Isla

The following is a short autobiographical story I wrote.  It needs some work but it's a reasonable start.

ISLA

A stuffy old yellow and orange Wallace Arnold coach doesn’t sound like the most promising basis for adventure, but that was what took me, my parents and sister down to Cornwall in the summer of 1987 for what would be our only family holiday.  I was nine years old.  The coach started in West Yorkshire and detoured to several places in the West Midlands, picking up passengers here and there, stopping for a fancy afternoon tea at a posh hotel in Weston-Super-Mare (which we skipped because my parents couldn’t afford it), before eventually arriving at a seafront hotel in Newquay some twelve hours later. All the children – me included – got sick.  The driver, amiable and friendly, was called Harry – nicknamed Harry Redhead, because his hair was red as a rooster’s wattle. 

It was on this holiday that I learned to surf, something I took up enthusiastically but have never done since.  Towan Beach was ideal for surfing, and the activity was popular.  Tall white-crested waves in marine blue crashed from the Atlantic Ocean into the narrow bay and around an islet on the eastern end of the beach - linked to the coast by a precarious-looking rope bridge - atop of which was perched a small red house which I always stared up at and wondered about.  Using a cheap polystyrene board my father bought, it took me many attempts before I could stand upright in the surf.  Amazingly, the board didn’t crack.  The weather in Newquay that summer was mostly wet and windy, but this didn’t deter me, much to the bemusement of old man Branock, a wizened, bespectacled local fisherman and musician who could speak actual Cornish and worked near the hotel.  Seeing me emerge at 6 o’clock a couple of mornings in the middle of a rain shower, he looked me up and down as if I was crazy.

The holiday included coach trips around Cornwall – we visited tin mines, craggy coasts, Land’s End and small fishing villages with odd-looking cottages dated back many centuries.  Harry Redhead would hand out lunch bags to us children, which typically included plain cheese sandwiches, a bag of crisps and a small glass bottle of cherryade pop which had to be handed in at the end of each day so it could be cleaned and refilled later.  I remember Boscastle and the Old Post Office in Tintagel, but not the names of many other places.  I was not used to old buildings, and in Cornwall they were everywhere.  Back home, everything was modern – what I would now characterise as, variously, brutalist and suburban.  Cornwall was a very different place, yet somehow familiar.  It was old, palpably.  The buildings spoke of tradition - sash windows, old grey stone and lintels, dark roof tiles.  The natural landscape – the bright blue sea and sky merging in shades, the yellowy-white beaches, the verdant rolling hills beyond – contrasted with an ancient and industrial landscape built by Man, and rather like attractive old railways, it all seemed to blend together sensitively and my aesthetic senses developed.  But more than that, Cornwall had culture.  Everything about it – the buildings, landscape and people, the way they looked and spoke - conveyed distinctiveness and coherence.  I convince myself now that what we saw was the real Cornwall, and not just a Potemkin show for naïve tourists.  I want to believe that Cornwall really is Cornish, that it has an identity based on a distinct people and their unique culture – a beacon, if you like, against dreary modernity and homogeneity. 

In particular, I remember a fishing village perched precariously on the hill surrounding a tiny harbour, with the houses going right up to the harbour edge.  I now think it was Mousehole but I am not sure.  I remember the funny pronunciation of the name – Muzzle.  It was in the Muzzle-place that I wandered off.  The day was drawing in and my parents, as was typical of them, were preoccupied looking round an antique shop.  I was enchanted by the surroundings and something drew me further into the village itself.  I thought it looked picturesque, especially in the bright evening light.  Sleepy-looking grey-bricked cottages and townhouses with smoky chimneys glinted yellow against a bright red sky and cast dark shadows that looked like giants reaching out to the sea.  I walked along the main street passing sweet shops and bakeries with huge stacks of white-grey toffee blocks.  The smell and taste of toffee is one of my abiding memories of Cornwall, the other is meeting a real-life witch. 

I had happened on a small, poky little atelier that doubled as a shop. I stood in the door for a while.  I was a very shy boy anyway, but something made me afraid to go in.  Then I met eyes with the woman sat at a rough wooden bench making something (I can’t remember what it was) and she smiled and beckoned me forward, as if it was alright for me to come in.  Behind her I could see shelves with steaming cauldrons emitting coloured smoke.  The inside of the shop smelt of sweet marzipan or something almondy – a smell that I remember throughout my childhood, for some reason.  The place was a mess.  Even though I must have been small, I was practically tripping over things that were dangling here and there at my height – incense sticks, candles, jars of various homemade things, rainbow V-stitch blankets, brightly-coloured stout little liquid tubs with blower sticks, handcrafted jewellery, strange hats, robes of different colours – I remember black, red and bright green - old bric-a-brac, thick dusty volumes with odd symbols on them, and some general interest books, some boyish fiction.  The latter drew my attention and I started browsing.

