Kevan Manwaring's Blog: The Bardic Academic, page 10

Writing the Earth part 2

Soul of the Earth, published by Awen 2011

I continue my account of my long association with environmental writing…

So moving into the 2010s (what do we call that decade – the Tweenies?), I moved home – from Bath to Stroud (not a great distance physically – 30 miles – but drastically different in terms of ethos and aesthetic). Here, in 2011 I published Soul of the Earth: an anthology of eco-spiritual poetry. It was edited by the late poet Jay Ramsay, although I came up with the title, designed the cover, and co-ordinated its production and launch (at a great group author showcase in Waterstones, Bath).  It was one of the titles I am proudest of during my stint as director of Awen Publications (which I founded in 2003, and ran until 2013).  We were able to negotiate an endorsement from the (then) Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, and includes a fantastic cohort of contemporary poets.

[image error] Black Box by Kevan Manwaring – audio drama coming soon from Alternative Stories and Fake Realities (Chris Gregory)

In 2013 I handed over Awen to the capable husband-and-wife term of Anthony Nanson and Kirsty Hartsiotis, to concentrate upon my PhD at the University of Leicester.  While there I collaborated in some interdisciplinary writing commissions, and had some inspiring conversations with colleagues engaged in cutting-edge research into Artificial Intelligence and Space Research – this, alongside my ongoing concerns about the environment, fed into the mix that led to me writing Black Box, a science fiction/CliFi novel that asks ‘What will survive of us?’ On a whim I entered it into a national science fiction novel manuscript competition run by Literature Works (a Plymouth-based literature development agency), ‘One Giant Write’, and it won. I got serious attention from Marcus Gipps, the commissioning editor for Gollancz. After a couple of aborted launches, it has now achieved lift-off thanks to Alternative Stories and Fake Realities – a brilliant podcast with a strong track record of producing excellent CliFi audio dramas. I adapted 3 pilot episodes, which have been produced by the talented sound engineer/wizard, Chris Gregory, and they are being premiered 27th November, 4th December, and 11th December. I wrote a draft of Black Box in a croft on the coast of Wester Ross (see my blog ‘The SciFi Croft’), and in it I stared hard into the abyss of our possible species extinction and chose to saw there a gleam of light – because in my doctoral research into Fantasy I forged an ethical aesthetics of the genre. Tired and disturbed by the cultural dominance of Grimdark, a particularly nihilistic and Neoliberal view of the world, I devised Goldendark, which acknowledges the challenges we face (re: Climate Chaos; geopolitical turmoil; the rise of the Alt-Right), but takes creative responsibility and offers a gleam of hope in what stories we chooses to tell and share.  Black Box is my first intentional Goldendark novel and I am glad it is finally seeing the light of day.  

Listen to fantastic CliFi on the Alternative Stories and Fake Realities podcast here.

Next: In ‘Writing the Earth part 3’ I look at my most recent CliFi outputs…

Writing the Earth (part 1)

[image error] Cli-Fi: Writing the Land, Awen, 2003; An Ecobardic Manifesto, Awen 2004; Lost Islands, Heart of Albion, 2008

Climate Fiction, popularly abbreviated as ‘cli-fi’ is literature that deals with climate change and global warming. Traditionally such works would have been categorised as Speculative Fiction, but in a world of increasingly frequent extreme weather events, where many institutions, authorities, and governments have declared a Climate Emergency, cli-fi appears to chart the state of the modern, not near future, world.

My connection to creative writing that explores environmental issues started with my very first poetry, penned in the first year of the 90s – so I have a 30 year connection to the subject, long before Cli-Fi became a trendy tag. Much of my early poetry was inspired by the landscape and an ecological sensibility (and still is). This was performed at open mics and appeared in my home-made chapbooks throughout that decade. By the end of the 90s I had become the Bard of Bath, and had started to get my work into print.

In the early Noughties after working towards an MA in the Teaching and Practice of Creative Writing at Cardiff University, I started to teach creative writing in earnest. I applied for a small grant, which enabled me to run a series of workshops on ‘Writing and the Environment’ at Envolve, Bath’s environment centre, during the spring and early summer of 2003. This resulted in Writing the Land: an anthology of natural words, which I put together with my students. It raised funds for the local Friends of the Earth group, and I got a piece in the Bath Chronicle, with me appearing next to Terry Coulson, the much-loved and missed chair (he died a year later). To publish the anthology I created Awen Publications, a small press, which I ran for ten years. It specialised in writing with an ‘ecobardic’ sensibility, an ethos outlined first by the storytelling group I was in (Fire Springs) and then adopted by the press. An Ecobardic Manifesto: a vision for the arts in a time of environmental crisis came out in 2004, and as a co-author, can be included as my second substantial environmentally-themed publication.

And for my third in this survey of my personal Cli-Fi list I would now turn to Lost Islands: inventing Avalon, destroying Eden (Heart of Albion Press, 2008). Imaginary, otherwordly and lost islands frequently feature in literature. This study considered these mythic isles in the context of climate change and Earth itself as a threatened ‘island’. I think of this as my ‘Climate Change’ book, as in it I looked hard at the (then still) emerging facts about humankind’s decimating impact on the Earth’s biodiversity, and regulatory systems. Concerns about this stem back decades, indeed centuries (Victorian polymath John Ruskin first noted the impact of pollution on air quality and cloud formation). I certainly became concerned about it from the late 80s, when the Ozone layer and the effect of CFCs upon it first appeared in the media, alongside campaigns to Save the Whale and the Amazon rainforest. That famous footage of the hole in the Ozone layer above the Arctic chilled me to the core, and prompted me to join many eco-protest marches. When awareness grew of the potential for sea levels to be effected by global warming I started to think about islands and the many legends of lost ones. I started to research it in earnest and visited as many as I could – writing a draft of the book on Bardsey Island, off the Llyn Peninsula. With the publication of Lost Island, I felt I had truly nailed my colours to the mast. I was green, through and through!

