Search Results for: experimental novel

A Pagan Story – an early hero myth – experimental novel

Mountain with rainbow for a pagan story

I have been working on a pagan story, an experimental novel, and reached a section that required a myth cycle. This is the starting point of that cycle. It just fell out of the fingers, and this is how it appears in first draft with minor corrections. I have no idea where it will take me…

How do they get here, these night visitors? I remember as if peering through a crack in a wall, seeing only a limited scene, how I asked my mother this once. As a woman and thus a keeper of the Old Lore, she told me the story with a smile on her face that told me she was telling me this for entertainment. But later when I asked about it, she was deadly serious that every word was true. She said:

Sjemantuk the brave one found the Old Gods were real by firing an arrow into the sky. This is how it happened.

Sjemantuk was a mighty warrior who had been told the Old Gods lived in the cloudland, upside down above the neathland. So, he decided to see if the sky was flat, as he had been told.

He tried once, making a mighty bow from the rib of a whale that he found sleeping in the earth waiting to wake up. But the arrow fell to earth, burying its stone tip deep in the ground and leaving a deep hole, and this is how the first sea was made. The whales sleeping in the ground awoke and swam in the waters that poured into the New Deep.

Sjemantuk made another bow from the trunk of the One Mighty Tree, Hjemfang. He flexed his muscles in a stupendous effort and after drawing this massive bow with his powerful grip, sent a great shaft with a brass tip into the sky. It glanced from the sky but did not stick, and fell to earth. Where it hit, water began to leak from the sky, and this is when the rains began. The bow also broke under the great strain, and the shattering wood of bow and arrow made all the forests in the world.

Still Sjemantuk wondered how he might best travel to the land of the sky.

One day, as he was walking, he caught the Sun and Rain in discussion over a mountain top. Watching closely, he saw their child, the Rainbow, had wandered away from them to the next mountain. Sjemantuk the hunter sneaked upon Lusjak Rainchild and tried to catch him-her. But Lusjak was too clever for him, and every time he pounced upon her, he-she was elsewhere. And so he chased him-her up the mountainside while she laughed at his bumbling efforts.

But then, high on the mountain, Sjemantuk found the magic stone that is both cold and clear, and trapped Lusjak within it as he-she taunted Sjemantuk. Now, when light shone through the magic stone, Lusjak appeared. Lusjak was frozen solid in the ice. Sjemantuk took hold of her-him and tied a string made from the hair of rainfall shedding on the mountain. In this way, he fashioned a bow that was both subtle and powerful. To this he added a lightning shaft made from the the old serpent Manark, and drawing Lusfang, the greatest bow the world has ever seen, he sent it flying to the sky. The arrow caught fast in the sky. And then Sjemantuk, having tied a rope to its tail, climbed upward to the sky.

Experimental novel extract: A Pagan Story

Man in green mask

I have been writing a novel with an experimental feel, the opening rough of which is here. I think some of the loneliness within it echoes things that are going on in life around many of us at the moment. Disassociation and alienation, bewilderment and hallucination are central to this short scene.

So, I thought I would try it out on a wider world. This is exactly as it was written with no corrections:

My father’s dreams come in powders and grow from the sacred mycelium each year. They offer renewal, a doorway into the otherworld that is one of the places where the gods, the Others, wait and plan and scheme.

In this dream I am walking through a woodland with paths that branch and branch outward and seem to go somewhere, but I follow them and they load only to more paths that branch. And one of those again leads to more branches. After days of walking in this way, I begin to sense there is someone nearby, just out of reach. The breathghost comes into being beside me with each step I take and every breath I take, but when I look to it, it is not there, though sometimes I catch fleeting visions of eyes disappearing into nothingness.

I become more agitated and can feel the shock of fear in my limbs, a rising anxiety that makes my limbs sting as if they somehow have honey running inside them, and not the blood which is the life of the world and is half sea, half earth and somehow, half spirit. The honey feeling rises, and it is not quite fear, and more like uncomfortable excitement.

I feel a rising sensation in my stomach that is like laughter and sickness at once, and around me in the shadows between the trees I see more eyes. Eyes everywhere. In the knots of wood, on the ends of the tiny tongues of needles in the branches, the raised eyes on stalks of snails. The stars are eyes that I catch between the gaps in the trees, and when I see the blackness above me, I wonder if there is the firmament there or infinite loneliness that stretches on far and far beyond the bounds of life into eternity.

