confused with Margaret (or me, please).  I am positive there’s better ways of getting rid of snails in a garden. And, luckily, Slimy is a very smart snail and knows to stay away. And I think “slimy” has a nice ring to it, semantics aside.

Virgin For Hire: Part 7, “In which an obstacle wearing monocle is encountered” will be ready for posting tomorrow – along with a surprise. I might as well go all out, seeing that this story (which was meant as a diversion during study breaks) has gotten a little out of hand in my head – and is proving to be a lot of fun to write.

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[1] Yes, I did get some strange looks when I carried the snails back to the garden (maybe even from the snails, who knows), but I couldn’t very well let them be squashed. 

This, that and a advertising campaign

Enough said:

Savage Chickens at its best

A brilliant advertising campaign from Exclusive Books / 'n Briljante advertensieveldtog deur Exclusive Books:

Exclusive Books: http://www.exclus1ves.co.za/promotion/lekker-lees-fees/

Ageless Words on Friday: The Battle of Maldon

This excerpt of The Battle of Maldon is taken from The Word Exchange: Anglo-Saxon Poems in Translation, an absolutely wonderful collection of poetry. The translations are superb, fluid and still contains the atmosphere of the original Anglo-Saxon poems.

The first time I read about The Maldon of Maldon (that I can recall, at least), was in Helen M. Steven’s book The Myth and Magic of Embroidery, in which a beautiful embroidery of Byrhtnoth is shown.

The Myth and Magic of Embroidery by Helen M. Stevens

Probably the best known lines from this poem; “Hige sceal þe heardra, heorte þe cenre, mod sceal þe mare, þe ure mægen lytlað.” also appears in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Homecoming of Beorhtnoth, Beorhthelm’s Son.

This translation of the poem into Contemporary English has been made by David R. Slavitt. I will give the English first, followed by the Anglo-Saxon. A part of the poem can also be listened to at www.poemsoutloud.net. For The Battle of Maldon, click here.

Next week I’ll be bringing you an excerpt from a translation of the Old Norse text recounting The Battle of Stamford Bridge.

Leofsun then spoke,        raising his linden shield:

“I offer my oath.                       Not one step backward!

I fare only forward         to avenge in hard battle

my good lord’s death.     The brave men of my village,

the people of Sturmer,    will not have the need

to resproach my behaviour.         My friend has fallen

and I am lordless.           I will not go home

or turn away from the fight,        but a weapon must take me,

point or sharp blade edge.”          He advanced in his anger

and steadfast he fought,               scorning the flight.

Dunner spoke up                        as he brandished his weapon.

An honest peasant,          he called out to all,

bidding each soldier        to avenge great Byrhtnoth:

“Let no one hesitate        who intends to wreak vengeance

on the Viking horde,       nor fear for his life!”

Leofsunu gemælde          and his linde ahof,

bord to gebeorge;           he þam beorne oncwæð:

“Ic þæt gehate,   þæt ic heonon nelle

fleon fotes trym,                        ac wille furðor gan,

wrecan on gewinne         minne winedrihten.

Ne þurfon me embe Sturmere      stedefæste hælæð

wordum ætwitan,           nu min wine gecranc,

þæt ic hlafordleas           ham siðie,

wende fram wige,           ac me sceal wæpen niman,

ord and iren.”    He ful yrre wod,

feaht fæstlice,    flæm he forhogode.

Dunnere þa cwaeð,         daroð acwehte,

unorne ceorl,     ofer eall clypode,

bæd þæt beorne gehwyk              Byrhtnoð wræce:

“Ne mæg na wandian      se þe wrecan þenceð

Frean on folce,               ne for feore murnan.”

The Word Exchange: Anglo-Saxon Poems in Translation. Eds. Greg Delanty, Michael Matto. W.W. Norton & Company. 2011. p106-107.

On a lighter note...

This weekend I am going to finish the outline of Virgin for Hire: A Fairy Tale[1], and will have part 3 ready to post on Monday. Start reading here.

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[1] Don’t worry, this is a family-friendly piece of fiction.