Martin Lake's Blog, page 26

The Wonder of the Hare

When I was a kid we had a rabbit, a morose and dopey animal which never did anything but chew.  I used to stare at it and dare it to do something, anything, but it merely stared back at me and continued to chew.

The rabbits I preferred were those my mother made into stew.  Now it was my time to chew.

When I’d finished my meal I would play with the bones; there were no computer games in those days.  The spine and ribs became a dinosaur or the wreck of a ship.  The collar-bone, almost transparent in its fragility, was the sail of a yacht.

When I got a little older I discovered the existence of something far more magical than a rabbit, far more impressive, far more wonderful.  I heard about the hare.

What a revelation.  Where the rabbit was domestic, the hare was wild, where the rabbit was plodding, the hare was fleet.  The rabbit was a downtrodden, earth-shifting peasant.  The hare was a wild nomad, disdaining to settle down, wilfully placing his camp in the open, in full view of his foes.

I loved the idea that hares were supposed to go mad in March, that they seemed to engage in pugilism and were said to stare at the full moon.

March Hare (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Later Kit Williams’ ‘Masquerade‘ beguiled the nation and set hundreds of people off on a treasure hunt rather more enchanting than any search for pseudo-religious clues allegedly left by Leonardo.

I later discovered the poem by Yeats and wondered if I would be able to find the collar-bone of a hare, pierce it and stare through it to a different world.

One day, when I was eighteen I was walking in the country an hour before sunset.  I saw a bank with a crude path hacked out of it and clambered up to see if there was a good place to watch the sun go down.  I had stumbled upon a microscopic Lost World  Professor Challenger found dinosaurs on his Lost World. I found a mob of rabbits.

The top of the hill was shaped like a shallow bowl and the sun seemed to drench it to overflowing.  The rabbits hopped and raced, leapt over each other and careered around as if mad.  They seemed to be in a passionate frenzy.

My eyes swept the hill.  What was needed was for a hare to arrive, for him to command the attention of his rabbit followers and summon them to sit at his feet in grateful adoration.  No hare came.  I so longed to see one.

The other thing which I greatly desired was to eat a hare.  I’ve been to many restaurants which promised the dish but all had told untruths.  There was wild boar, venison, pheasant or partridge but never any hare.

But recently, at long-last, I finally ate hare.  Our friends Colin and Penny were returning to England and invited us around for a meal.  I was delighted to find that they were serving hare.  It was a hare from Argentina and I had images of the hare being hunted down by a bolas-swinging Gaucho.  I don’t suppose it was but it was an excellent meal.  That hare did not die in vain.

I wish, however, that I could see one.

A wild Jackrabbit (Hare) on an English country lane. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Once when we drove through the Loire Valley my wife called out for me to look at the hare which was watching us from a field.  I turned and caught a shape out of the corner of my eye.  I suppose it was one but I cannot truly count it so.

I still yearn.  Does anyone know where I can see hares in France?  I’d be very grateful to see these creatures.  Not eat, just see.

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The Lost King: Book 3. #SampleSunday #amwriting #histfic #Kindle #historicalfiction

We turned and clambered up the hill.  We found ourselves on a narrow causeway with puny sheep munching on scanty grasses.  A small village clung a little way along, huddled against the walls of an old, decaying church as if sheltering from the wind.

An old villager was the only one brave enough to watch us pass by.  Siward Barn held him by the shoulder.  ‘What is the name of this place?’ he asked.

‘This is the middle town,’ he answered.

Siward Barn swept his hand around.  ‘And this land?’

‘Heruteu.’

‘The island of the stag?’

The old man nodded.

‘Is it an island?’ I asked.

‘It is when the tides are high,’ he answered.  He glanced up at the sky.  ‘You should be able to wade across by now.’

‘Can we buy horses here?’

The old man looked confused.  ‘We have no horses.  The priest has a donkey.’

‘That will have to do for now,’ Athelstan said.  ‘Anna and Freya can take turns to ride it.’

‘The priest won’t loan you his donkey,’ the old man said.  ‘He needs it.’

We ignored him and headed towards the church.

‘We have a long journey ahead,’ I said to Athelstan.  ‘We shall still need horses.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Willard said.

‘Why not?’

