Friday Fiction: The 2,025th Post

 

Timmy

(cont.)

As they drove home, Mom was still steaming, humming to herself, talking shortly when necessary, and making all the turns and lights in a precise punctuation that spoke as loudly as words of her displeasure. For a while Timmy was worried, sitting quietly himself, but by the time they pulled into home he could tell Mom had relaxed into a weary acceptance. When she opened the door and the car light came on, he shot her a wary smile. She smiled back.

“Go ahead and start unloading,” she said, eyes twinkling. “But don’t expect me to help you. This is all your job now. Get it into your room and don’t let me see any more of it until it’s all sorted, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He put on his most earnest face. “I can handle things. Don’t you worry about it.”

“Oh, but I do worry about it.” Her nose wrinkled. “If you find any bugs, don’t tell me about it. Just squish them. I’ll be around with a spray before bedtime to give things a precautionary spritz.”

“Yes ma’am,” he repeated. Timmy moved around to the back and popped open the hatch while Mom headed for the side kitchen door. As he struggled the first bin down off the back of the SUV, the safety light popped on under the covered porch.

Mom watched patiently holding the door open as he waddle-walked the bin over and then pushed it up and over the lintel onto the linoleumed floor inside with a rasping, sliding sound.

“Hello! What’s this?”

Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out before him and a coke in his hand. The wrappers and remains of a couple of Whataburger meals lay wadded nearby. It was obvious that he and Gabe were back from football practice and had enjoyed their customary after-work supper.

Timmy grunted, never stopping, as he hefted the bin and shuffled the weight towards the hall.

“Hi, Dad. I got to get this stuff put away right quick. ‘Scuse me.”

Dad looked up at Mom as she stepped in. He arched his eyebrows. Timmy heard Mom as he turned the corner and headed down the hall.

“Do you remember my Uncle Samuel?”

“Sam-Sam? Yeah, what about him?”

“Well, Granny’s given Timmy his books.”

“Really? That looks like quite the load.”

“Honey, you don’t know the half of it.”

The boy lost the rest of the conversation as he struggled on down the dim hallway. It became a distant buzz until it suddenly burst out into a tremendous guffaw of laughter. Timmy paused in surprise. Dad seldom laughed out loud, but when he did, he never held back.

The end of the hallway was dark except for the outline of light framing Gabe’s door. Pounding music thumped dully behind it. His brother was obviously oblivious to the world, resting after a hard day’s workout. Timmy set down his burden and opened his own door across the way, reaching in and snapping on the light. It was just as he’d left it, mostly tidy but bed slightly rumpled, Kindle perching hazardously halfway off the night table.  It seemed like a million years since he’d left.

There was a blank space along the wall between his bed and the window. It was the place he had always allotted for his ‘set-ups’, elaborate dioramas using blocks, backgrounds and action figures in dizzying complexity, scenarios that he entered into more in imagination than manipulation. But for the last few months these had grown far and few between, and everything was packed away in the toy chest next to his closet. Right now it seemed the ideal spot to set the bins for sorting. At least temporarily.

Timmy had just shifted the bin into position and was straightening his back and stretching when Dad came in. To his surprised he was hefting one of the bins rather easily in his brawny arms.

“Thought I’d give you a hand, Timbo. That way we don’t have to have the doors open so long.” He grinned.

“Thanks, Dad. That really helps.” The boy took the bin, and since it started high off the ground, was able to walk it right over and put it on the top of the other one. Dad seemed pleased with his feat of strength.

“So, you finally wangled some of Granny’s hoard away from her, eh? I’m amazed she let anything go. Still, I’m not totally surprised.”

“Surprised about what, Dad?”

His father laughed.

“I always knew that your Mom’s family was crazy. I just wondered when and how it would turn up in you kids.”

(To Be Continued)

Here We Go Again

Yesterday I was feeling rather restless. I had been pinned down by a cold for almost four days and was finally feeling something close to normal. I wanted to do something, and I figured, since I was back to taking my walk, why not take it a little farther and go down to the library bookstore and see if there was anything new. I hadn’t been there for a while.