I see a figure now in the woods, leaping and crouching, making strange twisted shapes with his body. He is wearing a mask of green leaves that covers his face, and he is green from head to foot. There are living oak leaves in his hair that flutter in an unfelt wind, and his clothing is a long green robe woven with the shapes of pine, and holly, and ivy, and the brown seeds of the trees, and the acorns. I am afraid of him as he approaches me, but his eyes watch me as afraid and confounded as I am.

I fall on to my knees, and scream, for he is a nightmarish figure, and he says in a voice I seem to know, “don’t be afraid, it is me.” I look up, aware that around us there are other eyes watching from every tree and every life and every needle and I realise this is why I am afraid. He reaches up and pulls of his mask to reveal another mask made of wood that he can’t pull from his face, though he tries. And so I watch him struggle with trying to take his face off.

I hear another voice as he pulls himself into the strangest shapes, and as I do I know new knowledge that rises in voice like a roaring wind through the trees:

“The gods also live in shadows and in the forest, in the sap of branches,” the voice says as the man in green convulses himself, in a crazed frenzy trying to pull the mask free. “And the great aerial-rooted trees that reach long fingers down into the world below from the cloudlands, from where they send the rain to fall on the neathland.” Fingers reach up from the soil, breaking the surface, the hands of men who have trodden here before, I know. And the voice goes on: “Trees, too, are the silent houses of watchful gods, for each tree is born out of spirit as much as earth, for earth is also spirit, and the soul of the heartwood is sealed in to it by the Earth herself, who shares her power in turn with the half-spirit sea (for it is spirit that continually moves the sea), and over all arches the Great Sky swarming with creatures made of the First Breath.”

And the trees sway and sway more, and begin to uproot themselves and walk in a circular dance around me. And still the voice rises, the sound now of a hurricane:

“All of this signifies the mystery of sorrow for us in the neathland. Our earthly paradise, digging in the soil, the mud and dirt is held together only by the rituals with which we implore, beg and petition the Others. The mystery of sorrow, the sorrow of pain, the pain of ending, the ending of life, the life of mystery, the mystery of sorrow. These are the gifts from the gods, for life is sorrow and life is sometimes joy – and everything in between is praise for the gods!”

And the trees clear a path and a patch of earth where corn begins to rise from the musty loam. And the voice cries out: “Childbirth, the ecstasy of the hunt, the reaching to the sky of the corn, the death of the BarleyGod, the teaching stories that are the legends of the Others. So much sorrow, but amongst it all, the glimmer of transformation. Transformation of life to new life, and an escape to something higher. What the Archimandrite himself tells us of – the chance to rise above Earthly pain. And so we serve the Others. We all serve the Others!!”

A Christmas Story – experimental opening to a new novel

A Christmas Story

A Christmas Story – draft 1 – opening.

The fabric of the night sky is poked through with the inverted peaks of mountains hanging above the firmament that rises above our world. That upside-down land, blue-cloud-mountain-land is where the Others live. Tonight they will come and it will be for the first time – at least for me, for this is the first Yuletide I remember.

Shadows and light are my memories from before this time – though I remember my mother telling me we must prepare the way, prepare for Him to come. We call him the Lord of Years, the God of the Axle-wheel.

It is not only our cabin bustling with anticipation at his coming. The whole tribe is excited. It has always been so at this time of year, they say, for generations.

“First things first, little one,” my mother smiles.

She has brown hair, long, braided. Winter flowers tied in to the braids and across the top of her head. Hedgerow blooms that grow by winter-iced fields. My mother. I look hard at her. I want to remember her like this, this beauty and kindness forever.

She wears the traditional dress of the season, long robe: blues and whites, shades of night and glacier, frozen air, night shadows, white teeth of forest wolves. It all shimmers like the shiver-furred field creatures.
I look at her again with wide eyes, and to the bowl of oil before us. With this we prepare.
Because there will be a procession, first there is the binding of the torches. “Like this,” she pulls a long strip of Cambric from the oil and breathes a blessing.

The wrapping of the cloth has a song that goes with it. My mother fixes her steady eyes on me and explains: “To bind the power of the light, we invoke the mistress of the fire, the goddess Syumak, who also creates the heat for the oven where bread rises.” She sees my blank look as I try to make sense of her words. She explains: “The bread grows and takes shape in the oven as a baby in the mother, and this is how life and bread are one and the same. From the belly of the oven, life flows to the bellies of the family, so the old saying goes.” Now she straightens and looks to my father, standing to one side as she imparts the ancient knowledge.

