The Barnåler Bowl
Follow the shearwater as she flies up the ragged coast beyond Tromsø, skimming the pewter-grey sea towards the inlet where the winter house stands. As her sisters circle above the island in the fjord she swoops down to clip the snow-capped house. Built of wood by generations long gone, it nestles with its back to the forest. The small terraced garden, which buffers the house from the trees, feeds the insects and the senses in the summer months, and now lies under a deep quilting of snow. The front of the house stares out across the sea, its windows blinking lazily in the perpetual twilight of the winter months.
As the gliding bird turns out towards the island, Morfar closes the door behind him and strides across the garden, a sheaf of wheat under his arm. He places it against the trunk of an old aspen, presses it down firmly, and binds it to the tree with twine to ensure the wind doesn’t take it.
“There you go my beauties” he mutters under his breath, as he leaves his seasonal gift to the birds of the forest. Turning back towards the house he trudges his way to the woodshed and taking the axe down from its peg starts to chop the logs.
It is Christmas eve and in the house the breakfast things still lie upon the table. Mormor has made a steaming pan of rice porridge, seasoned with butter, sugar and cinnamon, and secretly stirred in an almond, as is the tradition on this day. Each has eaten their fill, and to Vilde’s joy she has bitten upon the sticky almond, and been rewarded with a white marzipan pig, which now stands on the kitchen table looking rather pleased with itself.
The fire is built high, and crackles comfortingly, firing the odd spark across the hearth in sheer delight. From the broad mantle-shelf, a fine knitted stocking hangs, and alongside stands the old log box, faded in its pastel-painted scenes of folklore.
Mormor is in the kitchen making Julekake, a seasonal bread with raisins, candied peel and cardamom. She hums to herself as the scent of warm spices drifts and lends the house a festive air. Covering the large bowl with a damp cloth, and leaving the mixture near the stove to rise, she hangs her apron upon the peg, and walks back into the living room. With her back to the fire she says, “Time for the Barnåler bowl I think, don’t you?” and smiles towards Vilde.
Vilde runs to the cabinet in the corner of the room, turns the key, and opens the old glazed door. She returns with the bowl cupped preciously in her hands. The tradition of the Barnåler bowl has run for generations in the Heglund family, and today is its day.
As Vilde places the bowl on the low table in the middle of the room Mormor and Tuva, Vilde’s mother, draw their chairs closer. Mormor places her knitting on the floor, her wooden needles skewering a partially completed pair of mittens.
The bowl is of turned wood, burnished by winter hands to a rich dark sheen. Around its rim is a silver band, scalloped and pitted like the scales upon a fish. It is filled with barnåler, pine needles, that form a deep grey-green cushion, all harvested from the family Christmas trees of years gone by.
They each draw straws to decide upon the order, and Tuva draws the shortest. She slowly stirs the needles with her finger and feels the sharp prickle. Drawing her finger from the bowl the needle fails to hold, and she laughs towards Vilde.
“Your turn sweetheart” she says.
Vilde gingerly inserts her finger into the soft pile, stirs it gently, and sighs with relief as she removes it unharmed.
She and Tuva turn towards Mormor, “Now your turn … take care.”
With a deep-rooted superstition Mormor gently kisses her fingertip and presses it into the bowl, stirring one way and then the other. She feels the pine needle pierce her finger and removes it to reveal the little green spear standing proudly from its tip. She draws it out slowly, to reveal a pinpoint of scarlet blood. Sucking her finger, she winks at Vilde, then closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and smelling the evocative pine scent she begins the tale …
With her mother the little girl treks along the path her ancestors walked long before her, generation before generation. They each step in unison, guided across the ages by the loving familiarity of unseen hands.
Every year at this time they bring their few reindeer home for winter. As they walk, their progress is accompanied by the sound of the soft tread of the reindeer’s hooves in the snow, the ethereal whisper of the gliding sledges, and the muted ringing of the harness bells. Mamma sings an ancient song, and time passes peacefully.
As the path skirts the frozen lake the reindeer stop to scrape the ground to reveal the moss and lichen hidden deep beneath the snow. As they wait whilst the reindeer feed, the young girl looks around her at the silvered wonder of the land.
She sees the pale trunks of the birches stippled with dark patches, the darkness of the pine forests, and the desolate expanse of the frozen lake, spreading flat and faceless to the rise of the mountains beyond. Punctuating the silent white wilderness is one dark spec.
“Mamma what is that?”
Mamma shields her eyes against the sleeping sun. “A fisherman’s hole” she says, “A fish lure to feed the skillet”.
“Can I go see?” she says, placing a cautious toe upon the ice.
“Go Frida, but don’t be long. We have many steps to take before we reach home.”
Frida runs across the impervious ice, that caps the lake a foot thick beneath her feet.
A round hole has been cut in the ice, and above the hole three sticks, stripped of their bark, are tied together with a leather thong to form a tripod.
From the apex hangs a plaited thread of oiled wool, the strands died white and red, that disappears into the silvered black disc of water. She flicks at the thread with the tip of her finger and it vibrates like the strings of Morfar’s Hardanger fiddle, its silent oscillations setting off concentric ripples across the watery disc, as if the giant troll of the mountains had slammed his door to the cold winter wind, and the frozen earth had trembled.
Frida peers down into the vastness of the lake, confined within its small ring of ice. Below its frozen blanket no wind troubles the water’s surface. The plaited thread disappears into nothingness; a liquid void of silence and gloom. Then she spies a flash, a tiny glint, a reflection of the heaven’s glowing mantle. A fish she thinks and starts.
“Frida” cries her mother, “what’s wrong?”
“A fish Mamma!” she cries, “there’s a fish”.
“Are you sure?” Mamma looks around, scanning the path before and behind them, the scant birch-lands that flank it, the frozen lake and the rise of the mountain beyond. There are no signs of tracks, no smoke rising, no traces of another presence.
“I saw a glimmer Mamma, it’s down there!”
The poor creature’s plight touches Mamma’s heart as she peers into the ice hole. Again, she looks around, searching to reveal those tell-tale signs that someone has been here before them, but only Frida’s tracks and her own betray their presence. No one else has been here. No creature has stirred the covering of snow these past few days.
Mamma peers again into the void, searching the depths for any sign of life. At first she sees nothing, then briefly a single glint, like the sun caught in a melted drop on an icicle’s tip.
“I see it!” she says, and wonders what to do.
“Poor thing” says Frida, “… we must save it. Who knows how long it’s been caught?”
Mamma cautiously takes the thread in her hand and gently pulls. No counter motion answers her action. Though she can feel the weight of the catch, the forlorn creature puts up no struggle, seemingly beyond all hope, it is resigned to its fate. Ever so gently she draws upon the thread, releasing sodden coils upon the surface of the ice, as she draws the creature slowly from its element.
“Will he live Mamma?”
“I don’t know Frida; we’ll do what we can once we have him out.”
Still she pulls on the thread, hand over hand, pulling it cautiously from the dark water. Coil lies upon soaking coil, until it seems she is drawing up the fish from the very bottom of the lake. When it seems there will be no end they suddenly see a glimmering in the stillness of the depths.
“Oh Mamma, he’s dead” Frida says, and holds a cold hand to her mouth. “He’s not moving.”
With one more tug something breaks the surface, and Frida and Mamma step back in wonder. There, with a golden ring in its mouth, through which the woolen thread is tied, is a beautiful silver fish. No living fish this, but one finely cast in the purest silver, rising up on its tail fin, a glittering garnet for its eye. As Mamma takes one final tug the full wonder of their catch reveals itself.