I continue my potted history of personal Cli-Fi in the next blog…

To purchase any of the titles mentioned visit: www.kevanmanwaring.co.uk

My prize-winning science fiction/cli-fi novel, Black Box, has been adapted into an exciting audio drama by podcast wizards, Alternative Stories and Fake Realities. The pilot episodes (1-3) are being launched 27 November, 4 December, and 11 December, 2020. FFI: https://www.buzzsprout.com/411730

Pilgrimage to Sovereignty

Gallos, Rubin Eynon, Tintagel

It is a dream I have… (Merlin, Excalibur, Boorman, 1981)

I have been obsessed with all things Arthurian since a young age  – and that compelled me to go on pilgrimage to Glastonbury and other sites associated with his legend as I reached an age when I could hit the road. Coming from a run-down Midlands town it was thrilling to walk in a landscape soaked with myths and legends – but back then I did not realise such things are under your feet, wherever you live. What we consider to be sacred is as an act of perception – but sometimes we have to go on a journey to realise the wonders of the everyday. 

Having walked many of the national trails in 2017 I decided to create a more meaningful route – one with a narrative, a significance, I could relate to. One that might even be transformative. And thus I researched the modern pilgrimage route I called the ‘King Arthur Way’ – a 153 mile long-distance trail from Tintagel (the place of Arthur’s conception, according to legend) to Glastonbury (site of his ‘grave’, or passing).

I loved working out the route on the series of OS maps I purchased – one that takes the pilgrim from the rugged north Cornish coast, across the wild fastness of Dartmoor and the Blackdown Hills, and over the Somerset Levels towards the iconic terminus of Glastonbury Tor.  Along the way one passes castles and mysterious stones, winding rivers, woods and heathland, charming villages and tempting pubs. There were, as on any long-distance walks, days of real challenge and days of reward. Some of the highlights include:

Waking up on the coast overlooking Tintagel.Stumbling upon the ancient rock-cut mazes in Rocky Valley.St Nectan’s Glen.Brent Tor.Wild-swimming in the Tamar, Dart, and Shilley Pool.Castle Drogo.South Cadbury.Burrow Mump.Walking to Glastonbury across the Somerset Levels.

Most of all there was this sense of ‘walking the legend’, which made it real in a very embodied way.  If a 6th Century battle-chief existed called ‘Arthur’ (Arturo, Artus …) then he would have been a very different leader than the one rendered in the courtly romances, as would have been his ‘knights’. The Arthur of the early Celtic tales gives us a glimmer, perhaps – he’s far less sympathetic (Trystan and Isseult), more pro-active (The Spoils of Annwn), and often deep in gore (The Celtic Triads).  Yet whether he existed or not, there is an Arthur for all of us – he is a malleable construct that changes through the decades. He epitomized one thing for the Victorians (the noble cuckold; the tragic martyr torn between lofty ideals and earthly desires, skeletons in the cupboard and Christian imperialism); another for the Post-War generation (a dream of unity, however flawed); another for the Counter-Culture (Merlin as the original Gandalf; Mordred as the rebellious anti-hero); another for the New Age (feminist revisionist treatments reappraising the role of women in the Arthuriad and problematizing the patriarchal hierarchy of it all). Arthur ‘exists’ as a cultural meme, as a literary figure, as an ideal – and it is the latter that most engages me at present.

For despite his questionable reputation and historical status, Arthur represents the archetype of Kingship. And we are living in an age suffering from the Shadow of that – we suffer under the yoke of so many bad leaders. I am not a Royalist, but I am no anarchist either. We need good leadership now more than ever – both from within and without. It would be naive to assume that if we just ‘sorted ourselves out’ the world would be okay – but it’s a place to start from. Self-actualisation can happen in many ways. Healthy communities are naturally ennobling and mutually empowering, so the process can begin on your doorstep.

But sometimes we need a more intense experience to ‘shift’ things.

My hope in creating a modern pilgrimage route is that it could be used for rites-of-passage (for all  genders and ages), for leadership training, for the continuation of a living oral tradition (storytelling, poetry and singing along the route), the cultivation of art trails, the promoting of local businesses, rural regeneration, and so forth. Such an endeavour will only come about through collaboration, community involvement, fundraising and sponsorship. To accomplish such a dream requires inspired leadership. By setting out to create the King Arthur Way perhaps I had awakened my own ‘king’ – and I hope that all who walk it connect with their own inner sovereignty too. 

Route details etc here:

https://kingarthurway.wordpress.com/

Read a fuller account of the creation of the King Arthur Way in the latest issue of The Pilgrim:

https://www.thepilgrim.org.uk/

For general mapping and other pilgrim trails:

https://britishpilgrimage.org/portfolio/king-arthur-way/

Jupiter the Great and the Little Women

Once there was a great king

…at least he was great in terms of his size and ego. He was known by many names but let’s call him Jupiter. King of the Gods (he acted like a petulant god so hell he must be!) Jupiter had usurped his father, Saturn (some said killed, but those voices were hushed up) from the throne, and lorded it over all, the most important man in the solar system, galaxy, universe – at least he liked to think so. He had a pet eagle, a shield called Aegis. Shiny thunderbolts made by his son, Vulcan. But he was particularly proud of his swirling orange hair – he thought it made him irresistible to women.

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Giuseppe Cades, Juno discovers Jupiter with Io

He loved the women, or the girls, as he liked to call them. He like to talk to them, he liked to touch them, and loved it when they stroked his … ego. But, stop right there – he had a wife, lest we forget – Queen of the Pantheon to his King, her name – Juno. Jupiter thought her oblivious of his shenanigans, but on the contrary, she knew alright, and kept a close watch on him.