The woman, who I assumed to be the proprietor, had a definite accent that could have been Scottish or Cornish.  I think of Scottish only because of the name, which I do remember – she called herself Isla.  She was perhaps in her 40s or 50s, tall and thin.  Her face was bright and alert.  I remember jet black hair and eyebrows, stern sharp green eyes that bore into me, heavy makeup with red lips and green eyeshadow to match her irises, and a sharp aquiline nose.  She was attired in a patchwork quilt dress, high boots with pointy toes, wore numerous necklaces and bangles, and sported large earrings, all of which jingle-jangled a little as she busied around.  The most interesting things were what she wore around her neck – including a large silver star shaped medallion, which I later realised was a pendulum containing a Pentagram, and what looked like an ivory or whalebone pendant.

A book had caught my eye – I liked the cover, which showed a colouring of mountains, and on flicking through the pages the story seemed to be about wolves and pioneer men somewhere in America.  I was keen to buy it, had some pocket money from my parents, and decided to spend some of it.  I took the book to the workbench.  The woman looked up.

 “That’s a handsome cover, and you’re a handsome little boy, aren’t you.”

I blushed and looked down.  I realised the almond smell was her. 

“Come on, I have something out back that will interest you”, she said as I tendered my money.

She kept various things, most of which I don’t remember, but some I do.  There was a long wooden table on which was laid out a red cloth and on which she kept magical tools, including a razor sharp, glistening athame with a jet handle, a wand, a besom made of birch twigs, a chalice, candles and crystals, a small rusted bell and what looked like a pile of notebooks.

She was a witch.  She explained her name was Isla and asked me where I was from.  I’d not thought that witches were real.  As a nine-year old, it had not occurred to me.  I admit I was a little frightened, but I gradually became more comfortable as the minutes ticked by and she explained her religion and asked me questions.  I told her about my own precocious beliefs.  I had attended Sunday School and had quickly rejected superstitious Christianity, thinking it ridiculous.  I thought all the Jesus miracle stories were funny and had struggled not to laugh out loud when reading them to the rest of the class.  This had caused me to be thrown out for a while.  The teacher had called me an atheist, which I realised meant somebody who does not believe in God.

She told me it was good that I thought this way – she was the first person who had ever told me something like that, which surprised me since everybody else disapproved.  This was at a time when atheism was still frowned on.  In fact, she was the first person who seemed to think along the same lines as I did, except it was confusing.  She didn’t believe in God, instead she believed in a Goddess of some sort and another Horned God and practised magic as the priestess of a coven.  This confused me still more.

Her faith was paganism, she said, which she explained was an ancient religion of Britain.  She believed in celebrating nature.

“What about magic, druids and things like that?”, I asked hopefully.

“Yes, there are rituals.  Those are part of it because paganism is tradition.  Play-acting, dressing up, pretending, is our way of keeping traditions alive, so we recognise where we have come from.  But magic is real too.”

“How can it be real?”, I spoke back sharply, with a definite tone of scepticism – which she didn’t seem to like, but her expression quickly changed back to friendly.

“I’ll show you.”  She dipped one of the blowers in a tub and then handed it to me, motioning with a tilt of the head.  “Say this: Be blissful, Be free, Blow away these troubles in me”.  I did.  “Now blow”, and I blew the bubbles, and that was my introduction to magic.

I read the wolf book on the way back to Newquay.  It was by Jack London – White Fang and Call of the Wild.  These would be the first adult stories I read, and Jack London became one of my favourite authors.

What's In A Name?

A play about Shakespeare, inspired by thoughts about the Chandos portrait, which seems to me quite similar to da Vinci's Mona Lisa.

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

by Tom Rogers

Dear Will…

Or is it William?

You prefer which?