Willard glanced at the heavily forested land beyond the coast.  ‘Not if the country is forest or high country like where we wintered.  Men walking with a will can go as swift as horses on such ground.  Horses only make good speed on the roads of Rome and if we take those we’d be spotted by anyone pursuing us.  We’d be wiser to head into the wilds and go by paths that horsemen cannot follow.’

I weighed up what he said.  ‘The words of a woodman like you should be heeded,’ I said.

‘A donkey might be all right,’ he said.  ‘For the young women.’

I nodded.  ‘Will you come with us, Willard?’ I said.  ‘I value you greatly.’

Willard gazed at his men.  ‘Hog and I will.  I cannot speak for the others.  I’ll talk with them.’  He took a step towards his men then paused.  ‘Where shall I say we are going?’ he asked.

‘To Scotland.  To the palace of King Malcolm.’

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What Charley Bates thinks about the Artful Dodger

Dodger is the bestest.  He’s quicker than all the rest of us put together.  He can spot a likely geezer from half a street away, size him up and work out what he’s got that’s worth nicking.

His fingers must be like eels.  They can get in anywhere.  And out they come with exactly what he wants.

Then it’s off, as fast as an alley cat being chased by dogs.  Nobody even sees where he goes.

He looks after the rest of us you know.  He’s good like that.  We feel safe as houses with him around.  Feel like we’re on top of the world.

Will he get caught?  Pull the other one.  No one will be able to catch him.  Not our Dodger.  You must be blooming daft.  Not our Dodger.

See if Charley was right in his estimation.  Download ‘Artful’ for your Kindle or Kindle app.

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What Nancy thought about the Artful Dodger

As the author of ‘Artful’ I was pleased to have been sent an old box from an anonymous source.  Imagine my amazement when I looked inside and found a packet of dirty, worm-eaten letters which related to the chief character of my novel.

I thought that it was in the interests of historical accuracy to share these thoughts with the world.

These are the thoughts of Nancy:

Don’t believe what Fagin says, whatever it is.  Jack Dawkins is a lovely boy, a right little genelman.  He always looks after me and the other girls.  Tips his hat to me whenever he sees me and if he’s stole a choice silk scarf he’ll keep it from the Old Un and give it me.

He should of course after all I’ve done for him.  Not that I expect it and not that I’ve told him everything.  Some things are best kept from the young uns, I say.

Fagin’s boys look up to him as well.  He’s like a hero to them.  They all want to be like Dodger.  He’s such a marvel, you see.  He’s the best pick-pocket in London and London’s full of ‘em.  But there’s none half as good as Dodger, not on either side of the river, not in the City or the East End or the Other End.   No one half as good in the whole bloomin Empire probably.

I wish sometimes he’d get away from Fagin.  But he won’t, I know he won’t.  He seems to dote on the old villain.  Not that Fagin hasn’t been good to him.  Gave him a roof over his head, and me as well, and fed us even if it were little better than scraps.  And he gave Jack a trade into the bargain, trained him up to thieving.

But I still wish Jack would get away, set up for himself.  He’d keep all he took then and not have to give it all up to the Old Un.  But whatever he does, he’ll be all right.  He’ll never get caught and he’ll always be around to look after his old Nancy.

Read about Dodger’s adventures in my novel ‘Artful’.  It is available on Kindle Select for $3.99, £2.54 or €3.11. 

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Interview on Ty Johnston’s Blog

Just read my interview on Ty Johnston’s blog.  It’s really good to see it there.

Please take a look.  Thanks Ty.

His blog can be found at http://tyjohnston.blogspot.fr/

The Lost King: Book 3 #SampleSunday #amwriting #Kindle #HistoricalFiction Please take a look

We rowed the boat for three miles through slicing seas.  The sea surged over the laden keel and we were forced to bale out the freezing water with our cupped hands.  Finally, just as our strength was deserting us, we saw a spit of land to the north and a deep inlet to one side of it.

‘Let’s make for there,’ Athelstan yelled.

We had little strength for the task but fortunately the tide and the growing wind from off the sea seemed intent on driving us there.  Siward Barn and Merleswein leapt into the waters and dragged the two boats up the beach.

A hill lay above the beach.  I jumped out of the boat and climbed up the hill to get see if we were being followed.

Godwin hurried after me.

‘Can you see them?’ he called.

I shook my head.  ‘The sky is full of storm clouds.  I can’t see that far.’