My strength was just enough for the trip … barely. I suppose my strength of will wasn’t up to snuff just yet, though, and I predictably (perhaps inevitably) bought three books I did not need, copies of which I had indeed had once but had gotten rid of, allured once more by luxurious Penguin editions, this time in larger format and new appealing covers.

Lysistrata/The Archarnians/The Clouds, by Aristophanes, translated by Alan H. Sommerstein

“Writing at the time of political and social crisis in Athens, Aristophanes was an eloquent yet bawdy challenger to the demagogue and the sophist. The Acharnians is a plea for peace set against the background of the long war with Sparta. In Lysistrata a band of women tap into the awesome power of sex in order to end a war. The darker comedy of The Clouds satirizes Athenian philosophers, Socrates in particular, and reflects the uncertainties of a generation in which all traditional religious and ethical beliefs were being challenged.” – Amazon. 

There is the cover of the old volume of Aristophanes I once had, not a Penguin edition, of course. I do have another Penguin Aristophanes, The Frogs and Other Plays.

The Last Days of Socrates: Euthyphro, Apology, Crito, Phaedo, by Plato. Translated by Hugh Treddenick and Harold Tarrant.

“The trial and death of Socrates (469-399 BCE) have almost as central a place in Western consciousness as the trial and death of Jesus. In four superb dialogues, Plato provides the classic account. Euthyphro finds Socrates outside the court-house, debating the nature of piety, while the Apology is his robust rebuttal of the charges of impiety and a defence of the philosopher's life. In the Crito, while awaiting execution in prison, Socrates counters the arguments of friends urging him to escape. Finally, in the Phaedo, he is shown calmly confident in the face of death, skilfully arguing the case for the immortality of the soul.” – Amazon.

And here is the cover of the old copy that I had. I often wonder just how accurate Plato’s account of his old teacher is; you have to think that he at least did a little editing and explaining of what Socrates said, perhaps after pondering the deeper meanings for years. You can tell from his play The Clouds that Aristophanes had a less than reverent opinion of the man.

The Prince, by Niccolo Machiavelli. Translated by George Bull.

“The Prince shocked Europe on publication with its advocacy of ruthless tactics for gaining absolute power and its abandonment of conventional morality. Niccoló Machiavelli drew on his own experience of office under the turbulent Florentine republic, rejecting traditional values of political theory and recognizing the complicated, transient nature of political life. Concerned not with lofty ideal but with a regime that would last, The Prince has become the bible of realpolitik, and it still retains its power to alarm and to instruct. In this edition, Machiavelli's tough-minded and pragmatic Italian is preserved in George Bull's clear, unambiguous translation.” – Amazon.

Not only did Machiavelli go down in history as a byword for devious masterful plotting, his first name is said to be the origin of ‘Old Nick’ as a nickname for the Devil. The new cover is not a portrait of him (he looks altogether a more rascally, weaselly fellow) but rather of what The Prince might look like. In this case ‘prince’  means  ‘a : monarch, king b : the ruler of a principality or state’.

Well, there they are. I am sure there are treasures here if I can only bring myself to lift the lid. The new covers are … richer, let’s say, more appealing than the broken artifacts on the old.  In the meantime, their black spines make a solemn, scholarly presence on the shelves. They only cost $6 altogether and they assuaged my hunger for books. There’s nothing else calling from the Wish List at the moment; they may well fulfill March’s book allowance in time.

 

Wideo Wednesday: Time It Was

It was the early Eighties, and I was moving my way out of high school and into college. A little prematurely I thought then and think now; I was only 17 and wanted to spend a year saving money and thinking about what I wanted to do. But my family was sure I needed to go right into college.

One of the things I wanted to figure out was my philosophy of life. Anyone who remembers the Eighties knows the main philosophy of the time was Hedonism, either the Conservative version of Money and Success or the Liberal version of Sex and Drugs. For some reason people thought they were diametrically opposed, but their common denominator is materialism.