Since we’re intimate,

You’ve poured out your heart,

We ought to start,

On the right note,

So…Lend me your ears,

I have a complaint,

A bone to pick,

A rose by any other name,

May be just as sweet,

But we lie if we pretend,

That what matters isn’t fame,

You told us,

Through Juliet,

That names don’t matter,

But you were wrong,

They do,

  More than mere chatter,

  It’s not to besmirch,

Yet the eternal,

The heart and soul,

You reach across time and space,

We want to know,

The artist as much as the art,

We are stood on ceremonies,

We want to memorialise,

The appeal is deafening,

We need testimonies,

The human factor,

Is part of the performance,

And Shakespeare,

Actor, poet, dramatist,

The most human human being of all,

Perhaps the first human,

But intrigue, romance!

You plead,

And I will allow,

There is something in it,

Words, words, words,

What matters is the art,

The wooden O,

Your words are Greek,

But they touch us,

Yet for the inquisitive,

It is cold comfort,

Curiosity is aroused,

Meaning is addiction,

It only comes from knowing,

Who is essential to Why,

If we can only guess,

Appreciation is lost,

Then angst is abroad,

Among riven men,

Who let slip the dogs of war!

Like Prince Hamlet,

The original angry young man,

We need a link to the past,

It’s a thread to the future,

I admit there’s more to it,

Or less to it,

Jealousy’s green-eyed monster,

Has me conquered,

You are great,

That we appreciate,

We have the King’s Men to thank,

We’re bedazzled,

Still,

I am plain,

Yet you were plain too,

Gifted to let your works speak,

Your inner self unravelled,

But let’s not mince words,

Or matters,

The proof’s the thing,

Not the play,

You’ve left no kin,

The problem then,

Is all we have are effects,

Belongings,

Which can be gainsaid,

By slavering knaves,

Of ill-intent,

Double, double toil and trouble,

So who am I addressing?

Who was the Bard?

Really?

You’ve condemned us to keep guessing,

You are the accused,

To be or not to be?

It’s as good as any question,

Much as it may cause perplexion,

The struggle is like a fight,

In the mind,

The beast is as tricky,

As an alligator,

But without the brawn,

We cannot find an accommodation,

Don’t play fast and loose,

Let us have the naked truth,

The mystery begins with your portrait,

Published only after you met your deathly fate,

The enigmatic smile,

Like the Mona Lisa,

Is it a smile?

Earring and hippie mane,

The apparel oft proclaim the man,

A man of your time,

Inauspicious in ours,

A challenge,

To abstemious Puritans,

Past and present,

What else?

We have scraps and scattered parchments,

Inferences and guesses,

A shotgun wedding,

A Dark Lady,

Sonnets and bedrooms,

A will,

The arrows of your critics,

But no specifics,

Or did the Dark Lady give you issue?

A hidden Shakespeare dynasty?

A genetic literati?

Your own flesh and blood,

Writers not bearing your name,

But carrying your talent,

Your lineage and true legacy,

An invisible phalanx,

Risen to champion,

The world’s greatest language,

 In cyberspace,

Wherefore art thou, Shakespeare?

To the modern mind,

You are an incomprehensible,

Uneducated,

Untravelled,

Yet,

You travelled exotically,

Using only your quill,

You sonneted like a bird,

You impressed Queen Bess,

Or Falstaff did,

Yet politicked like Machiavelli,

And were as bloodstained,

Cold-blooded and cold-hearted,

And wrote of law like a lawyer,

How?

Are you an imposter?

In my heart of hearts,

I think not,

The thing is silliness,

I cannot imagine unmitigated savagery,

From one so foppish,

Who wrote of moonbeams in sleeping eyes,

And romantic melodrama,

Proteus and Julia, Valentine and Silvia,

And the goodness of Henry VI,

The creator of Banquo, Prospero and Mistress Quickly,

No!

Not even at the crack of doom,

Like Brutus,

A literary assassin,

A bandit?

And if that,

Then who did you stoop to elbow?

Who was Caesar?

Aye, there’s the rub,

Yet how could you be not a Cassius?

You were not white as driven snow,

Poets never are,

Cannot be,

As Yeats reminded us,

Wearing your heart on your sleeve,

I can believe,

An actual assassination,

An evil assignation,

A real-life Richard III,

Was not beyond calculation,

For Titus Andronicus,

Murder most foul,

The highest drama,

Committed under the owl,

Yet there is a defence,

To thine own self be true,

You were,

King Harry was Sovereign,

But when he sent Gloucester, Bedford and Exeter into battle,

He was just plain Harry,

You understood the heart of a king,

But gave him a plain man’s voice,

In Richard III and Shylock, you gave us villains to hate,

In Richard II, you questioned divine right,

In Macbeth and Titus Andronicus,

You staged violence,

To drug the masses,

But then,

You were a propagandist,

For the Tudors,

Is this one big joke?