On the end of the plaited thread, knee-high and most beautifully fashioned, is a tree, a spruce of sorts. The tree is wrought in silver, with each branch in the form of a slender fish, whose scales are faceted and gilded to catch and scatter light. Its twisted roots form a base upon which it stands firmly upon the ice.
“This is fairy work” whispers Mamma, and Frida stares incredulously, scarce able to believe her eyes.
Frida runs to the sledge and returns with a woven woolen blanket. Between them they gently dab away the remaining droplets of water from the tree, then crouch to see it better. It bears neither writing nor runes to betray its making but is finely made. The piercing and chaffing of the silver is marvelously done and seems beyond the capability of mere mortal men or women.
Frida looks to her mother for guidance, and Mamma sees in her innocent gaze the dilemma they now face. The ice has revealed the tripod, the lake delivered its precious gift, but mother and daughter struggle with the reasons. Who made this? Who left it here? And Why?
Mamma calls out a resounding “Hello!” to the wilderness, and not a soul answers except the distant echo from the mountains beyond the lake. With a final scan of the land, and a certain belief that no one has trod this path in days, she gently wraps the silver tree in the soft blanket and carries it back to the sledge. There she places it safely amongst the other goods, blankets and knitwear, soft skins and felted slippers. “We are blessed it seems” she says to Frida and urges the reindeer on.
A further two hours journey lies ahead of them, and they pass the time in silent reflection of the wonder that has befallen them. From time to time Frida glances back at the precious bundle, nestled safely on her sledge, and ponders its meaning. And all the time feels blessed by a presence she cannot describe.
On reaching home, and with the sledge goods safely stored and the reindeer stabled, Mamma unwraps the silver tree from the blanket and places it upon the painted pine table in the corner of the room. Pappa, just in from the woodshed, bends to peer at it in wonder, and marvels at the tale they tell of its discovery.
Over the Christmas season they speculate, trouble their minds, try to wring the truth from this tale of mystery.
Perhaps the Trolls made it. … No, it’s too delicate.
Then a man for his beloved. … But why abandon it to the lake?
Or the fairies, they could have made it. … True, but for what purpose?
But try as they might, they can make no sense of the tale. Only that it was certainly true, that the tree stood there for all to see, just as you and I stand here today, and that it brought with it the gift of enchantment, a benign seasonal blessing upon this winter house.
Vilde lights the first candle of the season, one for each night from Christmas Eve until New Year’s Day. And before they exchange their presents, as is the custom on this night, she turns to Mormor.
“Your story Mormor … it’s lovely, but it’s not true is it?” she says.
Mormor smiles and pulls her woolen shawl tight around her shoulders. “Of course it is dear.”
“But how do you know?”
“Because I was there” she answers. “The young girl, Frida, that’s me. And my Mamma, that’s Oldemor, your great-grandmother.”
“But the tree sounds like ours” says Vilde in wonder, “what happened to it?”
Mormor turns to gaze into the corner of the room. There in the shadows, the wayward flicker of the fire is caught and returned a hundred-fold by the gilded facets of the silver fishes’ scales. Dancing pinpoints of golden light chase each other around the lime-washed walls. Tiny Julekurver, heart-shaped baskets of woven coloured paper, hang from each fish-branch, and point down towards the twisted roots, planted firmly upon the painted pine table. In its silent contemplation the silver tree bestows its winter blessings.
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Copyright © Steven Hobbs 2019. All rights reserved.
The Sea Fern
Snow falls steadily, drifting on the eddies of the winter wind, softening and shrouding the night. No flake is a true sister to her companion in this haphazard swirling. Each strives with its own particular passion to reach the earth and lie, undisturbed in silence.
Yet on this night a kinship forms; a curious alignment of eight. In union they descend within the swirling cloud, to settle silently upon the surface of the sea. As they alight each transforms into a quicksilver drop that sinks a silver trail down to the restless bed below. Beneath the sand, in the fathomless depths, a restive motion disturbs the ocean floor.
“Stubborn man … foolish man!” she cries “Why this night, of all nights? Why Christmas Eve?”
“You know why.”
“No I …”
“Angel, you do”. He cuts her short and holds her tight. He can feel the sobs wrack her body, as she struggles to fight free from his arms.
“Jacob man you’re a damned fool. No other man sees the need; no other man leaves his wife to risk all on such a night. No other man passes Christmas Eve alone on the sea. None but a fool!”
“Fool am I?” He stares into Martha’s dark eyes and feels the pain, like a claw within his heart. “Then how do we live? How do we eat? Who feeds the little one when the shelves are bare? Other men?”
“But Jacob …” Martha sinks to the bed, her elbows on her knees, head in her hands, then casts him a tear-soaked stare, “… of all nights. Please my love.”
“All will be well. I’ve been out on many a worse night. I’ll return, you know I will.” She looks imploringly at him. “You know I will …”
The granite runnels, polished smooth by generations of winter rain that flowed down Virgin Street to the waiting sea, lie secretly beneath the consuming blanket of snow. Jacob draws the door closed behind him, leaving a tell-tale arc on the threshold, and cautiously descends the steps to the street. Each placing of his foot is betrayed by the winter-creak of compacted snow beneath his boot. Each step a precarious slithering down the incline to the harbour. His canvas sack slung over his shoulder, his layers of oiled wool beneath his smock, he treads a weary path to the waiting Grace.
Of a lugger’s pedigree, Grace lies shorter in the water than her peers. Tar-black with two deep red sails, she’s accustomed to a crew of three. Tonight she sails with Jacob alone, though with little fear in her heart, as she trusts her brother well.
Down the granite steps of Smeaton’s pier he climbs, and pulls on the sodden salted rope to draw the row-boat close. He drops his bag into the craft and steps in. Remaining standing he tugs upon the opposite rope and glides the boat across to where Grace is moored. Within a half-hour all is securely stashed, anchor weighed, storm-lantern lighted upon the mast, and the heavy sails hauled. The wind bites cruelly, and driven snow stings Jacob’s face as he sails beyond the pier’s point, from the harbour’s sanctuary out towards the waiting pilchards’ grounds.
No boat sails alone. Those men that sail these western seas know full well the companionship they share. Each craft bears a soul, a silent spirit that guides and protects; a great fish that glides full-silvered below the surface of the sea. Jacob takes a moment to reflect, and stares down into the slate-ink shimmer of the night sea, thinking he sees the silver scales, the protective talisman of the depths.
It’s an hour’s sailing to the fishing grounds and with each moment’s passing he dwells on Martha’s caution. To sail alone is reckless; on a night such as this is foolish to a fault. Though on he sails, on regardless into the squall and torment. One last catch he thinks. One more to see the year through.
No three-boat companionship this night for Jacob. Just a single seine net cast for the pilchard, and a dream of the brim-full hogsheads lined-up on the pier. Coin on the table, food for the bairn, a shawl for Martha; one simple dream compels him.
Winter providence smiles down on Jacob as he locates the shoal and the net fills. With his eyes raised to the storm lantern the driving snow seems black, like swirling clouds of soot silhouetted against the pale moon’s gaze. With hope springing eternal he grips the winch-handle and begins the slow, arduous haul. With the wind ever strengthening Jacob struggles to bring the catch aboard. Every turn of the winch strains sinews to the point of rupture, and splits knuckles raw.
Oh for another man’s strength … just one more man he thinks.