I suppose what I yearned for was Romanticism in its classical sense (there’s a joke there, or an irony); I had been indulging in Fantasy in the literary sense as sort of training wheels. The main tenet is that things are not simply what they seem to be, that everything has a secret side, not provable in the ordinary sense, perhaps, but palpable and not merely feelings. That there is value in breaking out of rigid modes of thought without completely bursting beyond all thought: that you could “break all the rules while keeping all the Commandments.” It is not, of course, without suffering, but suffering is part of what gives it value. It is no blithe stroll through the daisies, although it can bring joy.

To that end I collected certain movies and other works of art that I thought best exemplified this outlook, or at least parts of it. I still treasure them all, as steps along the way, or clues if you will; I would not abandon them or deny them even though I have found the greater truth to which they have led me. I can never watch them without thinking of that time, when I was clutching rather wispy straws against a certainly raging flood.

Man of La Mancha (song)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bt6RYf5ocfo

Cyrano de Bergerac (Clip)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oMDRrWiaAjM

They Might Be Giants (Full)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n1uaqGkpI9o

You Can’t Take It with You (Full)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uUEq-GM9gSg

A Mid-summer Night’s Sex Comedy (Clip)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsYxCtDu1jY

Dr. Detroit (Clip)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SeOBZWQEJE4

Manalive (Clip)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J_cTWsDF3qQ

The Lord of the Rings: The Siege of Gondor (Part 1)

[Not an illustration from this part, but I can't resist a good Gordeev picture.]

The Tale

Back in Gondor, Pippin is roused from sleep by Gandalf. Though it is the second hour of morning, candles are lit; the air is dim and heavy. Gandalf tells the hobbit he is called to his duties with Denthor; the wizard has brought his meager breakfast. It is a small loaf with a pat of butter and a cup of thin milk. Rations have started in the City.

Pippin wonders miserably why Gandalf ever brought him here; Gandalf says he knows it was to keep him out of mischief; if he doesn’t like it, he must remember he brought it on himself.

They go to the Tower Hall, where Denethor sits ‘like an old patient spider’. He beckons Gandalf to a chair, but Pippin is left standing. The Steward turns to him at last and asks him how he liked his free time yesterday? Though he is sure he is less than pleased with his scant meals here. Pippin feels uncomfortable; it seems the old Lord knows everything he did as well as much of what he thinks.

Denethor asks him what Pippin thinks he can do in his service; Pippin replies he thought the Steward would tell him what to do. Denethor says he must know what he can do, first. He’ll find out best by having the hobbit take the place of his body squire, waiting on him, taking messages, and amuse him, if he has time. Can he sing?

Yes, well enough for his own people, Pippin answers. But their songs are simple and merry, not ‘fit for great halls or evil times’. Denethor gives a backhanded answer, that surely those who have fought against the Shadow on the front lines can hear untroubled songs from the people they have protected. Then they can know their efforts have not been fruitless, if unthanked.

Pippin’s heart sinks, but he is not called to sing. Instead, Denethor questions Gandalf closely about the Rohirrim, their policies, and about Eomer’s position; he seems well aware of the situation in Rohan. Finally the old Steward turns to Pippin and sends him off to the armory to get ‘the livery and gear of the Tower.’ He has ordered it to be prepared yesterday.

Pippin goes and finds it is so: a small hauberk of black steel rings, a helmet set with raven wings, a black surcoat set with the silver token of the tree on its breast. His old clothes are taken away and stored, but he is allowed to keep the cloak of Lorien, but not to wear it when he is on duty. ‘He looked now, had he known it, verily Ernil i Pheriannath, the Prince of the Halflings.’ But he is uncomfortable and the gloom hanging the skies is depressing him.

It is dark and dim all day, grow deeper as the day goes on. The cloud from the East devours the light of day, getting deeper and blacker. ‘[T]he air was still and breathless, as if all the Vale of Anduin waited for the onset of a ruinous storm.’

