I’ve had some very dark days these last couple of weeks. So
I decided to make this post about some of the music that makes these days a
little brighter.
I picked this CD up at the local CUM Books (it stands for “ChristelikeUitgewersmaatskappy”, and is a Christian publisher in case you just found your
jaw hanging on the desk or any Third Day fans wondered what kind of store is this?!) while browsing their music section. I’ll
admit part of why I picked it up in the first place was because it’s a CD and
DVD on one disc and I hadn’t seen that before. It turned out to be one of the
best CDs I’ve ever bought without knowing the band or their music. I’ve had
some good cries to this CD and it’s also helped me through some very dark times,
including my mother’s passing.
My favourite tracks on this CD are “Cry out to Jesus”, “Mountain
of God” and “Rise up”.
Painting
your canvas
Second up is a song by a-ha from their CD “Lifelines”. I’ve
probably been a fan of them since I was born as some of the first music I can remember
listening to in the house was theirs (their first hit was the year before I was
born) and is still a firm favourite. This specific song is “White Canvas” and the
first verse of the song is:
Stories are painted In lines on your face Misunderstandings And little mistakes A chance to start over Is all that it takes You know if you do Your life is a canvas The colors are you
Just
fun and silly
Sometimes listening or singing along to fun or silly songs
also helps. Two of these must include the “Do Virgins Taste Better Medley” and “The Unicorn Song”, written by Shel Silverstein. The first begs the question why dragons
specifically prefer to eat virgins; the second gives the reason why we don’t see
unicorns anymore – hint: it involves Noah’s ark. Both of these versions are by
the Brobdignagian Bards.
As a last thought – I received this picture via email from
my sister during the week. Think this is a good one to keep in mind –
I wish I knew where ideas come from. One of my friends have
told me they would love a front seat “to see what’s going on in there”. For the
most part, I can never quite place my finger on what exactly spurred a certain
story. One flash piece, “Level 3”, came about after a family gathering – but
probably not in the way you think it would. It all started when I referred to a
“Chicken Licken”[1]
advert (Madam & Eve had especially good cartoons on this theme, but I
digress).
What were we talking about before that? I have no idea. But this
advert led to a discussion about people building into the ground instead of
building above ground. That way, you could have streets, but no buildings, just
trees and gardens.
Skip to a few hours, lunch and a bunch of other
conversations later.
Suddenly, I feel a story building. What if people got scared
and moved underground, basically forming new communities? What if their only
contact with the outside world was the traders – who gave them untrue
information? What if it played out in a fantasy world and not on earth? I sat
down and wrote “Level 3” in one go, seat-of-pants style. After a bit of editing
(yes, I actually want to rewrite the whole thing now that I’ve read it again),
this is what came of the idea:
Level 3
The rumors had started a week before the king died. “Well,
you know what they say about that nephew of his,” followed by a knowing nod or
wink left many to speculate about just what They did say. Most came to the
conclusion that what they did say was negative. The kingdom had been at war for
nearly two centuries and the future looked bleak.
Like most other Blank
Street families, Johan’s family started giving in to the pressures of those
around them, buying enough food to last for months and struggling into the
Echoing Caves on the day the king breathed his last, even though most believed
were inhabited by ghosts and evil spirits . They were of the first to go below
and received rooms on the third level of the underground building, above the
level given to the upper-classes. Closer to the water than most and with some
ventilation they lived almost as comfortably as those below them. On the second level living was cheaper, but
also closer to danger. The first level was a cramped, dirty space where
entrances were blocked as well as they could be. Most here made their living by
trading with those on the surface. And with the traders came the frightening
news from the outside world. Days turned
into weeks, weeks into months and soon they had too little food for all the
mouths to feed below ground and fairy tales about ghosts were soon forgotten.
“The last of the grain this year, master,” one trader told
Johan’s father. “I can’t get it any cheaper than this. And can’t go outside yourself – them brigands
have taken to robbing and murdering in the light of day! Why, it’s a miracle I
got this bag without being run through.” He held out a cupped hand and Johan
watched from the shadows how his father paid thrice as much for grain as he
would have before. If it kept on like this they would not be able to buy food
much longer. Johan took out his own
coins and sighed. He decided not to eat that night, claiming a headache and
retiring early.