He adds his own thoughts, in the way he does, ramming the point home, words like stones falling.
“We worship the bread. And the cutting down of the corn. Its sacrifice gives new life to all.”

My mother nods and then adds her explanatory gloss to his words. “Syumak also is the goddess who presides over the cutting of the loaf. So, she is called The Knife.”

I see a light inside me: a glimmer of understanding. Circles, the world is circles and more circles, something in me says
Just so with the wrapping of the cloths. My mother chants the song in a simple tune that rises and falls in unison with the movement of her hands:

“Syumak says round the brand once
And light will come as sun shall shine
Syumak cries round the brand twice
And rain shall feed the corn and vine
Syumak laughs: round the brand thrice
And Barley browns to cut and grind
Syumak shouts four times and more
Now feel the heat of the oven’s roar!
Light shall raise the dead to life
and shadows run from shining Knife”

Once the cloth is wrapped, she says:

“Like this, too,” and we put the wooden guard plate in place to protect small hands from sizzling drips.

Fire. The golden power that eats the gods of night, sends away the Shadow Wolves who steal behind walls waiting to pounce, never willing to attack so long as the brand is held high. This battle against the darkness is as it has always been, from the Beginning.

We strike the brands into life with sparkstone, and blue flames leap from the tips as the oil takes, while Unseen Syumak breathes her life into them. The brands are the shining knives we lift above our heads as we step out, myself, mother and father into the frozen night. It feels like a dream. I have the impression of almost floating down the steps to join the river of villagers ahead of us. Each of those we join have their own brands held high, casting dark shadows beneath us while around us with breath and light we create a halo glow. So we mingle our individual selves together – sound and light and heat and breath, as a slow chant begins. A murmur of hymns rising to the sky in a cloud of vapour voices hanging and echoing against the frozen trees, until the sound dissipates, and is replaced by the next cloud of sound, rich, intense, earnest – rising once more in a steam of exhalation and light.

“Sing, my son. Sing louder.” My father looks down at me, his eyes agleam with wild excitement as the light plays on his face. “Sing so the Lord of Years can hear us and the great Axle-wheel will turn and turn again, bearing our world upon it.” – My father’s voice is deep in his chest and powerful. Like the roaring of the stormwind and the rumble of thunder.

So I join in the old slow hymn as we take our steps together – villagers old and young, elder and loafmaker, seer and hunter, spinner and storymaker, farmer and carpenter – all together in one long snake that sings one by one the seasonal songs.

Child of the years
Father of time
Two faced god
See the world
Through your eyes
Round the circle of darkness and light
Make the world afresh in your sight
Sleep and rise again
A world beyond our pain.

Hymn rising and echoing through snowladen trees, we make our procession to the House of Divided Paths that stands in the Shifting Glade. I have been told of it, but at first sight of the building I pull back, a growing sense of fear at the vision playing before my eyes. The brand shakes in my hand: there is magic here, and it both attracts my young mind and fills it with fear.

My father lays his hand on my shoulder and asks in an amused voice.

“Isn’t it a wonder, son?”

I turn my face up to him, but he himself is looking on in wonder. My mother’s eyes meet mine, and she explains in her light, sing-song voice:

“This is a Wishmaker’s House, one of the Winter Mysteries – existing through difference, unstable, coming into being anew again and again between all those things that might be.”

I look on, trying to fit this explanation with what I see. My father is right, I decide, it is a wonder. One moment a lowly hovel, the next a castle the next a ruin, a cottage prim and proper surrounded by apple trees and moss and golden light. In this form it settles as we approach – a line of expectant children, our eyes popping out in excitement and fear. The younger ones ahead of me look as afraid as I am, the older children almost embarrassed at wanting to come back here, as if the knowledge it offers is for a younger version of themselves, or as if they are in on a secret they know they must not share.

I step forward under the torch light as one child after another disappears through the doorway. Its smell is spice and sweetness in some moments, but not for long, for it is never stable, sometimes it is the smell of the earth, or campfires, or animals, sometimes honey-scented winter treats. And the line of children moves forward, entering it one by one, in long, slow procession.