With the catch arduously hauled aboard he turns Grace for the harbour, whose welcome lights glimmer dimly through the tumult, a distant siren-call to safety.
But with each passing minute the swell builds, the winds rise, and the driven snow erases all sense of place or position. With an unerring instinct for home Jacob steers a course for land, his blind feel for the rudder some slight substitute for sight and certainty.
As Grace cleaves a slow, unremitting course homeward, the sea launches a briny demolition of Jacob’s desires. All progress seems shifted, his course reversed, his fortunes failing. The waves beat the hull with cruel intent. Nails in timber shift as if never driven-home true. Boards flex and fluster under the unremitting strain. As Grace slowly succumbs to water Jacob bails with a new-found urgency.
Give me one hour … by God’s grace, just one.
A cacophony of splintering and tearing, drowned only by the merciless thrashing of the waves brings Jacob to his knees upon the sodden deck. As he clings in desperation to the winch handle he sees the net-bound catch, his newly-won deliverance from poverty and shame, slide through the gash in Grace’s side, and sink, lost forever beneath the waves.
The splintered mast crashes to the deck, splitting the boards in a furious dissembling of the pitiful craft. As Grace breaks asunder Jacob feels the devilish pull, a cruel sucking down, as his flimsy grip of the handle gives way.
Afloat, alone in the storm, scarce able to move, encumbered as he is by sodden wool and rope and canvas he stares up to where the sky should be and whispers “Martha”.
Twice submerged, and choking for breath, his conscience scolds him cruelly. One lonely epitaph haunts his soul …
They say no man drowns ‘til the third going down.
Quicksilver fed, at the harbour’s mouth, the sea bed shifts. First a slow undulation, then pulses and writhings shift the silted sand. An elemental awakening of sorts wracks the foundations, sending plaice and sole floundering in fear.
One finger … one slim branch, squirms free and rises in a tortuous uncoiling towards the surface. Sand spills freely from it, and sifts away upon the unseen current. Coiling arms seek urgent release, and writhe unblinking towards the surface, unfurling like the fronds of a monstrous fern, ever upwards. Like the Tree of Jesse she rises, bearing in her branches all the detritus of the ocean floor. Her branches wear manacles of scale, weed tresses dress her hair. Barnacles hang heavy in crusty concretions, like constellations of dull diamonds from the lustrous sheen of her weed-wracked crown. She carries to the surface all manner of things; rusted chain, sun-bleached timber, dark slime and pearlised shells. Her arms enfold debris and treasure, dripping and snow-kissed, draped and drooping for all to marvel. And still she searches, her tender touch upon sea-bed and harbour wall alike. Penetrating deep fissures, she trawls fastidiously for her hidden quarry.
A mournful and desolate sky shoulders sparse rosy tints from the rising sun. The storm passed in the early hours, and with it dawned Christmas Day.
Martha places a hand to the cool windowpane and weeps. Her hopes for Jacob are lost amongst the terrors of the night.
The storm cast such violent rage against the town that only the wildest mind could imagine the terror it unleashed upon the sea. Even the craft anchored within the protective arms of the harbour were ripped from their moorings, and left to beach precariously, or drag their anchors aimlessly like the chains of the damned.
She weeps for the loss of her husband, her man, the bairn’s father … her life. She weeps with the cold frustration of one who knew best, one who counselled care and caution, yet one that lost nevertheless. She knows full well the hopelessness of the day. No one could withstand that; survive the tumult’s cruel fury. Not even Jacob.
Shawl-wrapped, with the babe in her arms, she scarce knows how to reconcile his loss. How to face an uncertain future alone. How to bear the grief, the solitude. How to live a solitary life.
Furious knocking at the door stirs her from her mournful reverie. Her grief bids her be still. Yet the knocking persists, as if to shake the pots from the dresser. She opens the door, ready to burden the grief.
“Martha! To the harbour! Quick, come see.” Beth’s sisterly plea tugs at Martha’s resolve.
“He’s lost Beth, I cannot bear it …”
“Oh girl, God give you strength … I beg you, come!” She places a fond arm around her shoulder and guides her down the snow-capped steps into the frozen day.
Along the pier, and across the foreshore, half the town is standing, looking out towards the harbour mouth. Arms are raised and fingers pointing. No such sight ever graced the place. No spectacle was ever so wondrously revealed.
Gliding deep, a lost soul, like a great silvered fish describes wide arcs across the harbour. Above it, littered upon the water’s surface floats the detritus of some terrible act. Timber, rope, net; a dreadful flotsam, painful to behold. And at its centre drifts a tarred board, adorned with a gilded name … Grace.
Martha’s soul fails upon the sight.
“Oh Beth, how could you?”
“No Martha girl … look.”
At the harbour’s mouth, rising from the sea itself, stands a marvellous sight. No tree ever looked so; not even in Hell’s wildest imaginings. Yet there she stands, her sinuous fronds swaying in the wind, in rhythmic harmony with the surge of tide at her feet. From her branches drip decorations of glistening shell, red coral, silvered fish and rust-gilded chain. A marvel no less than Albert’s legendary tree at Windsor.
A curious music, neither of the air nor of the sea, plays to her dance, as shells ring like dull bells upon the wind, and soft moans drift to shore.
Martha walks slowly along Smeaton’s pier, Beth’s arm fondly around her shoulder. As she nears the opening of the harbour she looks up with tear-filled eyes, and the sea-fern stares back. She thinks she sees, hidden deep within the bedraggled tresses, a face both stern and terrible. The spirit of the creature; awful to behold.
At Martha’s coming she turns her wild gaze, dips her dread crown low, and reveals, frond-locked in tender embrace, Jacob’s languid figure. With a moving tenderness she unfurls weed-wracked arms and places the body gently upon the cold granite pier.
Martha kneels at his side, weeps bitterly, and reaches for his cold, dead hand. As the sea-fern slowly sinks beneath the waves to the sound of drowning winds, Martha’s heart leaps as Jacob’s finger moves gently within her grasp.
Copyright © Steven Hobbs 2019. All rights reserved. Illustration courtesy of Alfred Wallis.
Maud Lights a Candle
It is St. Thomas’ day, and the entire house lies in preparation; quietly, nervously, if not a little magically. Already the hallway is trimmed with ivy from the fallen oak, dressed with moss tugged from the winter bank, and garnished with blood-prick berries of freshly harvested holly. This year, for the first time, Mother has given the girls full reign. Whilst Father goes about his duties of the parish, duties that never stall nor cease, whatever the season, Elsie and Maud busy themselves with preparations. For what exactly, both would struggle to define, but Christmas calls to them nonetheless, compellingly and unfailingly. Whilst the old house lives in drab composure for much of the year, this season calls for lightness of spirit, a re-awakening of the senses, and an instinctive tip of the hat to the turning of the old year and the coming of the new.
Elsie, who never fails to remind her younger sister of the undue burden of age, takes upon herself those tasks befitting of her additional three years. Maud delights in her role of willing acolyte, and freely embraces those lesser responsibilities handed to her. Some would say she plays her part with gentle guile, selflessly pandering to and nurturing her sister’s ambitions with a wisdom and understanding beyond her tender years.
With their morning’s endeavours lying fresh as untrodden snow in their minds, and with an ever mounting sense of wonder, they run to the pegs in the hall and draw down their coats, scarves and hats.
Mother is standing outside, the heels of her boots already encrusted with yesterday’s gift of snow.