When he woke the lanterns were nearly empty. He sat up,
looking around him for signs of breakfast. But the rest of the family was still
abed. “Sleepy heads! Time to – “He walked closer to the sleeping forms of his
family. They were in a fitful state of sleep. Sweat beaded on their contorted
faces. Yet not one made a sound. He ran to the fourth level to fetch a doctor
with his father’s last money.
The doctor came soon and looked them over. “It’s blackroot
poison, all right; don’t know how they got it down here.” He gazed steadily at
Johan. “Yet you do not look ill?” He let the question hang in the air.
“The… the only thing we did differently is that I didn’t eat
supper.” He looked towards the sack of grain. The doctor opened it and smelled
a few kernels and turned to Johan “Where did you get this grain?”
“One of the traders –"
“Then you must go yourself.” His eyes were dark.
“Where? Outside?”
The doctor nodded. “You can’t trust the traders anymore,
son. Go yourself and bring medicine and news of the outside world.”
Johan looked from the doctor to his family and back.
“They will last a day at the most. I can give them something
to slow the poison…”
Johan thought about the few coins he had left. They would
never be enough to pay anyone to go outside to get the antidote. But he also
didn’t want to leave his family. “What
must I bring?”
The doctor scribbled on a slip of paper. “You need to find
an apothecary that can mix that for you… if there is any left…”
Johan packed a few things and took a filled lantern to light
his way. “I will return with it before nightfall,” he said as much to give
himself strength than to the doctor. Then he started climbing to the first
level. He made his way between the rabble of people. With his lantern
extinguished it was easy enough to slip out of the trader’s door. He guarded
his aching eyes with one hand and stumbled into shadows away from the
entrance. He crouched against a wall
until his eyes finally adjusted. He looked around him. The city looked just as
it always had. There were no broken windows, no burned buildings, no gangs
roaming the streets. He walked to where the apothecary was, seeing no change
whatsoever. He entered and bells rung above the door as they always had. Mr.
Potterglass stepped out from behind the partitioning at the back of the shop.
His broad smile faded and his brown face became as white as a sheet.
“Johan?”
“Yes, Mr Potterglass, I’ve come to beg medicines for my
family.” He held out the measly coins on his palm.
Potterglass enveloped the boy in a crushing hug. “Bless me,
son, we thought you were all dead and gone! Stolen from us by the spirits in
the night! Where are your family?”
“In hiding.”
“Hiding? From what?”
“From the new king.”
“Why?” His hands worked deftly to ready the prescription. “I
mean… things have never been so good. We have peace with our neighbors for the
first time in generations.” He looked the emaciated boy up and down. “And we
have more food than we know what to do with.”
Johan’s blood ran cold. Not waiting to eat or rest, he
grabbed the medicine and rushed back to the entrance of the chambers. He
searched and searched, knowing that he was only gone a few hours. But there
were no signs of an entrance or of the traders. He was still searching when
night fell. But there was nothing. He sank to his knees and started to cry.
[1]
And now I want hot wings. Well that’s just perfect.
I picked up the second volume of Naxos’ English Song Series one day while
browsing a local music shop’s Classical Room. I was looking for some light
music to either work or write to and found these next to my trusty “early
music” shelf[1]. The
album contains 31 poems from a variety of different poets and writers, set to
music by the composer Arthur Somervell (1863 – 1937).
One thing I love about Naxos’ albums is that they have
a booklet containing an introduction to the music as well as the lyrics of the
songs included. While I knew some of the songs from other albums, I was
surprised again at the beauty and scope of the songs included. While listening
to the album and reading through the poems and songs, it is very difficult not
to be inspired!
Here are two of the songs included on the album. One
is a poem by A.E. Housman, “White in the moon the long road lies” and the other
is from William Shakespeare’s Henry VIII;
“Orpheus with his lute”.
White in the
moon the long road lies
A.E. Housman
White in the moon the long road lies,
The moon stands blank above;
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.