He loved to conceal his infidelities in clouds of mist – sometimes he descended on unsuspecting nymphs in the form of a golden shower – but Juno was able to pierce through his miasma.

One day Jupiter having developed a soft spot for a beautiful young nymph called Io, went a-calling, hoping for a bit of frolicking. He wooed her, her fondled her – thinking he was the one doing the seducing … But his wife was swift to follow and nearly caught them at it – but he was quick. He turned Io into a cow. ‘Husband! Husband! What are you up to!’ Jupiter feigned innocence. ‘I’m trying to get back to nature. I’ve been too high and mighty. I wanted to shed the trappings of power and taste the life of a cow-herd. And look at this lovely heifer. Her beautiful udders. Her smooth horns. Her big dark eyes. The swish of her tail.’

Juno, this time accepted these alternative facts, though in her heart she knew she’d been deceived. So she left.

Another day, Jupiter’s eye fell upon another lovely nymph, skin like alabaster, called Europa. She refused his advances, and so he came to her in the form of a bull – and carried her off to have his wicked way with her. Some say to Crete, some say to a crate.

But Jupiter’s good luck ran out one day when he was cosying up to another nymph called Callisto. Juno appeared, and this time there was no hiding – her husband just shrugged ‘What can I say. She was a five!’ – In her wrath Juno turned Callisto into a bear, and stormed off.

Finally Jupiter took a shine to a handsome young lad from Troy called Ganymede – he had if nothing else Catholic tastes. The lad was a bit reluctant to accept the advances of the horny old goat, I don’t know why. And so Jupiter descended upon him in the form of an eagle and carried him off to the stars to be his cup-bearer, or so he says.

Well, Juno had had enough. She decided to teach her pathetic husband a lesson. Instead of confronting her husband directly, which she knew would be pointless. He was so self-deceiving he wouldn’t realise he’d done anything wrong. So she went to Io, Europa, Callisto and Ganymede. They were frightened when they realised who she was. But she said, ‘I’m not angry with you, only my stupid husband – are you happy being treated this way?’ They all felt they had been wronged – but at the time it was hard not to be swept along by Jupiter’s magnetic personality. They agreed to help teach the king a lesson. Yes, he had thunderbolts – but Juno made some powerful allies.

She recruited Venus and Mercury to her cause – love and eloquence. War-like Mars, with his buzz-cut and PTSD twitch, was Jupiter’s right-hand man, so no luck there. Saturn certainly had a bone to pick, but was bit of a deadweight. Neptune, who ruled the sea, and Pluto who ruled the dead, also joined their cause. Together, led by Juno, they caused chaos in the heavens, disrupting the cycles and orbits, with their non-violent direct action, until enough was enough!

The allies confronted the bully – who turned out to be nothing more than a gas giant. All bluster. As they confronted him with his misdemeanours and crimes, he started to shrink. He spewed out toxic cloud in his defence, but got smaller and smaller. One by one his layers of deceit were stripped away, until there were none left – and what did they find behind it all? A Little Boy sitting on a rock, sulking, sticking out his bottom lip. He tried to throw his thunderbolts, but they were like sparklers now. He had a toy shield and stuffed bird. So much for Jupiter the Great.

After that Juno and the ‘girls’ took over running the Heavens and they did a far, far better job of things. The Solar System became a lot more peaceful, pleasant and respectful place to live.

Jupiter was given a nanny and a nice big play pen, where he could build imaginary walls all day long without causing any harm.

The End

 Kevan Manwaring © 2017-01-27

If you are interested in the real Jupiter and its amazing moons then check out my science fiction novel, Black Box, forthcoming from Alternative Stories.

Black Box has been adapted into an audio drama by the amazing podcast team at Alternative Stories. The first three pilot episodes are due to be launched 20th November, 27th November, & 4th December. FFI: https://alternativestories.com/

The Alien DJ

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A crime to art, music and science fiction, but this dodgy 1978 album got me hooked.

Is it me or am I the only one who finds it hard to separate Sci-Fi from soundtrack? It is almost impossible to think of the opening credits of Star Wars, Episode IV: A New Hope without the adrenalin-surge of John Williams’ classic theme-tune blasted out to the backstory disappearing to its vanishing point (or Darth Vader and his stormtroopers without the Imperial march); the shock and awe of the apocalyptic opening of Blade Runner without the vertiginous electronica of Vangelis; and the opening of Kubrick/Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey would not have the same sturm-und-drang impact with Richard Strauss’s ‘sunrise’ from Also sprach Zarathustra.

Growing up a Sci-Fi addict (thanks to Lucas’ gateway drug that made me watch anything with Special FX in however risible, and it often was) I received my ‘hit’ often via the opening credits and theme tune of classic TV shows such as Captain Scarlet, Joe 90, Thunderbirds, Dr Who, Blake’s Seven, Star Trek, and The Prisoner. 

And as an adult connoisseur of big screen Fantastika, I often find myself enthralled as much by the soaring soundtracks as much as the visuals – as in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Brazil, Terminator 2: Judgement Day, The Matrix, Sunshine, Interstellar, Arrival, Blade Runner: 2049 to name but a few.  

So it is no surprise to discover that during the writing of my novels I often have an ‘unofficial soundtrack’ running in the back of my mind. Perhaps this is why I need to write in silence, as I need to be able to tune into this internal symphony – the mood and movement that underscores the scene or chapter I am writing. Sometimes actual music is cited in the prose. In my science fiction thriller, Black Box, the protagonist listens to Chinese death metal while out on the ice, conducting one of his endless routine maintenance circuits of the vast ice-shelf he is tasked to transport to the ends of the galaxy. Back in his tugship, out of his suit, Lake relaxes to Hendrix while shooting up an artificial opiate he has managed to synthesise. Other settings required different tracks, evoking a different ambience – very few of these are explicit, but they nuanced my depiction of each, through diction, description, and pacing – the micro-choices that create tone.