As the heavy door closes it releases a draught of powdered snow, which alights on the girls’ hats, liberally dusting them with the mischievous spirit of the day. They laugh heartily as they hold hands, swing arms, and skip in the wake of their Mother, down the gentle hill to the marketplace below. They know the main purpose of their visit, to buy-in the remaining produce required for the coming celebrations, but each harbours a secret desire, a desire not to be spoken lest it should lose its way and stumble towards disappointment.
In time, and with barely a shop left untroubled, Mother has what she needs and makes to turn for home. Elsie and Maud each has her burden, one a large paper bag of twisty-nosed parsnips, the other clutches two pot jars, one of mustard and the other of crab-apple jelly, both cold to the touch. As Mother starts back she reads the eloquent despair in four glimmering eyes.
“The butter-cross?” she says, a hint of teasing in her tone.
“Oh Mummy, can we please!” The words are uttered so urgently, there’s no knowing who delivered them first.
Inside the butter-cross the girls peer up through the undulating oak beams to the ancient stone roof tiles, stepping down to the wooden gutters like the tight interlacing of a dragon’s scales. The ancient building’s arcaded walls, open to the chill of the early afternoon air, do little to afford shelter to the hunched inhabitants within, from the wintery draughts that escape the marketplace for the beckoning folds of the hills beyond.
Here, in this place, there are set out a few scant stalls, spread with offerings of preserves, cheap trinkets, or hand-woven ribbons. But the poorer souls offer merely a scattering of trifles upon the flags-stones before them, or maybe a wicker basket of dubious charms to be trawled through for unexpected delights. In the corner, close by the old horse trough, whose unforgiving stone sides provide scant comfort for an aching back, the old woman sits upon the floor, her basket before her lined with a crumpled linen cloth. Within are heaped scarce treasures, or so it would seem, capturing within their frail forms all the secret delights of spirit worlds. These delicate glass baubles, crude though they first seem, hold within their depths faint lights from foreign lands, weave tales of sprites and woodland wraiths, and not least draw innocent eyes to their mysterious allures.
“Mummy, can we please? For the tree … like last year?”
Elsie’s pleading words fall sweetly upon the ears of one already resolved to reward the many kindnesses and gifts of innocent childhood. Mother nods.
“Oh thank you! Thank you.”
Elsie immediately makes her choice. From within the little pile a scarlet bauble speaks directly to her, around its middle a curious interlacing of golden boughs and silvered leaves writhes with the natural vigour of all the trees and bushes she loves so well from her daily walks.
Maud however takes her time, sifting through the small treasures for the one that will snag her soul. With a curious deliberation she holds each bauble in her small hand, occasionally lifting one, then another, up to the pallid rays of the already dipping sun. Though some undoubtedly appeal, none such that she is wholly captivated.
“For what do you search child?”
The old woman’s voice seems to speak a more ancient tongue, though Maud understands her well. With a swift glance of assurance from Mother, she finds her words.
“I would have one that both delights my eye, and holds me steadfast by its beauty”, she replies.
With a benign exchange of glance, the old woman reaches within the folds of her tight-drawn shawl, and presents upon her leathery palm a trifle of the most exquisite form. The small sphere is fashioned of the deepest lapis blue, frosted at its peak and base with myriad flakes of bright shining silver. At its centre there is a circular indentation of mirrored glass, lightly crazed with unending fissures, like tiny crevasses within the polar ice. Maud stares spellbound into the all-seeing eye of this curious bauble, and marvels.
“Does it hold you child?”
“Oh yes!” Maud replies unthinkingly, “Oh yes.”
“Then I reserved it for the rightful one” says the old woman, as she gratefully takes Mother’s coins, still warm from her hand.
Returning to the house the inexorable rise of wonder and anticipation tightens its grip. Mother is away to the kitchen to speak to Cook. Father has not long since returned, and is now immovably ensconced in his study, even at this late stage with letters to draft and a sermon to write. Elsie and Maud have restarted their endeavours to ensure the house looks more beautiful than ever this year, and have progressed from the hallway to the drawing room. Here Bess has re-lit the fire, replaced the guard, and left the girls to their creative pleasures.
In the corner of the room, close to the bay window, but away from the heavy velvet drapes, stands the tree. Darker than any emerald, prouder than any Saint, spiked and bristled to the touch, it stands. Not yet dressed, in such a state it embodies more anticipation and desire than could be imagined. The girls both know that once Father is done, he will bring in, like early Kings bearing gifts, the box from the great chest. There it lies in dark seclusion from one Christmas to the next, in earnest anticipation of spilling its wondrous secrets over the sombre pagan sentinel in the corner. Within its dark card enclosure lie last year’s trifles, and those of many years earlier too; all awaiting their time to hang, glimmer and sparkle in the dim light of the little candles. Upon the low table by the door lie two small parcels, roughly wrapped in twists of paper, transported lovingly from the butter-cross earlier today, each waiting their time, like their many predecessors before them.
When tea has been taken, and the fire reached its roaring zenith, Father retires upstairs to lift the lid of the great chest, and retrieve the card box. His entrance into the drawing room promotes such anticipation and excitement that neither girl thinks that she can withstand it. As tradition would have it Mother hangs the first bauble, whilst Father positions the high shining star. Elsie and Maud, patiently awaiting their turn, then set-to to deck the tree as prettily as they can muster. With each tender hanging of each slender thread the sombre tree re-awakens in majesty, glistening and glimmering in the flickering light of the fire’s licking flames. Finally, as a magical act of resolution, Father pinches onto the ends of the branches small glass birds, which hold upon their backs gilt holders for tiny candles. With a slender taper lit from the fire he lights the waiting wicks, and the tree, hardly believable the girls think, assumes a grander majesty still.
As his hand reaches out Maud cries, “Father … stop! May I please?”
With a smile he holds her warm hand within his, and guides her to the patient wick. As the flickering flame takes alight the lapis blue of her new bauble is illuminated in all its startling beauty. The ever watchful mirrored eye looks back, and reflects a thousand images of Maud’s face, softly glowing in wonder. Urged to step away, lest she should catch her hair, she retires to her seat by the fire, all the while the deep blue star shines entrancingly in its dark emerald firmament.
When bedtime comes, with all its accompanying anticipation of the approaching day, the girls climb the staircase; Elsie somewhat wearily, Maud with an enduring spring in her step. Mother tucks each in tight, and wishes them to sweet slumbers with a kiss, whilst Father tips his head around the door, smiles, and turns down the light. As darkness enfolds the room a chink in the curtains lets in a pellucid shaft of light; “the parish lantern” thinks Maud, and turns gently in the Moon’s embrace.
In time the house succumbs to stillness and quiet, whilst outside frozen foragers trail telling tracks across the glimmering snow. In their warm rooms three souls draw shallow breaths, rhythmically and at peace; a fourth tosses in fretful unease, places a foot quietly upon the cool board floor, and sets a ripple stirring across the still pool of the night.
The treads of the staircase thankfully utter no complaint as Maud cautiously descends. With her nightgown lifted slightly at the knee she pushes at the heavy drawing room door and slips through the gap. The fire shifts sleepily behind its woven brass guard, a settled bed of glowing embers, each rippling with the curious fluctuations of life and death in conflict, fiery red acquiescing to dull grey.