Set in English Oak,

A stunt,

A laugh,

That we’re the butt of?

All the world’s a stage,

You said as sage,

Was that just on page?

 

Knock-knock,

Who’s there?

William who?

That is the question,

Forgive me if it seems distasteful,

That I should ask,

Were you Bacon or de Vere of Oxford?

Or Derby, Essex or Rutland?

Or Marlowe?

Or even Good Queen Bess?

The thing is laughable!

Give it short shift,

Or shall we say,

Just plain old Stratford?

Plain Stratford, I’d prefer,

Shakespeare,

The name we know,

A Norman warrior’s name,

But a William Who too,

A plain man,

Full of sound and fury,

From an ordinary birthplace,

You were born to the manner enough,

Yet an upstart crow,

A simple country boy,

Bearing borrowed feathers,

With a beatnik mane,

Who wrote marvellous plays,

Sonnets, ballads,

And found fame,
In letters.

Norman Nose

This is the beginning of a fictional history set in Yorkshire during the early part of the Norman Conquest.  Specifically, the year is 1069 and a group of Northern English chiefs meet to plot the assassination of William the Conqueror.  

We normally think of 1066, but 1069 was also an important year in English history.  It was the year William decided to lay waste to the entire north as a way of crushing the remaining English rebels once and for all.  Known as the Harrying of the North, the campaign lasted until 1071, and Yorkshire took the brunt of the Norman terror.

With the obvious exception of William himself, the characters here are entirely my invention.

NORMAN NOSE

It was a chilly November in the year 1069 when a dozen or more English warlords - the most powerful and vital of the North - assembled at the Meeting Place, atop a small, gentle, misty valley in Yorkshire.  They were chiefs from some of the Northern English kingdoms beyond the Normans’ reach – Elmet, Jorvik, Deira - and the chieftains of other smaller but important kingdoms.  They met in the hall of the village, which was reached up a steep track that stretched across the wetlands along the course of an old Roman road.  The route was surrounded by cultivated fields, in which the farmers busied planting einkorn, oats and beans and tended to goats, pigs and sheep.  Most of the men had arrived from the flatter drylands of Yorkshire just east or to the south, or the hills of the north and west. 

Arriving early in the morning, some of those who came were novel to the villagers.  Those from the West Riding were darker-featured than they were used-to and perhaps also fiercer in appearance and more barbaric than the pure blood Saxons; they dressed in armour as if ready for battle at any time, carried short broad swords in their belts and brightly-coloured heavy metal shields that seemed to be for show.  They rode a-brace on stocky, tough-looking horses that moved quickly and aggressively and scattered the women and children, who backed away in fear as they came.  Others, from the North Riding and further to the east, were purer Saxons and seemed more similar to the villagers and friendlier.  They were handsome, pink-skinned blond men, dressed in plain robes with plain wooden shields; they rode on tall warhorses that dwarfed the men and oxen of the fields and carried long swords with elaborately-fashioned hefts and handles, which seemed to be for ceremony.

As it was still dark, the warriors and chiefs were greeted by a solemn torch-lit assembly, who guided them to the hall, the interior of which was a single room lit by candles and a wild, raging fire that had been burning in the hearth for at least two days in readiness for their arrival.  Retainers busied around the men, and as the day progressed, food and drink were served, including wild boar, bloody pig, mutton, bread and cheese, all washed down with mead and other homemade ales.  By the afternoon, there was entertainment in the form of harp music and dice and board games, with bets taken and wagers of geld, land and property lost and gained, and re-lost and re-gained.  Fighting soon broke out.  There were arguments about everything – sons, weapons, women, martial prowess, money, property and inheritances, and bets just taken.  Amidst the drunkenness, long-forgotten ancient disputes and grievances were re-run, some dating back to the jarls and the Old Country of Scandinavia and the northern German tribes, brought up again only on occasions such as this.  Threats, boasts and promises of blood-vengeance abounded – some idle, some sincere, at least in that drunken moment – be it for this slight or that perceived insult. 

But as the evening drew near, all of it was forgotten as the party of men sat down to their proper business at the long table.  While the retainers were noisily occupied clearing the room of the mess, some chiefs dozed in their chairs while others quietly waited and sobered themselves in mind.  Finally, when it was night, the guards and retainers were sent away, down the valley to camp and wait for their chiefs.  The Twelve were alone.  