If, in some fortunate future, my novel gets turned into a movie – which since it was first conceived as one, would be a satisfying full circle – then I hope the director will choose one of the fine composers out there (Hans Zimmer, for instance!) to score it rather than opt for the populist ‘mix-tape’ approach, which worked for The Martian and Guardians of the Galaxy — initially, a refreshingly iconoclastic contra-tonal device, but one that’s become something of a cliché, a lazy form of film-making (like the cheesy pop song montage sequence of the 80s it emulates) that does a disservice to the craft of the film composer, the under-rated geniuses of modern cinema, for it is they who translate the music of the spheres into reality.

Black Box has been adapted into an audio drama by the amazing podcast team at Alternative Stories. The first three pilot episodes are due to be launched 20th November, 27th November, & 4th December. FFI: https://alternativestories.com/

Gods Playing Dice

Writing and RPGs

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The classic edition of Traveller, Game Designer’s Workshop, 1977

As a young man back in the spiked, crimped velveteen 80s I spent many an happy hour enjoying sessions of role-playing games (now suddenly fashionable). These undoubtedly nurtured my writerly imagination for it is through them I caught the bug for storytelling and creating detailed scenarios. The three systems that enthralled me the most were the classic version of Dungeon & Dragons, Call of Cthulu (based upon the works of HP Lovecraft) and Traveller – through them I experienced the immersive delights of Fantasy, Horror and Science Fiction. It is the latter that is particularly on my radar at the moment, for my SF novel, Black Box, is ready for launch (being published through the crowdfunding platform, Unbound). Although the novel has been consciously informed by a lifetime of reading and watching SF, by Climate Change, and by research into space exploration and artificial intelligence at the University of Leicester where I’m currently completing my PhD, looking back I realise that those lively sessions with fellow schoolmates (in particular Garrie Fletcher, who has gone onto to become a wordsmith too) really nurtured the ‘SF brain’ part of me. With its stylish series of black manuals, and hard edge, Traveller was always the coolest of the RPGs, the Fonz of the whole Happy Days bunch. Each session, usually held around ‘Budgie’s house’, another schoolmate from Mereway, felt like being inside an episode of one of our favourite TV shows – Blake’s 7, Dr Who, Star Trek or Battlestar Galactica (this was pre-Firefly days and that show in particular captures the maverick freebooting attitude of the game – a motley crew taking on some dodgy mission for a fistful of credits, normally running the gauntlet of the Imperium, space pirates and hostiles). The main benefit of these games was, of course, the social angle – lifesaving for a bunch of awkward nerds (speaking personally): the sessions were some of the most enjoyable spent as a teenager – hearty laughter, shared creativity, and heart-pumping excitement. But in hindsight, as someone who has made writing the heart of their career, I see other spinoffs that have a direct benefit to novelists: immersiveness (far more visceral than any virtual reality); multilinearity (complex branching narratives effected by one’s choices); storytelling (how to engage and sustain an audience, create narrative traction, suspense and tension); characterisation (designing vivid characters, improvising dialogue); the importance of setting (almost a character in its own right – certainly spaceships can be); and fictionality (the giddy freedom of making stuff up, spinning a yarn, and weaving worlds out of thin air). These have all become of primary importance in my novel-writing. Of course novels seem, on the surface, less multi-cursory and multi-player – they are a direct interface between author and reader (although they can be shared by millions) – but in the composition of them, the malleability of the plot, the behaviour of the characters, and the volatility of the structure, makes it feel like being in a ‘session’ as DM,  player-characters, and non-player characters – a schizophrenic’s paradise. Aspects of your personality talk back at you: shock, astound and devastate – and you risk coming across as a complete loon, bursting out laughing or crying out in frustration at a screen. Anything can happen in the white void of the blank page. The lonely long-haul of writing a novel may lack the sociability of a RPG (except in the camaraderie with fellow writers and, if you’re lucky, readers), but in compensation one has complete creative control (eventually, if the wild beast of the book can be tamed sufficiently). It can bring out the emperor-god-being in you, the tyrannical deity that plucky characters loved to frustrate. As with the best DMs, who run a game ‘dice-light’, biasing the flow of storytelling over a punctilious compliance with the rules, the best writers always allow their characters to have a lucky break now and then, and to steal the show over a mechanical fulfilment of plot. And writers weaned on RPGs will always remember who the narrative is ultimately for – not the ‘god behind the screen’ but the reader-participant.

Copyright ©Kevan Manwaring 30 April

Black Box has been adapted into an audio drama by the amazing podcast team at Alternative Stories. The first three pilot episodes are due to be launched 20th November, 27th November, & 4th December. FFI: https://alternativestories.com/

Survival Manual for the Human Race

Friday, 13 April 2018

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Things may seem pretty bleak out there at the moment – geopolitical unrest, climate chaos, displaced populations – and threats are real not only to the peace and security of our families and communities but to the very existence of humankind as the dominant species upon this planet. It all feels like The Eighties: the sequel. It was back then, living in the shadow of the Cold War as a teenager, that I first started to get seriously interested in science fiction as a way of speculating about the future. Alternative versions of now. For SF holds a dark mirror up to the present day. It has done this since its inception, in Mary Shelley’s masterpiece, Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus, published 200 years ago, but haunting us still about the perils of playing god, of science running amok. In the 30s Aldous Huxley explored the spectre of genetic engineering, or eugenics as it was known back then;  in the 40s George Orwell contemplated a Fascist future which feels eerily prescient; and in the 80s Margaret Atwood depicted a dystopian state that has struck a chord with many. And that is just a few.