Maud draws a padded footstool over to the hearth, stands upon it, and takes from the pottery holder on the mantle-shelf a slim green spill. Stepping down she stoops, draws the fire guard aside and, with no hint of a tremble, places the end upon a glowing ember. The dry spill releases a curling wisp of smoke, then awakens in a bright flame that gently illuminates the sleeping room. With her hand placed to guard the tiny flame she walks cautiously across the room to where the tree stands. There at its centre hangs the lapis gem, its guardian candle standing silent sentinel. Maud holds the spill to the wick and the candle flickers into life. She shakes the spill to snuff out its flame, and brings her face close. Peering deep into the illuminated bauble the all-seeing eye glints back at her. With a look of curious wonder Maud looks deep within it upon her own reflection, shining back at her in the glimmering candle light. All trace of fissures within the glass now seem gone, and reveal an unfathomable depth from which shines a single light. Slowly the light traces a forlorn path down, seemingly consuming rather than reflecting the uncertain glow of the candle’s guttering flame. Down it tracks, a single illuminated tear, down across the pale cheek of Maud’s reflected face.
Morning delivers its faithful promise, as the awakening sun glows through its hazy corona, suspended against a pale grey-blue chalk sky. Elsie leaps from her bed and goes to shake Maud from her slumbers. Her sister’s bed lies cold, unmade, abandoned.
She’s started without me, she thinks, how dare she?
Elsie runs downstairs, indignant, and pushes open the heavy door. All within the drawing room lies peaceful. Though Bess has drawn the curtains and rekindled the fire, not a thing has been touched, not least the enticing pile of brightly wrapped gifts lying beneath the tree. With a cursory glance around her Elsie returns to her room and perches on the edge of her bed, awaiting her sister’s return from the bathroom. Though her rage abates, her impatience grows ever greater. She pulls her gown tight around her shoulders, and succumbs to a faint shiver. Come on Maud, it’s Christmas Day … look sharp!
Soft treads along the landing betray Mother’s coming. She eases the door ajar, and steps inside.
“Why angel, I thought you would both be downstairs by now.”
“I’m waiting for Maud mama, she’s in the bathroom.”
“Not so Elsie my love, I’ve just come from there.”
Elsie’s frustration grows once more. “I knew it! I knew she’d start without me!”
This time Elsie runs downstairs, and makes for the kitchen. A startled Cook swears no knowledge of Maud’s whereabouts, or any sight or sound of her this morning. A brief search of the downstairs rooms reveals nothing, as Elsie’s rage begins to grow within her.
“Mother, she’s not here” she shouts upstairs.
“Not there Elsie … what do you mean?”
An hour later and the village is in full cry. Father, booted and swaddled in his heavy coat, is leading the men in their search. Though the day is yet young frustrations are growing, as hope slowly starts to dwindle. Fresh snow has fallen overnight. Any comings or goings would certainly be betrayed, their fresh tracks captured for all to see; yet nothing, nothing to disturb the newly laundered blanket of white.
As the day slumbers and falls into the waiting arms of evening no sign of Maud is found. Barns, hedges, copses and folds, all are searched diligently, barely a man of the village is unmoved by the little child’s loss. Many a tear is shed, not least by Mother who pines and panics amidst the troubling gaiety of the decorated house.
Two days pass, then three and four, and still no sound nor sight. As twelfth-night draws near all are resigned to Maud’s loss, though none can resolve it in their minds. The house was locked tight, the key kept safely in Father’s drawer upstairs. No soul could get in nor out without his knowing, and yet gone she is; gone from them without a word.
Mother lies in her room, unspeaking and unmoving, the curtains drawn tightly. Father and Elsie share the mournful task of returning the house to its former drab state. Room by room is undressed as unwanted frivolities are packed away. Each trinket, each signal of the season, fills their heavy hearts with pain. Finally the tree stands alone, splendid yet mournful; a testament to both fragile hope and bitter loss, a terrible reminder of a barely imagined peace.
Father retrieves the card box from the great chest and places it on the floor before the fire. One by one he and Elsie take down the baubles, birds and ribbons, and place them gently in the box, amongst the soft padding and crumpled tissue. In time two remain, two symbols of a happier time, now lost forever. Elsie wraps her gilded red bauble carefully, and places it within the box. She glances at Father, her tears flowing freely.
“Go on my child … it is best you do it.”
She takes hold of the slim scarlet thread and gently releases the lapis bauble from its branch. Maud feels the sudden sway and thrusts out her trembling hands in fright. Her fingers touch the impervious glass, curved and glimmering in the flickering fire light. Tightly she clenches her fists, strikes the glass walls of her confinement frantically, and screams her silent plea, “Elsie, please … no! No!”
Silent sounds are doomed to fall on deaf ears.
Elsie, impervious to her poor sister’s plight, stares into the reflective blue glimmer and sees nothing but her own reflection. Her eyes, twin sparks dulled by sadness and despair, peer back.
The soft tissue wraps around her, and Maud feels the terrible lowering to the box. As Elsie replaces the card lid all light is banished; her world sinks suddenly into a perpetual veil of darkness. When Father finally closes the great chest she truly understands her pitiful plight, and her mind turns in horror to the awful entrapment of the coming year.
Maud hears the soft footsteps slowly recede across the landing and weeps bitterly. She weeps into the darkness, into the silence, into the dreadful uncertainty of her confinement.
And as her only hope ebbs away, she cries out hopelessly.
“Elsie please … don’t forget me, I beg you! Hang me up again next year.”
Copyright © Steven Hobbs 2018. All rights reserved.
The Wind in the Wassail Cup
She closes the heavy door behind him as he stamps the snow from his boots.
“Madam I am most grateful for your charity, though I fear I impose upon you grievously.”
“Oh don’t you go thanking me so, Sir.” The old woman waves a hand towards the rustic wooden chair by the hearth, “Sit you down…sit you down. I’ll draw your boots off for you.”
“No madam, pray leave them be. I’ll offer their soles to the fire for warming. That will suffice, I thank you.”
“Then take a drink Sir, to warm the parts the fire can’t reach.”
“That would be most welcome madam, for ‘tis a bitter wind that would shrive the soul this night.”
She stoops to the fire, and ladles out the steaming liquid from the black iron pot, then hands him the wooden cup, dark and lustrous. He cradles it in his hands to savour the heat, and delights in the wood’s burnished sheen.
“It’s a fine vessel madam; the silver rim is most pretty. From what wood is it turned?”
“Tis lignum Sir. We drink the wassail from it. There’s nothing I find, save the hot spiced apple, for such a night as this.”
“Then it is most welcome, and I thank you again for your kindness.”
“Sir, ‘tis no duty, but a pleasure to assist a gentleman on such a night. For the time’s not long, since any traveller such as yourself would fear to walk these lanes so, with no company for to warn nor save him.”
“Save him madam?”
“From Her Sir.”
“Settle back Sir, and worry not by my words, though by God’s grace I swear them to be true.” She settles, stiffly, into the old chair opposite him, drawing it a little closer to the fire, and wraps her shawl tightly. “It started in the woodland, so they say; one cold winter’s evening, a couple of days before Christmas I understand……”
* * * * *
Bleak and starlit, the woodland stands motionless, its stark branches barely stirring in the moon’s pale glow. Alder and oak, holly and ash, keep silent vigil, a sylvan community upon the ancient hill’s back. And upon the woodland floor lies a mantle of the past season’s leaves, brittle to the tread, their veins etched in silvered frost. From year to year the trees stand sentinel, brother and sister to each other, their ancient hearts pulsing to the season’s rhythms, their outstretched arms sighing in the wind’s embrace. And along the highways and alleys of this timeless place stray the creatures of both night and day. The joyful birds pipe merry tunes, and peer down upon their land-bound cousins, whose daily labours of forage and chase are played out beneath the protective canopy. And here those half spirits of the trees, bushy of tail and russet-furred, frolic and dance; to them the branches seem a wondrous nether-world caught between earth and air.
