Ned Hayes's Blog, page 128
January 19, 2014
“
All of us turn our eyes higher, to see the...
“
All of us turn our eyes higher, to see the three-quarter moon floating in a fog-flecked winter sky—glimmering around that uneven globe, an ethereal silver circle.
“More snow coming tonight, that means,” says Liam. “A heavy fall of snow.”
“Aye,” Benedict agrees. “The new snow will cover our tracks, but it won’t cover our cart. If there’s someone coming, we should get ready for a fight, dontcha think?”
“Nah, there’s no one there,” Hob repeats calmly. “Who would be out from the village, in the woods?” Bright sparks shoot out as Hob rasps hard at his blade.
I look back at the dying fire. Cole has not moved with the rest of us to gaze up at the moon overhead, at the clouds rapidly moving in. Instead, he still scans the hillside, his mouth nervous and twitching, firelight flickering across his anxious face as he pulls aside his hood. In the faint light, I discern a faint burn on his neck, something red and unhealed, a touch of ash and pain. I see a tremble in his fingers, wide fear in his eyes.
And it comes to me that Cole knows of that night. It beats in me, in my blood.”
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
January 18, 2014
"Fog lifts in the valley, rising as mist through the bare-limbed...
"Fog lifts in the valley, rising as mist through the bare-limbed trees. Far below lies the deeping combe with our village in the heart of it. My whole world for nearly a decade has been contained in that place—and now the village of Duns looks so small. I hold up my hand, form a circle with my fingers. The distant village, wreathed in mist, seems a child’s plaything that I can hold in my own hand.
A great fallen yew with nurslings jutting evergreen from its broken body lies near our path. This is the very place at which I first saw the village ten years ago. The line of trees here on the ridge is unchanged, as if I came here only yesterday.
I waited in the quiet vale of Duns far too long.”
PHOTO: Blue Mountain by renata_souza_e_souza on Flickr.
Books can take you to the moon, and they can take you to...
Books can take you to the moon, and they can take you to wonderland. They can make you feel love and hate. They can make you laugh, they can make you cry. They can be your escape, and they can be your infinity. Reading is to travel.
January 17, 2014
"I ran. A path seemed to open before me into the woods, some...
"I ran. A path seemed to open before me into the woods, some small track to a little town, a forgotten village.
I sensed the watcher—keeping pace with me in the thickening forest, maneuvering silently through the clasping vines, the slapping branches and heavy windfall logs—close to me at times.
Then my poor left foot betrayed me, catching on an errant vine and sliding helplessly on slick rock. I tumbled into a bramblebush, pushing Christian out of harm’s way before I plunged headfirst into the misbegotten backwater of a summer-shrunk creek.
I pulled myself out of the deep and stinking sludge, clawed my way up the granite, and reached for my crying son, his blanket caught precariously in brambles. But my foot lodged in a fold of robe, and then I fell without stopping, slamming backward against the great unforgiving rock.
The distant thrumming of the hooves still shuddered through me as the stone caught my head on the way down.”
The wonderful writer Jeb Harrison just posted a great little blurb / preview of SINFUL FOLK, my new...
The wonderful writer Jeb Harrison just posted a great little blurb / preview of SINFUL FOLK, my new novel in the Huffington Post Book section! Here it is!
Tales of Hard Winters Long Ago
The writer Richard Adams, in Watership Down, said that “Many human beings say that they enjoy the winter, but what they really enjoy is feeling proof against it.” Proof in the crackle and pop of burning logs in the fireplace, a cozy blanket, thick wool socks and furry earmuffs, a full length wool overcoat and a long cashmere scarf; proof as you might feel in a soft leather onesie lined in sheep’s wool with UGG inscribed on the bottom; proof in the form of a steaming mug of creamy cocoa and a book where the characters are freezing their miserable butts off.
For readers of medieval and Middle Ages historical fiction, winter may conjure images of castles, animal trophies hung on the stones above the blazing hearth, never-ending banquets with bottomless casks of wine and mead, noblemen, clergy, knights and squires, maids and maidens gathered to pay homage to the lord of the lands.