So we wait, our blazing brands filling the air with black guttering smoke that sits heavily in our lungs causing a lazy cough in some of us. Somehow, a stupor settles on me as I breathe it in – lethargy falling through my limbs, weighing them down as if they are made of lead or gold. I see my arms shining, reflecting, metallic, and see the metal of the knife in the brand I hold above me – the gold that is the source of the sun, forever, unchanging, and think I can see Revered Syumak smiling down upon me.

The chanting and singing goes on. We stand under the night. The stars that are the ice-bound peaks of the inverted otherworld twinkle in reflection of our brandlight just as they did before. The night becomes a whirl of shadows and faces and light and stars. And the heavy black-brand-smoke fills my nose and mouth.

My mother is looking intently at my face, then exchanges a glance with my father, then looks back to me. She says:

“The world of surfaces is just that. There is also the world below the surfaces.”

As she says it, I become aware of how the spirits of the woods have gathered, twisted and tall, leafy and lithe, heavy and light, to watch this procession. And with them are the spirits of the tribe of the dead, who haunt the barrows in the Silent Fields and Towers of Death. Chill deathghosts of children stand before us. No-one else can see them, but I can.

They are there, beneath the surface of the air, just as mother said.

She knows, and she tells me, unprompted:

“A few times a year they venture forth to see their children’s children are performing the rites correctly. These spirits always appear as children. They stand on the forest eaves a moment in the distance, and then they are gone.”

And it is as she says. Gone.

But the next moment I see them again, growing from the breaths we exhale, breaths heavy with the black-smoke-brand-light. I see them though no-one else can. They are young like us – forever young – as if dying is to be born anew and never to age. And this time my mother is not aware of them, either.

One after another, the living children are consumed by the Wishmaker’s House, accompanied sometimes by one of the dead who hovers near them, attached to them via a cord of breath. The doorway seems now to be the mouth of a great worm breathing reeking fumes into the Shifting Glade. The fumes lie heavy on my lungs and the vision of the dead children grows stronger still. One stands with me, growing out of my breath, its eyes searching me. I jump as I recognise it, for it is me as I have seen myself reflected in polished knife and lakewater and the glassware that costs so much and is so fragile, that my parents only own in sparse quantity and keep in a wooden cabinet for rare use. How is it possible to be alive and dead – for here we are! A miracle as of air made solid, just so with this apparition beside me. It looks at me intensely and makes no expression at all. It just is there, beside me.

And in this way, with it for company, the line steps up toward the door and we arrive at the dark opening.

My father pushes me roughly forward and tells me “Just go. Go forward. You will see,” and my mother nods and smiles. And so I prepare to go inside and my double makes a sign in the air with his right hand and is gone, and though they did not see it, my parents also make the same sign each with their right hand – a symbol in the air representing the eye that wards off ill-luck. They look to each other as I turn from them and step forward.

I am confused, dazed by the swirling, unstable nature of the Shifting House, by its flickering quality, not sure what the building was when I entered the doorway. Inside though, it is a low hut, and I see a shape in the darkness that beckons me forward.

“Come to the mirror” says an old crone surveying me from lined face, dark crack for a mouth. She is seated on the floor. In the next instant the old woman is gone and a red-headed girl is standing by me. She smiles kindly and says,

“Look and I shall know you.”

I look at her a moment longer. Perhaps it is the smoke, perhaps it is something else, but as I stand there and feel the earth shifting beneath my feet and the great infinite network that is attached – the roots and soil and sky and stars – I know the world to be different from what I have always imagined, less safe away from my parents, and colder, and stranger, and crueller.

Now the red haired girl has shifted out of reality, and the old crone is looking at me from further in the hut. I go to her. She raises her palms to my face, tracing her thumbs around my eyes and finishes in an act of blessing that ends with both thumbs coming together on the tip of my nose while her hands cradle either side of my face.

“Taste this,” she says, and proffers something, one second a gem-studded goblet, the next a crude beaker, then a drinking horn, a glass, an earthenware cup. I hesitate with a question in my eyes. She nods, smiles, says in an encouraging tone: “Come, come. We are seeking the Root of Eternity, which is only to be found in forgetting.”

So I take it, a strange slimy brew, a smell as of cinnamon and sweetness, of spices and laughter, and I gulp it down as she watches me.

I glance at her again and she is a shrunken thing, younger than me, a baby who looks to me with unfocussed eyes. She directs me to look into the depths of the flat surface she holds before me.