But this night draws in like no other of the year. It enfolds the woodland in a mantle of deepest shade, through which God’s grace can scarce but pass. And on this night, alone of all others, an awakening of sorts brings with it fear and trepidation. Songs cease, night calls no longer stray from timorous throats. The very ground within which some root, upon which others roam, seems to shrink and fracture, as though some devil drives a wedge through the fissures of the woodland’s soul.
And so she comes, this pale wraith, moving without sound, disturbing neither air nor leaf, leaving no imprint upon the blighted earth. No soul of substance is she, but a cruel manifestation upon the mind of man and beast, whose deathly pallor strikes sore at the most steadfast heart. The earth around her, though frosted yet, creeps over with deathly pallor, a deep encrustation of frozen breath, exhaled from the darkest spirit.
God’s creatures shrink from view, and turn their heads in fear. The badger, deep in her set, shudders. Even the lustrous leaves of holly, impervious to winter’s chill embrace, wither on the branch. The roaming fox stops in his tracks and whines. The poor stricken creature’s fur bristles; he knows not what she wants, but freezes in terror, dumb to her meaning though not to her purpose. He understands nothing of her ominous greeting, nor how he should respond, but quakes there upon the ground. She stoops before him and surveys his face with unseeing eyes. Cowed, the poor creature pines for cover, and dare not look upon her face.
“Waes haell” she breathes, the words lost to the frozen air; and damns those that do not respond, to a purgatory of despair.
She passes through the woodland to the barren fields beyond. The dry stone walls that bound them, their tops soft-laden with snow, give way to the sunken holloway. Down it she passes, along the ancient track, deep down towards the village. Above her the branches meet and mingle, and roof her silent passage; a wooded cloister of cruel despair. Behind her the woodland sighs at her passing, and dreads the night to come.
The village lies, deep-valed, upon a turn in the road, surveyed from the hill by the squat-towered church. Scarcely twelve cottages line the track, their thatch weighed heavy with snow, their chimneys sending scant plumes of smoke into the frosted sky. Each in turn bears upon its door those tokens that will ward off spirits of the night. For in their hearts each villager holds unspoken fears, and harbours hope in such homespun lore.
From door to door she makes her deathly progress, challenging those within to speak the words. And should they fail, they know full well the consequence, and would rather die than contemplate it. In time her cruel breath marks every door, the withering cold encrusted upon each board and iron stud. All save one, that is. And so to the last cottage she moves.
Inside, with St. Thomas’s Day now almost done, all stands in readiness for the celebration of Christmas. The lusty fire burns well in the hearth, and sweet smelling herbs hang nearby to dry. The woman of the house makes busy with the spit, and roasts upon it a meagre ham. Her husband is not yet returned from market, her daughter lies asleep upstairs. She turns the crank one more time, and spoons hot fat upon the sizzling joint. Little she knows what stands before her door.
Thus far, all, save dog or goose, have found the words to save their souls, and cower yet in their humble homes. Scant satisfaction the wraith takes from this, and seeks her grim vengeance still. With cruel intent she insinuates cold fingers through the crack in the iron-hard boards of the door, like slim shards of glass, gathered up from the pond’s frozen skin.
With a carved spoon the woman bastes the ham once more, then takes the iron and pokes the logs. The fire fails to draw, and wilts in fading shades of blue. A cold shiver strokes her back as she turns her gaze to the door. In terror she stumbles back and tips the pan, which crashes to the hearth, spilling sizzling grease upon the stone.
“Be gone!” she cries, to no avail, as forward still the pale shade moves.
“Waes haell” the cursed wretch exhales, and fixes her with eyes long dead.
A creak upon the stair draws both their gaze, and the woman’s heart fails upon the sight. Stepping down, the little girl knows no fear, but only fascination and wonder. She knows the tale full well, but bears no ill will in her young heart. Often her mother has taught her the response that will save their souls. As she walks slowly to the door, her mother earnestly entreats her to stay, but on she moves, closer and closer yet. With her small palm pressed against the door, she summons the words, and delivers them boldly.
“Drinc Haell” she says. And yet the kindness in her heart stirs her further, and she whispers a heartfelt “And bless you, keep you safe this night.”
At once the flames leap high within the grate. Beyond the door a wondrous moan cleaves the night, as the frozen wind draws all ill-will unto itself. Unaccustomed to such grace and favour, the wraith whirls in pitiful confusion, and dissipates with a heartfelt sigh into the frozen north wind; her bitter soul at last finds peace.
For many years the marvellous tale passes from house to house, village to village; from mother to daughter, and father to son. And when the young girl grows, and bears a daughter of her own, the tale is told once more. And on St. Thomas’s evening, when the wind tries the windows and doors once more, the child runs to her mother in great fear. A soothing hand strokes her hair, and comforting arms enclose her.
“Worry not little one, she means no harm, ‘tis but the wind in the wassail cup.”
* * * * *
He clutches the lignum cup tightly in both hands, drawing comfort from its reassuring warmth, then drains the remaining liquid in a single draught.
“But who was she” he says, “this pitiful spirit?”
“A young maid of the village Sir, out a-wassailing that night. She walked into the woodland and faded from God’s earth. They never found her, poor soul.”
“And the bold little girl….what of her?”
“My mother Sir, bless her heart.”
“And did the spirit ever return?”
“Not since that day Sir, for she found peace it would seem.”
He smiles uneasily as a log shifts in the fire, sending a dancing shower of sparks up the chimney. As the keen wind tests the ancient hinges, he looks over his shoulder anxiously, towards the door.
The old woman marks his concern, and reaches out a hand. “Have no fear Sir” she says, “…tis but the wind in the wassail cup.”
Outside the creeping frost advances inexorably over the meagre threshold and up the broad planks of the door, like frozen lichen upon the fallen log. The encrustation of ice, in myriad crystals, enfolds the door, and spreads slowly across the low stone lintel.
“Waes haell” the cruel wind whispers, as one frozen finger cleaves the narrow crack.
Copyright © Steven Hobbs 2016. All rights reserved.
The Clays of Ur
The bright silvered prow is surging, foaming; parting the wine-dark sea.
Cradled in the mother’s embrace of oiled wood and iron nail, these men pull on long-shafted oars towards the shimmering horizon – the kishar. There, stretched tight as the sun-dried skin, the city calls them from their wanderings. Long days and longer nights, torn ragged by the vengeful Ishkur, their journey is at an end. They bring oil and silver, spices and slaves. They carry too news of distant lands, whose sands and dust anoint their hair, whose women sing sorrowful laments of loss.
The city draws them into the enfolding heart of the harbour. Above it rises the great ziggurat, stepped heavenwards towards the moon. King Ur-Nammu laid its foundations and built it high. His son, the great king Shulgi, raised it higher still, in bitumen and brick, a towering jewel raised upon the city’s grateful brow.
Far below, with ropes secured against the greedy tide they step from ship to shore, and spill out their precious cargo upon the quay. Beyond them the river pours forth its votive gifts to its father the endless sea; carrying fish and fowl, and fertile silt from the mountains and plains of the distant north.