Godwin held his hand above his eyes, shielding them from an invisible sun.  ‘Do you think he will follow?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Then we had better get a move on.’

We hurried back down to the beach.  Willard and his men were guarding the three fishermen.  Athelstan, Merleswein and Siward Barn huddled together in anxious debate.

‘Did you see anything?’ Athelstan asked when I joined them.

‘It’s too far.  I couldn’t even see the headland.’

Merleswein turned to the east.  ‘We were a long time rowing.  Fast horsemen might make it here at anytime.’

‘Then we must go at once,’ said Siward Barn.

Athelstan glanced at the women, as if weighing up their strength.

I gazed south towards the headland where we had formed the shield-wall.

‘The headland was by the mouth of a large river,’ I said.  ‘I wonder if it’s big enough to delay them.’

‘Let’s find out,’ said Willard, sweeping out a knife and holding it against the throat of one of the fishermen.  ‘Tell me about the river where we found you,’ he said.  ‘How wide is it?  Could horsemen cross it?’

The fisherman’s eyes grew wide in terror.  ‘It’s theTees,’ he said.  ‘It’s the biggest river in the world.’

Willard pressed the blade harder against the man’s throat.  ‘But how wide is it?  Could horsemen cross it?’

‘Not below Yarm, not at this time of year.  The river is too wide and too fast.’

‘How far is Yarm from the headland?’

‘A winter’s day walk.’

‘And how far is Yarm from here?’

The fisherman looked around.  ‘I don’t know.  I never been to here before.’

‘I have,’ said one of the other fishermen.  ‘Yarm must be as far from here as from the headland.’

‘A winter’s day walk?’ said Willard.

‘I think so.’

‘Think so?’

‘I know so.  I walked it once when I was a lad.’

Willard sheathed his knife and turned to me with a satisfied grin.

‘So we’ve got a day and a half,’ I said.

Athelstan’s eyes strayed once again to the women.

‘Freya and I are fine,’ Anna said.  ‘We can leave immediately.’

‘What about them?’ Willard asked, indicating the fishermen.

‘Let them go,’ I said.

‘They’ll tell theNormansabout us,’ Willard said.

I strode up to the fishermen.  ‘My name is Edgar,’ I said.  ‘I am your king.  The blood of Alfred and Ironside runs in my veins.’

The men looked at me, their eyes full of doubt and suspicion.

‘I am sorry that I killed your friend,’ I said.  I opened my purse and gave them six silver pennies.  ‘That is his wergild.’

The men looked astonished at this wealth but quickly pocketed it.

‘You could get far more by telling theNormanswho I am,’ I continued.  ‘But if you do that you will be a traitor to your kin and the curses of all Englishmen will harry you to hell.’

The men threw themselves to their knees.

‘We will not betray you, Lord,’ one mumbled.

I placed my hand upon each of their heads.  ‘I hold you to this,’ I said.  ‘Now go and keep silent.’

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What Bill Sikes thought of the Artful Dodger

Yesterday I published Fagin’s thoughts concerning his principal pick-pocket, the Artful Dodger.  Today I publish the second document which is written by Fagin’s old boy, Bill Sikes, a man who in later life set up his own criminal concern.  It seems from the document that he was being interviewed by some fool-hardy soul.

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Bill Sikes by Fred Barnard (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dodger?  Scheming little villain.  I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could kick him.  Just as soon as feed him to Bulls-Eye than have to put up with his ugly little mug, his little sharp eyes taking it all in, watching what’s going on, storing it away in that nasty little head of his.

No idea where he came from, don’t care in the slightest.  Some gutter down Billinsgate way, I reckon.  He’s fishy enough for it, and slippery as an eel.  He told me once he was some rich geezer’s kid.  Airs and graces, airs and graces.

Is he good at his job?

That’s a puzzler.  Much though it grieves me to admit it, I reckon he is.  He’s sneaky you see, he sneaks about so as you don’t know he’s there.  Then, bang, he’s got his little fingers inside your pocket and he’s orf away from the scene.

Has he stolen from me?  You looking for a wallop?  Would I let a little villain like that steal from me?

The watch?  I gave him that.  As a present.  He never took it from me and if he says he did I’ll crack his head open.  Nobody gets one over on Bill Sikes.  Not even the Artful Dodger.

You can buy my book ‘Artful’ on Amazon Kindle.