Bits and Bobs

A hauberk is defined as ‘a piece of armor originally covering only the neck and shoulders but later consisting of a full-length coat of mail’ and ‘The term is usually used to describe a shirt reaching at least to mid-thigh and including sleeves.’

A surcoat is ‘a loose robe worn over armor, a sleeveless garment bearing the insignia of knighthood, sometimes richly embroidered.’ 

 

February 2020 Diary

1/24/2020: Up pretty early. PCB. After wavering a bit, got dressed and left a little before 7 AM and went to get Powerball. Came home; rosary, then Perry Mason at 8 AM. At 9 AM made Kameron bacon and a grilled cheese. Started my ramen, then left it to soak to await the exterminator at 9:40 AM. Got Kameron on the bus at 10:15 AM. Checked the pool; not running so called Andy and he told me how to shut it off. Came in and ate my ramen (with peas), watching the end of Monster Zero. Now 11;20 AM.

 

1/25/2020: Chinese New Year. The Year of the Rat. PCBR. Went in and made omelet, and I think I’ve finally got into the groove again as it turned out well. For lunch made my last box of spaghetti. For supper had a ramen, corn, and ground turkey dish. All day reading conflicting reports of how ST: Picard is, and I must say I’m leaning toward the negative view, if only by the analysis of the appearance of ‘magical technology’ and ‘narrative’ over our old-fashioned ‘barely possible tech’ and ‘story-telling’. Chill and gray weather. All day balancing ‘a dollar for the collection tomorrow’ against ‘one package of cookies right now’ dilemma; the lateness of the hour has finally removed it from consideration. Don’t really need it as food but have a yen for something sweet.

 

1/26/2020: Woke up about 1 AM from a dream; I think I have my next short story now: The Reunion. Got up to write it down and worked on my Dream Diary a bit commenting on my dreams of late. They have been different; even, measured, even when strange or full of problems. Almost 2 AM now; must try to sleep again.

So up, PCB, and off to church, where R. It was a graceful day. Came home. After Susan called to ask about chili powder, I went in and got a slice of cheese and a nutty buddy. In the evening Andy brought me a garippe; after I ate the meat (not a whole lot), I made a broth from the bones. This was all the food I had today. Wrote about a page today on “Reunion”. Read some ghost stories. Tried to sleep off most of my waiting, but not really hungry per se.

 

1/27/2020: Up at 5:30 AM. PCB; before 8 AM Andy asked me not to do my wash just yet, as the washing machine is leaking, and brought me a banana. Listening to the GGACP eulogy episode about those who passed away in 2019. Hearing everywhere about Kobe Bryant and his daughter passing away in that helicopter accident. He was a Catholic. Made Kameron an apple today for breakfast and had my ramen. Just as I took him out to catch the bus the roofers came over. Checked the pool and turned off the pump because it wasn’t working. Made the broccoli salad. About 1:30 PM started my wash and finished by 3:30 PM. Grassed the Chis twice, at 2 PM and 4 PM. Started a Lexicon for BB2 today; 4 pages. Made supper: fish rings and couscous. Flintstones, some DS9 today, all the Daily Wire Shows. Made Kam grilled cheese at 8 PM. Rosary. John sent a wonderful picture by Morgandy today in the Maus style.

 

1/28/2020: Up at 6 AM (slept late – ha!). Took a shower. PCBR. Went in at 9 AM, peeled Kam an apple. Made ramen for my own breakfast; added an egg. Got Kam off to school at 10:10 AM. Brought the recycle bin in. “Miss Angie” came out and asked if I could meet the bus Friday to take Kam’s food basket in. Sent Kris Jerome information for my W-2.