Flies buzzed around.  Rank mead that had long-since thrived and peaked now sat stale in grimy tankards.  Leif, one of the chieftains, woke from a doze and took a sip, spat it out and cursed it. The creamy, honey-tasting frothed ale, succulent meat and delicious cheese and bread were behind him.  The hall was now dark and silent and the manly frivolities were over.  Eleven others sat around the table with him, their faces - lit above silhouetted bodies - seemed nervous or even frightened.  Leif drifted back to sleep amid the eerie quietude. 

 While he dozed, a man in a dark cloak and wearing large roe stag’s antlers slowly entered the hall. As he appeared, an audible gasp echoed around the assembled men, who in their fright did not notice a wiry young man following him. 

The strange cloaked man was the local chief, Ceolwulf, lost to history but in fact known to all the English of his time, and feared by all.  He was old, with grey hair and beard, but his skin was youthful and his mind bright.  He spoke simply and plainly.  His voice, chilly, quiet and deliberate, carried across the hall and seemed even to carry on into an eternal ether, perhaps in a continuum from an ether in the past – there was something other-worldly about him. 

Standing before them, he began: “These are dark times for England.  We look to our gods, those of our own faith, the true faith.  We reject the false creed imposed on us by these aliens from the East.  We look to Woden, the all-father and creator, and Thor who sends his arrows of war.  The time has come for men of the folk to make a stand, to bring faith back to England, to restore the English folk.”

Noise was heard outside, some of the men moved to draw knives, Leif jolted awake in his chair.  It was merely that the wild swans had arrived in the valley, and a lone cob hissed around the shy hens, before being chased away by a cockerel.  Ceolwulf continued. “You Twelve, who assemble here, bear the responsibility of all our people.  In a moment, you will hear from Ethelgeid…” At this, Ceolwulf nodded towards the awkward, callow man in the corner and twelve eyes turned on Ethelgeid, who shifted nervously.  “Our enemy is ruthless…” Ceolwulf continued, “…I must warn you, Ethelgeid has had word from his sources within the Royal court that there is a terror to come….” 

The eyes looked back on Ethelgeid.  Ceolwulf saw where the attention was directed.  “Ethelgeid has been confided in.  I will not tell you the name of his sinner.”

This bit of light relief prompted good-natured laughter around the room.

“Ethelgeid has been told that William is determined to subdue the North.  His plan to bring us on side failed.  Now he plans to crush us, but not militarily.” 

Looks of puzzlement abounded.  Noticing this, Ceolwulf went on with the explication, “A great terror is coming.  The Normans are intent on laying waste to the North.  The aliens’ barbaric God tells them that those who defy their will shall have divine wrath visited on them.  Should we fail, we will lose all that we have lived and fought for.  We cannot fail.  We must not fail.” 

At this, there were loud murmurs of agreement around the table, some of the chiefs raising their tankards in salute.

 

“One more thing…”, Ceolwulf continued, “..before we go out this night, we will all meet at the Last Tree.” 

This final enigma was greeted with wild howling, whistling, cheering and banging of the table with fists and knives.  Once calm had resumed, Ceolwulf turned to Ethelgeid and nodded, before retreating to the dark, his visage and outline intermittently just visible in the light of the crackling fire.

Ethelgeid was an Englishman – precisely half-Dane, half-Saxon.  But he was educated.  He had been taught French, Latin, theology, Roman law and mathematics at St Peter’s Abbey and had travelled widely on the Continent, especially around Normandy and the Italian peninsula, including the Vatican.  Looking across the room at these twelve tough men, he began to sweat and shake, if not in a way that was conspicuous.  He was not a chief.  He was a lawyer and a scholar.  Nor was he martial or even specially masculine in frame or character.  His sword skills were good, but that was just simulated artistry.  He had never wielded a sword in anger, still less a proper weapon such as a spear or axe.  He had not been tested in the way these men had.  His voice was soft and his manner unassuming.  He was a man, surely, but from a different world.  Or rather, he was a man of different worlds who could converse with a Northern Englishman as easily as a civilised Norman or an educated clergyman, but he did not understand any of these worlds deeply, even his own, that of the Northern English.  How could he command their respect? He was one of them by blood, that was certain, but he was not of them in mind and spirit.  All he had was his faith and profession of loyalty to his folk, but that was not enough for men who knew the realities of battle and wanted answers.