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What Fagin thought of the Artful Dodger

i have just been sent an old box from an anonymous source.  Imagine my amazement when I looked inside and found a packet of dirty, worm-eaten letters which related to the chief character of my novel, Artful.

I thought that it was in the interests of historical accuracy to share these thoughts with the world.

The first missive was penned by his old mentor, Fagin.

Detail of an original George Cruikshank engraving showing the Artful Dodger introducing Oliver to Fagin. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

MY FRIEND ARTFUL

Ah, Artful, what a boy was he?  It was me what named him Artful Dodger because there was none who could dodge like him, none as fast on their feet or able to turn and swerve like a mongrel with an itch in his tail.

Not that he needed to dodge that much, oh no.  You see he was the best I’ve ever knowed: the slyest, sneakiest, most swift-fingered pick-pocket I’ve ever had the pleasure to train.  That’s why I called him Artful, ’cause he was.  He was as cunning as a mother fox, as quick with his tricks as the Chancellor of the Chequer, the Hogarth of the filch.

He was clever, I give him that.  Don’t know where he got it from but he was.  Truth to tell I was beginning to think that it wouldn’t be long before he could outsmart me.  Bit of a concern for the future that was, nagging, if you like, at the back of me head.

But I wasn’t worried yet, not really, not yet.  Artful was loyal, you see.  I knew that might not last ’cause they all turn nasty in the end.  Look at Sikes, the villain, and he owed everything to me.  But I knew that Artful would stay true to me for a good few years yet.  I think he was grateful to me or perhaps he knew which side of the bread his dripping was on.  You see, I looked after him.  And he looked after me.  Pals we were, almost, even though he was my employee.  Someone, I think it may have been Toby Crackit, said that Artful was my Left-tenant, maybe ’cause he left all he pinched to me and he lived with me.

So imagine the blow when he made his one mistake.  He was caught and sent to trial for one measly snuff-box.  And now he’s gone.  To New South Wales which is full of criminals.  I worry my heart out for the boy.  I do hope he’s all right and will come back to his old pal one day.  I wonder what’s happening to the boy now?

Read Artful to find out what did happen to the Artful Dodger.  Available on Amazon Kindle.

Appearances are Deceptive or Comfortable

I’ve just been experimenting with the appearance of my blog, chopping and changing it with the preview facility offered by WordPress.

The problem is that I have got used to this theme and anything else looks rather odd.  I know that this is not perfect but it seems to fit in best to publicise my historical fiction.

My wife is just talking about my blog to Susan Dunster, our friend in New Zealand.  She is an artist so perhaps she can give me some ideas about the layout and look.

Actually, she’s selling on the internet so check out her work.  I’ll try and find a link to her site.  Great art.

Prayer Before Birth

I am putting together a collection of short stories and have found some of them rather black and bleak.  This is different from my normal historical fiction but I enjoyed writing them and editing them.

The next step is to come up with a title.  I thought of a couple, The Beasts Within, Splinters in the Heart, Nails in the Heart and others I have forgotten.  But always the same phrase kept coming back to me: The Club-Footed Ghoul.  It is a striking image and for a few moments I could not think where it had come from.  Then I remembered.

It is from Louis Macneice‘s Prayer Before Birth, one of my favourite poems by one of my favourite poets.  It’s a powerful piece so I thought I’d add it here.

Louis MacNeice, poems selected by Michael Longley (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Prayer Before Birth

I am not yet born; O hear me.

Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the

club-footed ghoul come near me.

I am not yet born, console me.

I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me,

with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me,

on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me.

I am not yet born; provide me

With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk

to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light

in the back of my mind to guide me.

I am not yet born; forgive me

For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words

when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me,

my treason engendered by traitors beyond me,

my life when they murder by means of my

hands, my death when they live me.

I am not yet born; rehearse me

In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when

old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains

frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white

waves call me to folly and the desert calls

me to doom and the beggar refuses

my gift and my children curse me.

I am not yet born; O hear me,

Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God

come near me.

I am not yet born; O fill me

With strength against those who would freeze my

humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton,

would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with

one face, a thing, and against all those

who would dissipate my entirety, would

blow me like thistledown hither and

thither or hither and thither

like water held in the

hands would spill me.

Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me.

Otherwise kill me.

Louis Macneice