I look in the mirror, and I feel lonely then, as I see the swirling darkness of the Old Gods take shape in its depths. A movement there in its shadows, the first fumblings of matter into shape, directed by my consciousness – though I can not know that, not now, for I am a child and do not understand how we make our worlds. And yet I do understand, and this troubles me. In its depths I begin to see a face appear that is not my face – an older man, bearded, white haired.

“What – ?”

She smiles, pulls the mirror away, and laughs. She is a woman in her prime now, sapphire-hard eyes framed with black, black hair the colour of the darkest night, of forest sighs, of the deep web of growth that lives below the tree roots.
She stands, an impossibly tall robed figure, kohl around her eyes, ancient and timeless. Magnificent, her skin is the colour of sunlight, her robes shimmering gold and green.

“And here he is. The Christmas Child!” she shouts with delight and claps her hands. The mirror is gone, and in its place is a mass of malleable sunshine that she twists into a shape between her glowing fingers. She says:

“You are a rare one. Here is your wish – ” and hands it to me.

It is a piece of gold wire, shaped in a twisted loop – uroboros – the elders call it. It means more than the circle it creates. I look at it and do not understand.

“How can this be a wish?”

“You will see.”

Review: Patterns In Prehistory by Robert J Wenke

Patterns in Prehistory Cover, by Robert J Wenke

Patterns in Prehistory by Robert J Wenke is a wonderful book. I started reading it to find descriptions of earlier cultures as part of the research for a novel I’m writing, and I was not disappointed. It’s a masterpiece in explaining and exploring the development of human beings as they adapt to the environment, and what particular stages of development mean in terms of cultural practice, agriculture, population growth, and much more.

Wenke starts the book by asking the question “what is culture?”, among other things, and the answers are challenging. Wenke’s approach to the whole book is revealed in that first chapter. He is not there to promulgate his own definite theory of human development, but to do a survey across numerous experts in archaeology, palaeo-anthropology, palaeontology and much more besides. The breadth and detail and the sheer level of research is deeply impressive.

There are surprises along the way. One of the answers to that question about culture is to define it as a means of using energy more efficiently. That is: that when you learn how to do something (make pots, grow crops, build spaceships, etc), the next generation isn’t then forced to discover it again. They are taught how to do what the previous generation learned through culture. “On the shoulders of giants…” etc. That’s only one definition, but it shows you how you’re going to have to think around things and entertain fresh perspectives.

The first part of the book is dedicated to the fossil record of the earliest hominids, right back to australopithecus and earlier, then reconstructs the life of early humans through the findings of experts. This is not a speculative psychological book – it tells you what evidence has been found and what that points to. Nevertheless, it’s absolutely gripping to see human traits begin to reveal themselves early on, and to follow the development of a recognisable human life even among early hominid primates by studying the fossil record.

The survey is of the whole world, with Wenke looking at whatever archaeological evidence is available and comparing how different humans developed in Africa, China, Indonesia, Europe, the Americas and so on. This is the format for each section of the book.

So it is that we follow human development through Homo Erectus, Homo Sapiens Neanderthelensis to Homo Sapiens Sapiens. It’s not a straight line, though, as Wenke makes clear. There are overlaps in the species coexisting at times, with some interbreeding, or huge gaps in the fossil record. Yet there are startling moments when a completely different species shows itself to be recognisably like us. It’s brilliant.

Thus we go on through the development of hunter-gatherer cultures, fisherfolk and others of the Pliocene and Pleistocene and Holocene epochs, until suddenly, maybe 10,000 to 12,000 years ago, there’s a step-change in culture as the great civilizations arise. Sumeria, Babylonia, Egypt, China – all apparently reliant on the new invention of agriculture which appears to have happened spontaneously across the world, leading to a rise in population and technology – and the building (in most cases) of massive monumental architecture. Or so one might think… but what is interesting is that the monumental architecture and rise in population occurs just before the agricultural innovations begin to show in the archaeological record… That, in itself, is a puzzle!

What’s also strange to contemplate is how humans took literally millions of years to get to that point, but from there to the modern day was only a few thousand years. It’s giddying to consider how the gallop of cultural development accelerated so fast in that brief time, that we are now able to destroy the world with the technology of our cultural “advances”. It’s quite a thought: that nuclear weapons are in the hands of people not so different in outlook and potentials from those who knapped stones in the Middle East and created the cultures of the New Stone Age.

This extraordinary book invites you to contemplate the roots of our humanity, to ask how the world we live in now grew from the minds of humans and pre-humans at the very dawn of consciousness – and sheds light on the very nature of being. Highly recommended.