I humbly join the conversation – not to compare my efforts with the giants I stand upon the shoulders of, but because it is hard not to speculate about where humankind is going; whether we’ll last the decade, let alone the century. It is hard not to be pessimistic, but one thing I am sure about – the limitless power of the human imagination – and that gives me hope. While we have the freedom to imagine and express other futures, other ways of being in the world, there is always hope.

In Black Box, I wanted to look into the abyss, but I also wanted to offer a glimmer of light. I offer not another bleak dystopian vision of the future, nor a wildly optimistic utopia, but what Atwood terms an ‘Ustopia’ – for one man’s heaven is another man’s hell.

Of course it can be argued that novels, like poems, don’t really ‘change anything’, but they can offer an aesthetic, intellectual, emotional or moral counter-balance to the prevailing discourse of the times, an articulation of inarticulated or silenced voices, sobering thought experiments that project possible outcomes based upon current trends (often by taking things to their logical conclusion), or the healthiest form of escapism from the mad prison of the world (as Le Guin and Tolkien have pointed out). Science Fiction and Fantasy in particular facilitate this – by encouraging us to imagine what is beyond, what makes us human, and what is home, we can find a renewal of meaning and deepened appreciation for the fragile miracle of existence.

Black Box has been adapted into an audio drama by the amazing podcast team at Alternative Stories. The first three pilot episodes are due to be launched 20th November, 27th November, & 4th December. FFI: https://alternativestories.com/

Epilogue

GIMLI XYZ announcement:

Hi there, folks, this is Sitting Cloud here, your new DJ while Foghorn Fredricksson takes a long break. My husband says I should get out of the house more, so here I am! I’m still getting used to all these controls so bear with me – but these last few weeks have been a learning curve for all of us, haven’t they? Well, I’m pleased to announce the repairs on the Lighthouse are completed – the solar panels have been fitted – and to celebrate there is going to be a disaster relief benefit concert, raising funds and resources for all those affected by the recent crisis, at the Sports Hall, with no less than The Runestone Cowboys playing, featuring my son, Eddy Redcrow! It’s going to be this coming Saturday. Hope you can make it. To get you in the mood, here’s one of their numbers. Now, which damn button is it…?

EPILOGUE

The sports hall was packed, the atmosphere electric with excitement and relief as Eddy stepped onto the stage with his band. He picked up his guitar, and his bandmates attended to their own instruments – Deep Fried Fred on rhythm, Berserk Bjarki on bass, and Octopus Ollie on drums.

‘Hello Gimli!’ Eddy roared, as he strummed his guitar. ‘It’s good to see you all! We’re the Runestone Cowboys, and I don’t know about you, but we’re here to party!’

The crowd went wild as the band plunged into their first upbeat number. Hit the ground running, was Eddy’s motto. Three months into the clear-up and folk were ready to let their hair down. It had been ninety days of hard work, of grim discoveries, of burials and memorials. Slowly normality had returned. Power. Water. Food and fuel deliveries. The internet and phone signals. The streets had been cleared, the ploughed piles of dirty snow slowly melting away. It was strange, at first, to see asphalt again, sidewalks, lawns and fields – the colour slowly returning to the landscape like someone adjusting the balance on an old television.

The completion of the new solar-panelled lighthouse had been the symbol of renewal for the community – an affirmation that the sun would once more grow in strength, the light would return, and crops would grow again. The nuclear winter was over – all the reports confirmed it. The floods had been devastating, but at least the milder weather and greater daylight made the rescue and clear-up operations easier.

As satellite communications were restored a flood of emails, texts, and voice-mails filled up people’s message boxes. In the last week Eddy had received two unexpected but welcome messages: one was from Cruz, who was now leading the remaining members of the Wild Hunt. She had sent a photo of herself in front of the club on the battle-scarred million-dollar bike. The message simply said: ‘The Wild Hunt rides on! Patch for life, Red! Seeya on the road!’

The other was a video-message from Bog standing with a pint of Guiness outside Lowry’s: ‘Would you believe it, I made it back! Took a week to thaw out! My hands were like a pack of fecking fish fingers! I found your website. Looks shite, but the music sounds good! Come over the pond for a jar or three! You’ll like the craic here. It suits crazy halfbreed like us! Anyway, I see from your homecoming gig you made it back. That was one epic ride there, my friend! You’re a legend! Here’s to more wild times, but with better weather, hey?’

Eddy scanned the dancing crowd and saw his sister dancing proudly near the front with her friends. She waved and grinned. He smiled back and went into the lick of the next track – a smooth segue they had been practising for a while. They had a three song medley to warm up the crowd, and they weren’t going to pause for a break and a bit of banter until then. He was in full flow, loving the vibes, the admiring or envious looks, but more this time – the deep appreciation, the respect. He wasn’t just Eddy of the Runestone Cowboys, he was a local hero, and perhaps more, but no one except his community knew the whole story. He was cool with that – the last thing he wanted was news crews camped outside the family home, pestering his friends and family for sound-bites, tempting offers to appear on chat shows and more. After everything he had gone through more than anything he wanted to keep it real. A low profile. His old job. A cold one with his friends down the brewhouse now and then. Sure, he had fantastic memories to keep him going for the rest of his life. Those would never fade. The people he had met. The things he had seen. He had ridden with legends. Fought monsters. Journeyed between worlds. And had lived. That was enough for any man.

At least that’s what he told himself.

But he had tasted magic. And the world would never be the same again. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her. She haunted his dreams.

Fenja.

No mortal woman would ever live up to her, and how could they? He had sampled the nectar of the gods. He knew he should just be content – for being back in Gimli, for being alive. They had all lost much, but he still had the gift of life, so fragile, so precious. And once gone, irreplaceable.

Every day he reminded himself of that. He easily he could have failed, could not be here.