Well! A day of dipping in on House and DS9  shows, and not much else (except reading some John Aubrey on Wiltshire). At 1 PM I went in and got a ramen and the last crumbs of Fritos. Started supper at 3:30 PM; sausage, cabbage, and taters. Kam home at 4 PM. Took my food out and ate. A little before 5 PM the Rotts raised a ruckus and I went out to find a couple of bearded policemen coming out from behind the sheds. Their car was drawn up in the driveway. They said they had been chasing a fellow, that he was caught, and sorry to disturb me. After they left, I went around and checked the garage, the ticket booth, and down by the creek, then waited outside till past 6 PM to tell Susan and Andy what had happened. In the meantime, watched the sun go down and the trees blowing in the evening wind, and two raccoons coming from opposite sides of the yard to meet in the middle in a tree over the shed to have a fight. Came in and worried about petting the cats after they had got their medication. Bed about 10 PM.

 

1/29/2020: Woke up about 4 AM from a rather purgatorial dream of wandering a parking lot through the night, waiting for the sun to rise or to get a ride. Felt glum, so decided I was up and started to say my prayers. I almost immediately felt better, and only got better and better as I read the Catechism (and finished it!), then a couple of chapters in the Bible (Romans). It’s now about 5:20 AM and I’m dressed and ready to give writing a shot.

I brought Chapter 4 (The American Prometheus – hereinafter AP) up to page 5 today. Kam off to school, no problems. Breakfast- ramen with an egg. Lunch – made a sort of stew with a little chunk of meat out of the freezer, leftover cabbage and taters, and made a gravy with milk and flour. It was delicious. At supper made pork chops and brussels sprouts, baked sweet potato, and parmesan-encrusted green beans. Swept the kitchen porch. Kam went to church and when he came back had eaten snacks and didn’t want supper. Continue to read Aubrey. Bed about 9:30 PM.

Notes

I feel I might have posted this before; I'm not sure. But it ends the month of February; so off to March next time.

 

Weekend Update

Well, Thursday I went to Walmart and got this very reasonably priced webcam. I've been able to have a couple of very enjoyable Zoom visits with my brothers, one who lives just out of town and the other in Florida. The camera is only in black and white but the resolution is pretty good. But I fear this might have been the trip where I got my cold, possibly a combination of the aggravating 23 degree weather and being out in public in a plague vector. By Friday evening I was beginning to have the symptoms of a runny nose and sore throat, and Saturday it was just terrible as I wandered in a Roman wilderness of phlegm. Today I am feeling a bit better, taking regular doses of Vitamin C with Zinc. The most aggravating result is that it has affected two of my resolutions: I haven't walked for two days and I missed church today for the first time this year. On the up side I have lost 13.8 pounds since I started recording it, my glucose averages about 130, and my sister just brought me some Campbell's chicken noodle soup and some Sprite Zero.

 

Words from a Falling Idol

 "That was the most illogical Thanksgiving he could ever remember spending, and his thoughts returned wishfully to his halcyon fourteen-day quarantine in the hospital the year before; but even that idyll had ended on a tragic note; he was still in good health when the quarantine period was over, and they told him again that he had to get out and go to war. Yossarian sat up in bed when he heard the bad news and shouted. 'I see everything twice!' Pandemonium broke loose in the ward again. The specialists came running up from all directions and ringed him in a circle of scrutiny so confining that he could feel the humid breath from their various noses blowing uncomfortably upon the different sectors of his body. They went snooping into his eyes and ears with tiny beams of light, assaulted his legs and feet with rubber hammers and vibrating forks, drew blood from his veins, held anything handy up for him to see on the periphery of his vision. The leader of this team of doctors was a dignified, solicitous gentleman who held one finger up directly in front ofYossarian and demanded, 'How many fingers do you see?' 'Two,' said Yossarian. 'How many fingers do you see now?' asked the doctor, holding up two. 'Two,' said Yossarian. 'And how many now?' asked the doctor, holding up none. 'Two,' said Yossarian. The doctor's face wreathed with a smile. 'By Jove, he's right,' he declared jubilantly. 'He does see everything twice.' They rolled Yossarian away on a stretcher into the room with the other soldier who saw everything twice and quarantined everyone else in the ward for another fourteen days. 'I see everything twice!' the soldier who saw everything twice shouted when they rolled Yossarian in. 'I see everything twice!' Yossarian shouted back at him just as loudly, with a secret wink. 'The walls! The walls!' the other soldier cried. 'Move back the walls!' 'The walls! The walls!' Yossarian cried. 'Move back the walls!' One of the doctors pretended to shove the wall back. 'Is that far enough?' The soldier who saw everything twice nodded weakly and sank back on his bed. Yossarian nodded weakly too, eying his talented roommate with great humility and admiration. He knew he was in the presence of a master. His talented roommate was obviously a person to be studied and emulated. During the night, his talented roommate died, and Yossarian decided that he had followed him far enough." - Joseph Heller, Catch-22