Still hangs the hedge without a gust,
Still, still the shadows stay:
My feet upon the moonlit dust
Pursue the ceaseless way.
The world is round, so travellers tell,
And straight tho’ reach the track,
Trudge on, trudge on, ‘twill all be well,
The way will guide one back.
But ere the circle homeward hies,
Far, far must it remove:
White in the moon the long road lies
That leads me from my love.
Orpheus with
his lute
William
Shakespeare
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops, that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing.
To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung: as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art:
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or hearing, die.
I found this beautiful rendition of "White in the moon the long road lies" - enjoy!
[1] I usually have a fixed route when browsing the shop – start in
front with Irish, Scottish and Welsh music. Move to Early Music, then go on to
ballet scores before ending up in the back row with different vocal artists,
new releases and then checking if any of the Gilbert & Sullivan operas are
affordable (When are they actually going to have The Mikado when I also have
money to buy it?) before doing a quick tour of other composers to see if
there’s anything interesting available.
One of the races of Airthai is the
Tellerassar of Heimfeie. They are shape shifters, who were given the Talent of
being able to change into the form of an eagle and back into human form at
will.
In Airthai, new races may be formed in certain
circumstances - for instance, the Tellerassar were 'normal' humans before they
fought and fled from the then ruler of Guldargan (a few centuries before “A
Dragon’s Freedom”). Life was difficult and the ruler basically enslaved his
people. His half brother stood up against him, supported by many followers.
This half brother was Ikairi, the first of the Tellerassar (and mentioned in
passing in “A Dragon’s Freedom”. A civil war broke out and Ikairi found himself
and his followers cornered within a ravine, about to be slaughtered by
Guldargan’s soldiers. He begged the Creator to save his people and the Creator
then gave them a great gift the Talent to turn into the shape of an eagle and
so they were able to escape. They also received their own language to set them
aside from the other people of Guldargan.
The
Land of the Shape-shifters
The small country of the Tellerassar is
called Heimfeie and is a mountainous part of Airthai, just north of the
Midlands. Here they live in houses built on the cliffs, keeping them safe from
attack. (Other than just being really cool…) There are, however also some
villages in the valleys where the ScrÃa live. They use signals of smoke to
alert the Tellerassar if they are in danger; burning a specific plant found in
this area which gives of very dark smoke when burnt, making it easy to spot at
a distance.
The
Appearance of the Tellerassar
I love Fish Eagles and their unearthly call
seemed perfect for the Tellerassar. And the idea of being able to shape-shift
has a certain fascination. So, the Tellerassar “coincidentally” looks and
sounds a lot like the Fish Eagles you get on Earth…
I don’t often watch music videos, but sometimes there is one
which you at first just happen to see and then want to watch again just because
it is so good. (It’s even better when you also really like the song.) I usually
love Parlotones videos, but this one – “Stars Fall Down” – has especially been
on my mind lately.
You can also read my post on "How to study in the real world" and Finish Year 2012 by clicking here.
The actual reason for
writing “A Dragon’s Freedom” was to write about the life of the dragon Skáhag who plays such a
vital role in the later years of the Midlands of Airthai. His death was
actually the first thing I wrote about him (poor thing!) as part of the story
of both the forming of Naeddre and the love story between Ameragh and SÃldu. At that time I was
writing a novel about the Midlands (no, it will never see the light of day in
its current form – it was practice, or so I tell myself now) and I had built up
the people of Naeddre’s mythology of Skáhag. But I needed to know where the dragon came
from – and what it was doing in the Midlands in the first place.
Seat-of-Pants Worldbuilding
So, while this story was
the first published, it was set in a world I already knew quite well. But, this
was all written before the creation story of the world and the story of the
sundering. I had just made up the Dragon Guardians on the southern coast and
already had a vague story about a ‘not-very-nice’king of the Midlands who
gathered dragon tears for riches. Now it was just a matter of putting the two
together.
I wanted the dragons to
be simply animals in the world (albeit talking animals). So, like any animal,
it would be ‘good’ until treated in such a way that it lashed out. Skáhag had been mistreated
during his life, and bound by magic to a master, so that his fight was as much
against humans as the darkness created within him. When Ameragh sings to him a
song that releases its bonds, his death at the hand of his master is
bittersweet as he is at last freed.