Where would he be, exactly, he wondered? Which world would his spirit go? Was it destined for a Dakota afterlife or an Icelandic one – or some snakehole between the two? He shook his head and laughed and the audience thought it was just the buzz of the performance. He had spent his life trying to square that one, and perhaps he never would. Death was merely a change of worlds, his grandfather had said. Perhaps there, in the great beyond, all such differences faded away… The Red and the White. The Black. The Yellow. The Rainbow Nations, becoming one again. Perhaps there, all his loved ones who had passed on waited for him…

Lost in the solo with the throb of the drums behind him, he slipped into a semi-trance state. The hall suddenly felt larger, the crowd vast – extending into shadowy catacombs where ranks of ancestors eavesdropped.

Eddy nearly fudged a chord as he was overwhelmed by the presence of his grandfathers – Gunnar and Running Bear stepped forward from the shadows, side-by-side. They parted as a blue light appeared between them.

The image vanished in a flash, and suddenly there in the audience … there she was, dancing.

Fenja.

She gyrated to the music. Wearing jeans, boots, a tight t-shirt, she just looked like another one of the crowd, out for a good time.

Eddy nearly fell off the stage. His bandmates made a joke, yanked him back, carried on playing.

She looked up at him, and her fierce blue eyes caught his.

And the distance between the worlds melted away.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Brighter Than the Sun

Announcement by WOTAN (broadcast on all channels, in all media formats)

We declare our resolution to bring an end to the crisis which has threatened the very survival of our species these last few months. By working together the members of WOTAN have put into place emergency protocols that prioritise humanitarian aid, the sharing of resources and information across borders, and collaboration between our armed forces. The well-being of our citizens and the care of the vulnerable is our top priority. It is expected that major flooding will occur across coastal areas as the ice melts, so co-ordinated evacuation is taking place wherever possible. We acknowledge that this is an unprecedented situation – and we must accept our culpability in bringing about this Climate Chaos through the thoughtless use of fossil fuels. This must change – we have the technology to solve these problems and draft plans are being formulated – but for now, we must salvage what we can and rebuild our lives. We ask every citizen to help their neighbour and their community. Humanity has been tested. We must learn the lessons of this crisis, and build a wiser, more compassionate world.

Chapter 34: Brighter Than the Sun

Eddy sat by the statue of Leif Ericsson, strumming his guitar, looking out over Lake Manitoba. It was definitely getting milder, the ice starting to break up on the water, patches of green emerging from the melting snow.  It was like the first inklings of spring, though it was midsummer. He ran through the chords of one of the Runestone Cowboys standards, but his heart wasn’t in it. He was looking forward to playing with the band again – they had been booked to play at the reopening of the Lighthouse, repurposed as a community hub. There had been a couple of rehearsals, and a lot of beer drunk, as he had caught up with the band and shared some of his wild exploits. He didn’t like talking about it too much, as it all sounded like some low budget B-movie, the magic bled away in the neon glare of a bar-room or strip-lit garage-cum-practise-room. He stopped strumming and flexed his fingers. Still stiff after all that riding – his death-grip crossing the ice, day after day, pulled something and his hands throbbed, especially at night. He circled the scar in his palm fondly, then sighed, looking at the bleak, familiar vista. Nothing could go back to the way it was. Absent-mindedly he played a chord, pushing it around the fretboard. A promising pattern fell into place and he played it again, building upon it. He began to hum along a harmony and for a while he was just lost in his music. Forging a new song for a new age.

‘Hey, brother!’

Eddy looked up. It was Siggy, wearing a thick colourful coat, hat, gloves and ear-warmers.

‘I thought I recognised that caterwauling. Shove over. I’ve got coffee.’

Eddy smiled and made room for his sister.

She gave him a peck on the cheek, and then poured them both some coffee.

He breathed it in. ‘Ah, I’ve missed your industrial grade joe, sizzers,’ smiled Eddy, grimacing as he took a sip.

‘Some cookies too,’ she offered from a bag.

Eddy gave her a curious look. She had been overly attentive since he’d made it back, fussing around him like a mother hen. Half the available women in Gimli had as well, but his sister had kept them at bay – couldn’t they see he was broken-hearted and needing some healing time? Not only had he gone to Hell and back saving them all – where exactly she still couldn’t quite get her head around – but he had lost the love of his life too boot. ‘Give the man some space!’ she warned, while smothering him with her sisterly love.

As they sipped their coffee and munched on the cookies, they gazed over Gimli. The place was slowly being sorted out – the roads being cleared of snow, buildings being repaired, power restored, services coming back on line. It was going to take a while for ‘normal service to be resumed’, but there was a semblance of order being restored. The worst job was dealing with the bodies – not only the victims of the raiders, whose own corpses had dissolved away staining the snow like an oil spill, but those found frozen in their cars, in their powerless homes. The sports centre had become a temporary morgue, as folk returned to their own dwellings. Identifying the dead had been a grim task.

‘I miss him,’ said Eddy, finally.

Siggy snuggled close, leaning her head on his shoulder. ‘Me too.’

‘So many dead to mourn, it’s … overwhelming. But losing him has hit me more than anything, well … almost.’

‘I know.’

They scanned the lake, hoping to see some meaning in the runes of black cracks.

‘Everyone is looking forward to the gig tonight. Folk need a good dance, let their hair down, shake some feathers, after … all of this.’

Eddy grimaced. ‘I hope we’re going to be warmed up enough. Hardly had time to practise. We’re rusty as fuck.’

‘Oh, a few beers, and the cheers of the crowd should warm you up.’

‘Let’s hope so. I don’t know if I’m really in the party spirit, to be honest.’

‘That’s completely understandable. Just be real. People will dig that. It’ll give your music real grit.’

At the word, Eddy found his ears prickling with tears.

‘What’s up?’ she asked.

‘Oh, nothing… Just something grandfather once said to me…’

Siggy put her arm around him and he leaned his head on her shoulder as they gazed across the bay. ‘He’d be so proud of you,’ she whispered.