"Of course, you may be right; and certainly I cannot go so far as to say you are wrong: but still, at the same time --" -Jurgen: A Comedy of Justice, by James Branch Cabell.

***

There is, I think, an actual (if not immediately obvious) link between all these items. Neil Gaiman has written good things, even true things, over the years. And he maintained a cult following as long as he never said anything to contradict their beliefs (as happened to his friend J. K. Rowling and her following). But now it appears he has transgressed one of the fundamental tenets of this cult in his personal life, and followers are leaving in droves, even going as far (or so they claim) as to burn his books. They've 'followed him far enough.' "Put not your trust in princes, in mortal man, who cannot save." I find myself in the paradoxical position, after so many years of somewhat denigrating Gaiman personally, of defending him artistically, to people who cannot differentiate between the work and the man. So, I shrug, like Jurgen, and give my own ambivalent judgement on the whole mess.

Friday Fiction: More of Timmy's Tale

They said a quick grace and doled out the sides, Tim taking his usual portions of cole slaw and mashed potatoes and a jalapeno ranch dipping sauce for his strips. While his Mom and Granny started discussing ‘family business,’ which was largely gossip about what his numerous aunts, uncles, and cousins were up to, the boy mechanically chewed his way through the meal, taking seconds as a matter of course, just staring up at the ceramic frog in a chef’s hat on top of the fridge clutching it’s wooden fork and spoon that (as far as he knew) never got used for cooking.

Conversation was winding down and there were signs that they would be leaving soon when Tim buckled down, took a final gulp of Big Red, cleared his throat, and asked, rather nonchalantly, “Granny, have you decided what you’re getting me for my birthday?”

Her eyes grew wide with surprise and she smiled.

“Why, kiddo, that’s five months away! You must have something big in mind to be asking about it so soon.”

Mom looked scandalized.

“Now, Timmy! Don’t go begging something big and expensive from your poor old Granny! You got to remember she’s not that rich, and she has twenty other grandkids to provide for!”

“Well, it is pretty big,” Timmy conceded. “But it wouldn’t cost her a dime, really.” His voice went up a little; it was serious, but now there was a bit of beg in it. “Granny, would you give me Uncle Sam-Sam’s books?”

Mom’s scandal turned to shock at the enormity of the request.

“Timmy! Granny has plans for them! She was going to sell all those books. You think this won’t cost her anything?”

Granny looked thoughtful. She touched Mom’s arm.

“Now, now, Patty, it was never about making money, it was about saving expenses. I suppose I could make something if I offered them for sale on eBay or something, but frankly, I don’t want to take the trouble.”

Mom groaned.

“No, you’ll just pass it on to me, if he has his way. You know it’s me that will have to make room for all that crap now, if he gets his wish!”

Granny grinned.

“But it will solve my problem.” She looked at Timmy. “And now that I think of it, I seem to remember it always Sammy’s wish that his books would go to some nephew or niece who really wanted them. So I’d really be fulfilling two obligations with one stone.”

“But, Timmy, I don’t think you know what you’re really asking!” Mom fretted. She turned to Granny. “I remember when Kate just had to have a baby calf, nothing else would do, and Pop had to get her one. You know that didn’t end well. I just think this might be more than Timmy can handle.”

