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