But what of the peasants and their winter’s tales? What of the struggles of the common folk and their utter lack of proof against the winter? What of their stories of the whistling icicle winds on the frozen heath and the tragedies they carry?
In the 14th century, human beings were anything but proof against winter. Books of historical fiction set in those days of emergence from medieval times are likely to have characters freezing off this or that body part and leaving it for the dogs. For those that like to take a dose of reality with the tales of knights, dragons, giants and round tables, novels about those very real times are often apt to delight, enthrall and send the chills of winter up the spine.
Novels like Barry Unsworth’s Morality Play, or the wondrous series of novels: The White Queen by Philippa Gregory, or the non-fiction classic A World Lit Only By Fire by William Manchester give the reader of flavor for what life was like outside the castle walls. Now we can add Sinful Folk, by Ned Hayes, with illustrations by Nikki McClure to this esteemed list of novels set in the Middle Ages.
It’s December 1377, and four children have been burned to death when the croft house they inhabit goes up in inexplicable, unquenchable flames. The livid villagers take to the King’s Highway for hundreds of miles to demand justice. Among them is Mear, a former nun who has lived for a decade with her son disguised as a mute man. Now she grieves, but on this winter journey her true history comes to light, keeping readers and listeners (it’s also available on audiobook) up late waiting for the next revelation.
But above all Sinful Folk is a winter’s tale of centuries long past. As bestselling author Brenda Vantrease wrote about the book: "Dress warmly before beginning this perilous journey across a winter-blasted medieval landscape of fire and ice. Your heart will shiver and not just from the cold."
If you’re interested in reading more, you can get Sinful Folk here »
"Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I remember my...
"Cold tears as salty as ocean spray wet my face. I remember my mother’s death.
The day before she died, my mother did something I still don’t understand. She took me out in our little fishing boat, out on the open water of the sea—the thrum and hiss of surf upon the shore behind us, the rhythm never ceasing.
My mother waited until we were out of sight of land. She squinted against the bright sunlight, making sure we were alone. And then she taught me something: strange words in a foreign tongue, a lilting singsong cadence to it….. secret words I was never to share.
Afterwards, my mother rowed us back, the waves lifting and catching us as I whispered the words in cadence. The boat slipped through the last breakers and came toward the beach, and my mother leaned close to me, kissed me on the forehead.
“Never forget who you truly are, but never tell a living soul.” “
— from the novel Sinful Folk
January 16, 2014
"Every night, I slip into the empty winter land of...
"Every night, I slip into the empty winter land of memory."
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK (Ned Hayes)
"Now I can hear other sounds. We are surrounded by whistles,...
"Now I can hear other sounds. We are surrounded by whistles, calls, and woodland rustling. Birds. My ears are full of the faint rhythm of wood fowl settling down for the night.
I can see larks, swallows and waxwings. Bullfinches too, flashing their black and red plumage and white rumps as they fly away, chasing seeds that remain here, in these unburned woods.
Close-at-hand, a robin twitters on a low branch, and listens for another that answers from beyond the farmhouse.”
— from the novel Sinful Folk
January 15, 2014
"On most nights under the winter moon, when we have made our...
"On most nights under the winter moon, when we have made our camp, around us echo faint sounds of that other hidden world – the one of meadow and forest in the night. The melody of whippoorwill, the cry of hunting owl, the scurrying rush of vole and chasing fox. This night, the land is empty. The silence is deep in stark and open heath, the woods carry no sound."
— from the novel SINFUL FOLK
"Sound carries far here in the trees. Snow slides off a heavy...
"Sound carries far here in the trees. Snow slides off a heavy oak as some creature shuffles through the woods, and ancient branches snap. Out of the corner of one eye, I see the flash of colored feathers. It is a yellowhammer, black eyes flickering in a hedgerow, tiny breast plumped out in golden livery, streaked with colors rich and brown. It was calling in its winter song:
A little bit of bread and no cheese—
A little bit of bread and no cheese—
Moments later, the bracken flutters and the slight shadow of the bird darts into the woods. Deep in the forest now, I hear a low voice that wends back and forth, whispering in secret.”