Eddy shook his head. ‘I’d rather have him back.’

‘I don’t he’ll ever go away… He’s probably looking down on us right now, laughing.’

They scanned the threadbare blanket of cloud cover.

‘He’s gone. And he’s not coming back. It hurts, it hurts real bad. But … I’m ready to deal with it.’

Siggy nodded. ‘We’ve all survived something … mad … it has stripped away a lot of bullshit. Folk don’t want fake anything anymore.’

‘Let’s hope so.’ Eddy finished his coffee, and flicked the grouts into the snow.

‘I don’t think folk will be so quick to vote in a shuckster like Koil again,’ she assessed, packing away the Thermos and Tupperware. ‘No more wizards of Oz! But we need checks and balances so it doesn’t ever get out of hand like it did. No single leader should wield so much power.’

‘Well, sounds like the new NATO will see to that.’

‘WOTAN,’ she corrected. ‘Yes, since they formed the emergency council of countries dealing with the crisis things have started to be sorted out. It is amazing what we can achieve when we work together.’

A flash of light caught their eye. They turned to the lighthouse.

‘Looks like they’re fixing those new solar panels in place,’ said Eddy. ‘Optimistic!’

‘That there cloud is finally starting to break up. The experts on the radio say the nuclear winter is coming to an end. The volcanic ash and dust in the jet-stream is finally dispersing.’

‘Well, don’t get out your bikini yet, sis. It’s going to take a while before things warm up.’

‘I don’t know. I think there is already a little thaw,’ she held his hand, and smiled. ‘I think I can even feel a pulse.’

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

The Way it Happened

‘ There now, I have chopped off half the winter.’ Traditional tale ending.

Chapter 33: The Way it Happened

The old man sat back in his battered armchair and groaned. ‘Ah, my bones. This cold has made them worse than usual. They ache like a seawife’s heart for her drowned sweetheart.’ Snorri wore a thick Icelandic cardigan, patterned with snowflakes and sunflowers.  His craggy face was like a map of sorrow and hardship, and yet there was a spunk of fire in his eyes beneath the kindling of his eyebrows. In contrast to his stiff, jagged body his hands were mercurial, conjuring gods and monsters out of the air with the simplest of gestures.

Around him in the Harbour Master’s Office, where he had temporarily taken up residence, sleeping in the lighthouse, and running a scratch school in the office while the main school remained closed, were the children of the community, those ‘not too old’ for stories or too young to understand, although some infants lay curled against their mothers, who helped run a makeshift nursery between them. Others had ‘called by’, on some vague errand, and lingered in the doorway, eavesdropping with a mixture of scepticism and amusement.

Snorri’s afternoon story sessions were becoming a popular fixture of the community. In the gulf left by online entertainment folk had taken to making their own again – board games, singalongs, drumming circles, and storytelling.

‘So, nobody wants another story do they? You look tired. Perhaps you should all go home and have a nap…’

‘One more story. Please…!’ cried the children.

He raised his bird-hands in mock defeat. ‘Very well then. Only one more mind. Then it’s hometime. Otherwise I’ll be run out of town, for leading you all into the hillside of tale like some Pied Piper. Which one shall it be? Scary? Sad? Funny?’

‘Tell us about the end of the world again!’ someone cried, and others joined in, echoing the sentiment.

Snorri laughed, stroking his fox-like beard. ‘The one I told yesterday? And the day before that? Ah, you have appetites worse than Thor! Y’know, once he dressed up as a woman to fool the king of the Frost Giants and win back his hammer, Mjolnir. Thrym liked the look of this fine figure of a woman – bearded and bicepped – so much he decided to marry her. At the wedding feast Thor ate a whole ox from tail to horn, eight mighty salmon, all the cakes and sweets, and two barrels of mead, which impressed Thrym even more!’ Everyone laughed and Snorri went to get up and leave.

‘Stay! We want our story!’

‘What?’ He smacked his forehead. ‘Plain forgot! My memory! It’s like a Swiss cheese in a colander!’ He settled down again, scanning the eager faces, lit by the candles set up around the room. ‘Very well, then. Let me tell you about the end of the world. This is the way it happened…’

‘Our Eddy, yes! Eddy Leif Redcrow of Gimli, Manitoba! Icerider! He who had crossed the Atlantic Ocean on his iron steed! Friend of giants and foe of demon raiders! He had a difficult job to do! He had to reach Law Rock, the ancient rock in Thingvollr, the crack in the world, where all the laws of Iceland were proclaimed. Why? Because there he had to recite the Runestone given him by his grandfather, my old dear pal, Running Bear, may his spirit be at peace in the arms of the Great Creator. If he could he could bring an end to the war of the gods that had locked the world in an icy embrace. He could bring an end to the end. Unfortunately, between him and his goal there was that loathsome trickster, Loki, and his hellish hordes: wolves! worms! trolls before them! Ice Force shock troops behind! The chasm of the sundered world below!’

The audience gasped in delightful terror.

‘But our hero was not alone! Oh no! He had mighty friends! Odin One Eye, the Allfather, riding his eight-legged steed, Sleipnir! Tear, god of war, who, with one hand could do more damage than a ten men with twenty! Rig, the guardian of Bifrost, blower of the great horn that woke the gods! And the rest of the Raven god’s crew – Will and Way, his powerful brothers! Fearsome Frey! And let us not forget the formidable Fenja, the frost-giant’s daughter who had melted Eddy’s heart! They led the Wild Hunt into battle – the final battle that they would fight! Many others had been lost along the way. It had been a hard road. But soon all would be reunited in Odin’s hall! This was the day foretold by the Weird Sisters! Ragnarok! The twilight of the gods! The world had endured the terrible Fimbul-Winter! Frost giants had walked the Earth, crushing humanity beneath their big boots! The Death Ship, Naglfar, made from the untrimmed nails of the dead, had sailed. The legions of Hel herself had sallied forth, raining down fire on the world! Surt woke up and his breath choked the sky! The Sons of Muspel rode out and nowhere was safe! Even Gimli!’