Before Ethelgeid could begin, Thorald, a hardened and arrogant Saxon-Celtic chieftain of dark appearance from the West Riding, decided to put the young counsel off his stride.  Looking him up and down then tilting his head slightly to either side to rouse the others, he made his disdain clear: “We are to be lectured to by a Roman?”

The others mumbled to indicate agreement with the dismissive sentiment, at which Ethelgeid quickly drew his knife and, pouncing across the table, held it to Thorald’s throat. “I am no Roman, sir.  My family’s antecedences go back to the jarls.”  Thorald gaped back at him, wide-eyed and shocked, then looked to the dark for help. Ceolwulf’s face flashed in the fire.  He was unmoved, a signal to Thorald that the matter should be laid to rest.  Ethelgeid stepped back, sheathed the knife and resumed his speech, now more confident in his bearing.

“A Great Terror of the North is planned in which our farms, fields and livestock will be burned to cinder by the Normans.  Our women and children will be cast out into the cold.  Our people will starve.  The only way to prevent the fall of our community and folk is to eliminate the centre of Norman authority.  Remove the king and the whole edifice collapses.

Blank faces looked back at him in the dark.  Realising some of his elocution was too vague for the assembled company, he made himself plain: “The man who leads the Normans must be killed, and just as vital, must be seen to be killed at our hands.  We are not assassins.  This is war.”

“The man of whom you speak?”, Thorald challenged Ethelgeid again, staring him down.

“You ask his name, my brother?”, Ethelgeid responded.

“His name was spoken only moments ago”, another chief, Oswald, spoke in a loud whisper, nodding to Ceolwulf.  Then looking round the room for support he continued to Ethelgeid: “You must say his name.”

“We must all say it.  Treason for one, treason for all”, was Ethelgeid’s rejoinder.

“This is no treason, Ethelgeid”, Olaf remonstrated sharply from the other end of the table, but Ethelgeid ignored him and continued.

“The man known as William the Great among his admirers.  Known to us as William the Bastard.”

“Aye…William the Bastard”, a smiling Ulf sang it while lifting and spilling his rank ale.

 “William.  I condemn him”, Leif enjoined, now fully awake and enthused, having caught the gist that there would be some violence involved in whatever was being schemed-up. 

“You all must condemn him!”, Ceolwulf demanded.

“Death to William!”  Death to the Bastard!”, they all shouted in unison.

Shouting above the din, his hands begging that they listen, Ethelgeid continued: “William is, as I speak, on route to York where he plans to spend Yule.  That is our chance.”

Fists banged the table, now without the accompaniment of cheers.  This was deadly and serious.

“How have you come by this information, brother?”, Thorald asked, now more conciliatory.

“Through sources within the Royal camp.  William consorts with a dark woman from a distant tribe.  She teaches him English.”

Laughter among the men.

“Settle down…”, Ceolwulf pleaded wearily.

Ethelgeid continued: “Alas, despite best endeavours, and in spite of his noble appearance, the Great Conqueror is not a man noted for his bienséance.”  This comment was greeted with more blank stares.  Ethelgeid returned to his audience.  “The important thing is that we must identify him.  William uses replacements, doubles, to trick and fool potential assassins”.

“Doubles?”, someone asked.

“Men who resemble him.  He sends them around the countryside in his place, in case he is attacked.  The point is we only have one chance to finish this as the scheme exposes us.  We must know for sure that we have our man, or we are lost.”

“Then how will we surmise?”, asked a minor chieftain from the far north, Wilfrid.

“The Norman nose.” 

“The Norman nose?  Of what is this you speak?”, asked another chieftain, Cuthbert.

“Our Great Conqueror is a classic of the specimen.  Quite distinguished.  Tall and blond with a thin hooked-shaped nose.” 

Thorald turned and joked to the others: “Brothers, I had never thought that such a fine Norman nose would ever be espied in Yorkshire.”

Raucous laughter followed that comment and at this the assembled Anglo-Saxon government of Yorkshire broke order and started to drink and sing louder than ever before, led by the towering Thorald, who magnanimously gave Ethelgeid a friendly back-slap and urged him to join in.  The thread of Ethelgeid’s speech was lost and there was nothing to do, but the point had been made.  The chiefs assented.  They were all conspirators.  Now to execute his plan.

Wolf

A short poem I just wrote...

WOLF

If I am reincarnated,

I want to be an animal that is free,

Not Man,

Man is not free,

But the Wolf is,

If the Lion is king of the jungle and plain,

The Wolf is king of the forest and tundra,

Man is good or bad,

The Wolf just is.