Up-stream it flows a sinuous path between broad banks of rush and willow, whose leaves bear the sighs of the sun-scorched wind. Upon its banks lithe men swarm, as termites from the nest, ankle deep in rich red clay. Naked to the wind and sun they toil, smeared thickly in the river’s gift, skin caked and cracked like the potter’s hand. Scooped up, dripping, they pack the clay into waiting sleds, slapped flat, glistening and wet. Up the banks and towards the city the asses draw the sleds; draw them to those whose thirst for clay is never slaked, the scribes.
One man stands for a moment and stretches his weary arms towards the gods. Then dropping them down he shakes the clinging clay from his hands, and flings it free. The narrow band, reed-woven, slips from his wrist and falls to the river. The samgi gifted it the night they stole an hour, and now the grateful river claims it and carries it, swirling, upon its reflective skin.
As the noble Euphrates bears its precious gift downstream, evening drapes her dark mantle upon the land. The rising moon, crescent-horned and waxing, scatters silvered motes upon the glistening clay, and looks down in wonder as the muddy surface shifts. Up it rises, up and gently writhing; the wet bank churning, birthing. She rises water-slick and shimmering, fashioned of clay from the earth’s deep crucible.
With parted lips she draws a fragrant draught and breaths in the aromatic scent of thyme and rose, of river and of mud. And as she turns to where the sun must rise, the city bathes in filtered silver light, and settles to slumber until the dawn. With eyes of burning embers she looks down upon her nakedness and sees the slick clay slip, over shoulders, breasts, her belly and her legs. There she stands, cleansed and purified; wide-eyed and fearful. Above her the blushing moon turns its face in shame.
Along the bank she strides, through swathes of sword-leaved rushes, standing tall, unmoved by her passing. The soft ground bears no imprint of her feet, nor feels her tread. On she walks, her skin caressed by the cool night-wind, delighting in its emboldened touch, its delicate kiss.
Across the muted green and golden vista she walks, through fields of ripened grain, woven through with glittering threads of waterway, fringed by date palms, willows and alders; through fallow fields cropped by flocks of full-fleeced sheep and herds of cattle grazing.
Where once grass grew high on the highways of the land, before the coming of the great King, now she walks upon the hardened earth, carriage rutted and parched. This road stretching to Nippur and beyond; this highway upon which King Shulgi ran from city to city, and back again, “as if it were only the distance of a double-hour.” She thinks upon his noble claim. “So that my name should be established for distant days … so that my praise should be spread throughout the Land.”
Earthly King she thinks, false God! For I could run twelve times your span, in the passing of your first slow step. She looks down to her feet, unblemished by dust or stone, then raises the fire of her eyes to the looming city.
The majestic gate rises before her, high towered and richly tiled. As the bronze-strapped gates part at her coming the winged bulls raise their bearded heads in homage, and bid her pass. She walks naked amongst the guards, each alert to the night-time’s wiles, and goes unseen yet scented. Each raises his head and drinks heartily of the beguiling essence, and thinks it a waking dream.
Through streets and courtyards she passes, a silent shade. And all around her the city’s people sleep, and sense less of her passing than they do the blood that courses through their veins.
With a glance up to the towering shrine of Nannar, the moon god’s house, set high upon the ziggurat’s crest, she enters the temple grounds. Over shaded walks and scented paths she passes, past fountains and shallow pools. Carved walls tell tales of men’s victories and glory, of other men’s shame and death. Tall palms reach through courtyard roofs towards the stars. The panoply of Gods looks down.
She climbs the forbidden stairs, each step a sacrilege. Her womanliness, her nakedness, suffers the walls to tremble at her coming, like the quaking earth’s tremors when the gods make war. And on she climbs, ever upwards, to where he waits.
Through doors closed and barred she passes, the incense-laden air unmoved. He stands before the altar, bronze vessel held high, eyes closed. And fear claims him; fear draws a cold wet finger down his spine, and fans the hairs that rise.
“Who enters this sacred place?”
She moves closer, though he sees her not.
He senses her, but knows it cannot be. Wine and incense draw forth visions, though not so worldly, nor so portentous. The way is barred, he knows full well. This cannot be he thinks.
“Who are you woman?” He turns to see an empty room.
“Search within yourself Eulli, you know me well.”
His soul trembles as he moves towards the table. He thrusts a shaking hand into the wide bowl and takes a fist of shimim, then hurls the offering, the mashdaria, into the brazier’s living flame. The sparks burst and rise like golden fronds of palm, and cast flickering shadows across the walls. His shadow stands alone.
“Fire purge you demon!” he cries.
She rises from the flames, fully formed in terrible beauty. As the smoke and sparks die she stands shimmering before him. In one hand rests a small clay tablet, in the other a fine reed stylus. Though his sacred office forbids it, he looks shamefully upon her dreadful splendour and wonders at the sight.
She moves yet, ever forwards, this fearful apparition in clinging beaded gossamer of wine-stained purple. Her aromatic skin is slick with shimsusa, her eyes kohl rimmed, her oiled hair as night-dark as the moonless sky. Around her neck she wears a necklace of carnelian and lapis, with liquid ringing bells of gold. Her breasts are scattered with flecks of purest gold. Her fingers deep-dipped in myrrh.
“You dress as a gashan demon, yet you hold the clay and stylus?”
“The clay is my mother. The stylus is my voice.”
She steps towards him.
“You know you will die for this girl. Are you a samgi?”
She gazes into his eyes. “I am no slave.”
“Then show me your hands.”
She stretches out slim arms of golden bronze, and turns her palms upwards to the stars. Her narrow fingers drip sweet essences in perfect pools upon the stones. He stoops to look, and trembles, as she closes her fingers around the tablet, enfolding it in her grip. The liquid clay oozes between her fingers and drops to the polished floor. With finger and thumb she holds the stylus high; he looks on in awe as it crumbles to fine dust. He steps back in fear as she spreads her fingers wide and reveals her palms. Spotless as the sun-bleached shroud; he sees no clay, no stain.
“Who are you woman?”
“I am Ninshuel…”
“I am the writing hand, the guardian of knowledge. I am born in namkuzu’s fond embrace. I am the tale on the tongue, and the thought from the heart. I am the mother of cities and empires, of wisdom and of trade. I forge the links of nations. I lay the law. I preserve the eternal tongue.”
He casts out his hands before his face. “Woman…I know you not.”
“Then false you are; and blind to me. Tear the shades from your eyes, foolish man, and see! For the tale of the Great Flood is mine. I wrote the deeds of Gods and men, of Enki’s shaming by Inanna’s charms, of the heroes Lugalbanda and Gilgamesh, and of earthly Kings and Lords.”
“No….no. It cannot be!”
“Do not deny me man! Your scribes fashion no tablet, nor hold no stylus without my guiding hand. I am within you, and around you. I cloth you and nurture you. I gift to you your living days.”
Again she holds out her hand, and upon it forms the virgin clay once more. With dexterity and grace she shapes it, flattens it, rounds its corners and marks its side. Then with stylus newly-formed she inscribes a verse of beguiling beauty, in a script unsurpassed for refinement and poise. It tells of the secrets of the stars, of the purity of the moon. It shapes both love and learning in its verse. It intoxicates, seduces, and binds the heart and eye.
She holds it out before him and he marvels at the elegance of her hand, the subtlety of her verse. In awe and reverence he looks into her eyes, and sees lit deep within them the flaming script, like the flakes of fire within the opal. In the left he reads erish, in the right he reads uanna.