He looked around at the adults, who now were hooked too.

‘Yet Gimli was foretold to be where survivors of the end of the world would live … it is the place protected from the fire! We’re tough! We fight! And we protect our loved ones! But without Eddy’s bravery we would never know safety! The place more beautiful than the sun would always live in the shadow of conflict! And so the Wild Hunt had to do what they did, for us all. For communities like us across the world. For people who didn’t even believe in them, who didn’t even know they existed! Their sacrifices that day would be forever unknown if not for the one who survived … but I get ahead of myself! All things in order. Everything and everyone must play their part in the web of wyrd. Ask the Weavers!’ He pointed at the women in the room. ‘They know! They understand! The warp and weft… there must be a pattern to it, a sequence!’

‘We’d better not let you near a loom then!’ one of them called, and they all cackled.

‘Harrumph!’ His frown melted into a smile. ‘So, the Wild Hunt fought against Loki and his lackeys – and what a battle it was! There, where the world is sundered. If it was not already so, the force of their clash would have broken it in twain! What a sound! The Earth shook!’ He stamped his feet up and down on the floor-boards, making a dull rumbling sound. ‘The sky was shattered by lightning!’ He weaved his hands back and forth, his rings glinting in the candle-light. ‘Crash! Boom!’

The young audience gasped in mock-terror and delight, while some of the adults rolled their eyes.

‘The outcome of such a battle was very close. Very close indeed. Such valour! Such deeds were seen on the Plains of Vigrid that day! It was the ultimate Holmgang—’

‘What’s that?’ asked a wide-eyed child.

‘Well, little one, I’m glad you asked. Holmgang is a Norse custom for settling disputes. The two feuding parties would go to an island to sort out their differences – only one was allowed back. It was a fight to the death. As it was that fateful day! One by one, the mighty gods fell – like tall trees in the forest. The Allfather is eaten by Fenris the Wolf in gigantic gulp…’ Roaring, Snorri used his arms to mime the jaws snapping shut. ‘Like that!’

The audience gasped.

‘Tear is torn apart from Garm, Hel’s own hound, while slaying it with his dying breath!’ Snorri growled and howled. ‘Frey and Surt destroy each other. Biff! Bash! Pow! And Rig, wily Heimdal, runefather and friend to all, falls at the hands of Loki, even as he delivers a fatal blow to that double-tongued trickster! And like trees in a storm, the rest of the Elders of the Wild Hunt topple. But they’re deaths are not in vain! Eddy reaches Law Rock, guarded by Fenja! He pulls out the runestone and … he can’t read it! It’s all in runes! A fatal flaw in the plan! All their deaths in vain!’ He smacks his brow in disbelief.

‘No!!!’ the children cried out.

‘Except … Fenja, she blows wisdom into his mind – puff! Like that! And suddenly, he can understand the markings! A-ha!’ He points a finger up in the air.

‘A-ha!’ the children echoed, mirroring his gesture.

‘He starts to recite the runic inscription, as the gods die around him, and the remains of Loki’s horde swarm towards the rock! Fenja fights them off as best she can, but she is hideously outnumbered. She can only hold them off for so long… All seems lost…’

Snorri looked around and saw even the adults were awaiting his next words with baited breath. The candle-light seemed frail in the gloom. This golden circle of humanity, so precious, so fragile.

‘Then Eddy’s words, spoken with power – he’s not a rocker for nothing – were finished. There was a vacuum of noise into which all the din of battle was sucked.’

Snorri paused for effect. You could hear a pin drop.

‘And then a great blast of energy rippled out from Law Rock across the Thingvollr, across Iceland, across the Atlantic, across the world! KA-BOOM!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Eddy released the Ragnarok runes, encoded on the Vérendrye Runestone, lost but found, right here in Manitoba! Preserved for centuries by the Redcrows! The tablet crumbled to dust and blew away in an icy breath of wind. Whoosh!’ He flicked his hand.

‘Whoosh!’ the children copied.

‘Eddy lay unconscious on the Law Rock. All was still and silent. Slowly, painfully, he revived. A patch of blue appeared in the sky overhead, and a shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom. Sunlight! Golden, like the hair of his beloved… Fenja! He got up and saw her at the foot of the rock, her broken body on a pile of the demon hordes. “No!” he cried, and stumbled down to her. Her body was limp and lifeless. He held her in his arms and wept. They had won, but at what cost?’

Snorri looked slyly about the room and saw there was not a dry eye. Satisfied, he continued. ‘Eddy sat there for a long time, holding the body of his sweetheart, amid the corpse-strewn battlefield, a feast for crows. If the Valkyries moved among the valiant, taking them to Valhalla, he could not see. All he saw was the white landscape running red with blood, his heart as black and as cold as the rock he sat upon. Then a slit appeared in the freezing air, glowing bright blue. It widened and heightened until a giant was framed. It was the King of the Frost Giants! Eddy was too weak, too bereft, to move, to react. If his time had come, so be it. But the frost giant wept too – tears of ice – and, reaching down, tenderly picked up Fenja and, turning back into the portal, carried her away.  ‘Wait! Stop!’ he cried, but it was futile. The King disappeared into Jötunheim, but, strangely, the portal remained open – and looking closer, Eddy could see, on the far side of the mountainous plateau, another portal, and through that, he saw … home! Gimli!’

 A cheer went up.

‘And so he took his leave of that place, where his words had healed the wound of the crack in the world. He stepped through the portal and …’

The arrival of another made Snorri stop and everyone looked up.

In the doorway, looking weak, but alive, was Eddy Redcrow.

‘Hey there! Am I missing anything?’

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020