By this time the
(somewhat) secret language used by the Dragon Guardians and dragons was already
present in Ameragh’s song (Here’s the song). I then decided that, because it
was so powerful, that it was only known by a select few – the Dragon Guardians,
the dragons and the Seafolk’s elders, although they knew it to a much lesser
extent. This language was gifted to the Guardians and the dragons in much the
same way the Tellerassar was given their own language. Therefore, if the king
stole a dragon egg, he would need someone who could communicate with the
dragon. Enter Nasja...
A boy called Nasja
The first scene of the
story which popped into my head was the dragon’s nest and a boy stealing one of
the eggs. At first this was supposed to have been done because of greed on his
part (and he was older). But that didn’t sit well with what I had in mind for
the rest of the story. For me it was a lot more striking to have him do
something which is taboo for Dragon Guardians in order to save his family than
simply do it for payment.
The next scene I wrote
was of Nasja in the king’s palace. Although I needed a reason for him not to be
able to escape, he probably would not have had a banged-up leg if it wasn’t
that my own bad knee (the right one, not the left – see, it’s complete different…) was extremely
painful that day![1]
At this point, I planned
and wrote the rest of the story in a rough draft. When I had finished it,
however, I realised that I had had Nasja basically act alone and didn’t really
give him cause as to why he would suddenly, after a good ten to twelve years,
decide to free the dragons and go home. I left the story to stew, pottering
around every now and then and then turned my thoughts to some other short
fiction and worldbuilding while I figured it out.
Next week: Worldbuilding shape-shifters and magicians
[1] Mine is banged-up from ballet, though, and not being kidnapped and
dragged over a desert... Cold weather, however, doesn’t really care how you ended up hurting yourself.
Drum roll, please (or
vuvuzela if you are so inclined, but I would prefer drums. Or bagpipes)…
The big news I have is
that a big medieval and renaissance studies symposium is being held later this
year – and my study leader has asked if I would like to propose a paper to read
there. (I did a happy dance and then, very professionally said ‘yes’.)
To top it off, the theme
for this year is “Mortality and Imagination: The Life of the Dead in the Middle
Ages and Renaissance”. Of course I will have to do something with all the dead,
undead and ghosts you find in the Icelandic sagas! I’m leaning towards the Eyrbyggja saga (Saga of the Ere-dwellers),
in which many ghosts, corpses and undead feature. The zombie apocalypse, saga style.
And, like another professor once said: “Gore can also be fun”[1].
For instance, take this
quote from the saga (Chapter 53):
But when two weeks of winter
were worn, the shepherd came home on a night, and went straight to his bed and
lay down, and in the morning when men carne to him he was dead. So he was
buried at the church there.
A little after that great
hauntings befell; and on a night as Thorir Wooden-leg went out for his needs,
and turned off aside from
the door, when he would go in again, he saw how the shepherd was come
before the door. Then would
he go in again, but the shepherd would nowise have it so; and Thorir was
fain to get away, but the
shepherd went at him, and got hold of him, and cast him homeward up against the
door. At this he was affrighted exceedingly; yet he got him to his bed, and he
was by then grown coal-blue all over.
Now from this he fell sick
and died, and was buried there at the church; but ever after were the twain,
the shepherd and Thorir
Wooden-leg, seen in company, and therefrom were folk full of dread, as was
This is also big news
for me because, if my paper gets chosen, it will be the first one which I give
at such an academic get-together. And sometimes you just need someone to
believe in you enough to ask something like this to make you believe that you
can actually do it.
So, for the next year,
there will probably be a lot more mythology, sagas and folklore posts on the
blog. I hope you will enjoy it as much as I do!
[1] We were busy with Frankenstein
as part of Literary Theory and one student asked why we were doing such a “gory
book”. In her dry way the professor simply smiled and said “because gore can
also be fun”. And then people wonder why I love my studies…
[2]Translation
by William Morris. This and other Icelandic Sagas can be read and downloaded at
the Icelandic Saga Database: http://sagadb.org/