“Who are you?” he says again in wonder.
“I am Zimu.”
He looks to the inscribed tablet once more, and tears flow, full-flooded down his cheek.
“Erish….girin….hili.” He sinks to his knees, his arms outstretched before him; his palms, his forehead pressed to the cool stone floor. “Uanna. Zimu. My breath of life, light of the heavens.”
His mind reels as all around him moons rise and sands shift. Silken waters cover the earth, and withdraw in mists of perfumed bliss. Upon the mountain man stands and surveys his realm; walks down to golden plains and claims them for his own. He builds many cities. He fights many wars. He rules and raises, he commands and destroys. And yet his tongue lies parched within his mouth, and no-one knows the passing of his greatness. His cries fade in the wind, and with them his coming and his time. Sons bear scant remembrance of their fathers. Greatness dissolves into the miasma of myth. Things pass, and are no more.
And then she rises amongst them, and binds the mysteries of this world. Hers is the unifying hand, hers is the lasting word. She holds wisdom in her grip, and scatters it across nations. She writes the deeds of Kings, and the mysteries of the Gods. Speechless mouths speak clear and loud. Dry clay contains all understanding
As he raises his eyes she fades beyond all comprehension. He stands and turns, his urgent eyes searching the room. “Lady” he cries, yet knows that she has gone. He runs his trembling fingers through his oil-dark beard, and feels the cool essence of her hand hold his pulsing heart in the weighing.
“I am the writing hand” she whispers.
“You are my living soul” he weeps.
Notes: Key to Sumerian Words:
Erish queen, lady
Girin pure, spotless
Namkuzu wisdom, cleverness
Samgi slave girl
Shimim aromatic substance
Uanna light of the heavens
Key to Sumerian Names:
Eulli – “the temple into distant days”, i.e. “may the temple last for a very, very long time!” (é “temple” + ul-lí “distant days”)
Ishkur – the storm god
Ninshuel – “queen clean hands” (nin “lady” + su “hand” + el “clean”)
Zimu – “my breath of life” (zi “breath of life” or “soul” + mu “my”)
For Phoebe – Copyright © Steven Hobbs 2015. All rights reserved.
Bird Man Fish
Fugol sits upon the ledge; his clawed feet gripping granite. Secure against the wind’s ravages he perches, jackdaw-black, grey hooded. His blue beaded eye looks blinking down upon the best the ocean can muster. Spray mist drifts high and salts his hard tongue, dusts his lustrous plumage with myriad droplets of finest brine. One flap of his wings and they scatter in a fluttered haze of rainbow light.
Below him the dark rocks stand firmly rooted, relishing the brutal constancy of the tide’s eternal buffeting. Breeding seasons drift back through to the time of man’s coming, and still these dark sentinels stood impervious to the sea’s cruel caress. Stark sarsons, drenched, defiant.
He cranes his neck, and looks up to the verdant fringe that overhangs the cliff-top, trailing tresses of fresh flowered thrift in the heightening breeze. He stretches coal feathered fingers to the restless air, and lets it carry him.
In a broad arc, like the sickle-moon’s crescent, he soars high and back, flexing wing tips to the buoyant draught. High over cliff edge, over valley curve, and down. Down over silvered shimmering of river light, ribboned reflection to his companion sky.
He peers down upon the craft, breaking the stillness of the river’s skin with high thrusting prow and blade swirls bright. He peers down upon the men that stride its broad planks, or sit at long oars, rhythmically straining towards the sea. Then turning west he scents the smoke, and trims his feathered sails to its blue-hazed calling. Over ancient woodland he skims, drifting effortlessly upon the eddies that guide him to the place.
From high soar to low perch he drops. Along the branch he walks, and looks out through spring oak leaves upon the burning thatch below.
Ælfric sits, soul-wracked, upon the ground; his back against the tree, eyes glazed in startled disbelief. The Gods cast down dark deeds upon him this bright day, and test his mettle beyond endurance. This morning his spirit rose with the Sunne, warmed to the stirring beasts, fed meagrely upon the earth’s stored fruit, but now it withers and slumps in bloodied shame. His beard rests upon his chest, matted in the gore of his severed cheek.
Up from the river the northern Gods guided them; led them soundlessly to his land, and spread his all before them for the taking. No trader’s welcome, no barter, no coin. But bright metal a-plenty, wrought sinuously upon buckle and strap-end, upon sword blade and axe. And now all that he reared, all that he grew; all that he treasured and all that he knew; dragged down to the river, and carried away.
Scant life is left to him nonetheless, though not through mercy but through haste. And this renewed gift of life, settled here in filth and pity, hangs heavy on him now. No rowan spirit, no beating oak’s heart can revive him, nor feed him now all is lost. What store he had, in earthen pot or tight-bound leaf, now feeds the appetites of northern men, straining sweat-and-blood-soaked at their oars. What beasts he fed lie slaughtered upon the spray spattered deck. And what remains? An iron skillet and his smouldering home; two harnesses for beasts cut down; no more.
He raises his eyes to the sky and the Gods avert their gaze. Only the piercing stare of the dark bird, this harbinger of doom, looks down upon him from the high branch and wonders.
Hæring glides in silvered shimmer amidst the eddies and currents of the surging sea. With unblinking gaze he scans the rippled sand, and slips silently through swaying kelp and weed. The shoal shifts as one, a single being bound by ties unseen, each to the other, one to another; your thought my thought, your purpose my own.
He shuns the collective course and darts away. Contra current, contra mundum, the golden disk draws up its silver dart. And to her fiery embrace he speeds, upwards, ever up. A rising foil to the plunging gannet, an aqueous arrow launched at the bright Sunne’s heart.
As he breaks free the wave crashes down, and hurls him through the half-sea of spray to the merciless shore. On the shifting shingle he lies and chokes on his first breath of waterless air. With his last glimpse upon the living world he thinks upon the brief wonder of flying, and dies proudly in self-sacrifice to Her golden beams.
Fugol drops over the cliff edge, down to the shingle shore. Scant pickings lie mingled with the weed and wood, the shells and the sand. Though he searches not for idle scraps this day, but for the catch that will raise a soul.
Hæring lies glistening on the shoreline, washed gently by the retiring tide. Scales argent-bright catch the low spring Sunne, and draw him to the spot. With deft dark beak he raises his scaled brother of the sea, and bears him aloft, high over the cliff; his second flight of the day. Down across the dale, and up the river course they glide, each aware, in life or death, of this Eorthe’s great mystery, of Her motherly compassion for the greater good.
Still Ælfric sits forlornly, caring little for life or death. The cruel Gods turn deaf ears to the churning of his gut, to the mournful lament of the starving man’s plight. As he raises his eyes in final entreaty the black bird looks down. He shudders to see him standing there upon the branch, silver jewels trailing from his dark beak, and prays one last time.
Hæring falls selflessly at his feet, and he cries for joy at the bird’s gracious gift. With iron skillet on smouldering embers he fries the miraculous fish, and thinks a while on how he will rebuild his life. The North-men stripped him of all he cherished. The bird and fish returned it with good grace. As Ælfric chews the welcome meal Fugol drops and stands proudly upon his head. He smiles and offers scraps to his new-found friend.
And from her lofty perch bright Sunne looks down upon her own, and acknowledges the perfect trinity of Bird, Man, Fish.
You can read about my inspiration for this story here: Other Ways of Seeing – The Subtle Art of John Maltby
Copyright © Steven Hobbs 2015. All rights reserved.