“Well, it won’t end in hamburgers anyway.” Granny laughed and bent over the table and looked Timmy in the eye. “Okay, it’s all yours on one condition. There’s no way you can possibly want every single volume. Choose what you want and if you sell the rest, I get half, okay?”

Mom unbent a little. It seemed this was going to happen.

“And it’s got to gone through in one month, you hear?” She looked grim. “I’m not having all that laying around my house for the next twenty years. Anything still packed up, out it goes.”

“By then I’ll be having my next garage sale,” Granny agreed. “Well.” She stood up. “You just take the bins in your car on home now, then. I’ll be over with the truck tomorrow to dump off the rest. And … Happy Birthday, kid.”

Timmy smiled hugely. It seemed the grown-up negotiations were over, and he had won. He squirmed in his chair.

“Thank you, Granny. This will be my best birthday gift ever.”

“Yeah, swell,” Mom grumped. She stood up. “Well, we’d better be getting home and tell your Dad the good news. There’s room to be made and plans to be laid.”

Into the Archive: Howdy, Huck

Classics Illustrated: Huckleberry Finn

As I’ve said before, my sister is going through a bunch of her kids' old stuff and getting ready for a garage sale. That’s at least thirty years of paraphernalia she’s been storing, and the storage had been having a detrimental effect on the stuff itself. There are things that have been ruined and can simply be thrown away. But she cannot justify holding onto everything either, so, after a winnowing down to sentimental essentials, she is planning another huge sale, something she hasn’t done for years.

Part of this are books that they’ve been going through; some are staying, but many are now packed up in bins, ready to move out. The lids are still off, so I cast a curious eye into one while I was in the house, and my attention was immediately riveted.

Right on top was a batch of goodities that struck my immediate reaction of ‘Aw, why is this one going?’ There was Roald Dahl’s The Witches and Mary Norton’s Bed-knob and Broomstick [especially tempting since it had different illustrations by an Anthony Lewis; a variation!] and E. B. White’s Charlotte’s Web, all in spanking new editions that could well replace my crinkly and creaking old copies, or at least supplement them.

After a few moments I wrestled down my bibliophilic impulses with the thoughts of ‘did I really need them’ and ‘they might go to some kid who really did.’ There was one slender item that I could not resist, though, and that was the Classics Illustrated edition of Huckleberry Finn.

Now I have several items like this, Classics Illustrated ‘comic books’ that started their run in 1941 (as ‘Classic Comics’) and ended it in 1969. As such the artwork can sometimes be a little primitive (especially in the run of Classics Illustrated Junior, that featured fairy tales, myths, and legends), if fancier in some adaptations; the series was reprinted through several mutations over the years. In 1997-1998 these digest-sized reprints came out, recolored with newly air-brushed backgrounds. Some had new covers. This new cover is oddly disturbing. Not totally inaccurate, but that’s an interesting, Johnny-Winter-like interpretation of Huck. Here is the original.

Wideo Wednesday: Enchanting

 

Kate Bush – Into the Sensual World

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h1DDndY0FLI

Enya - Caribbean Blue

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jl8iYAo90pE

Loreen McKennitt – The Mummer’s Dance

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxTpvA-pUG0

Annie Lennox – Into the West

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EfoU0R2v1Io

The Lord of the Rings: The Muster of Rohan (Part Seven and Last)

 

The Tale

Under the deepening darkness from Mordor, Theoden gets ready to lead his Riders on the eastern road. Their hearts are heavy, but they are a stern folk and loyal to the king. Even in the camp where the women, children, and elderly are housed, there is little weeping. ‘Doom hung over them, but they faced it silently.’ Two hours pass as ranks are formed. Theoden, white haired and erect on his white horse gleaming in the dark, gives his people hope as he stands unbent and unafraid.

On the flats beside the river 5500 fully armed Riders are marshalled, with ‘many hundreds of other men with spare horses lightly burdened.’ A single trumpet sounds, Theoden raises his hand, and the army begins to move out silently. First come twelve of the king’s household men, an elite batch of warriors. Then Theoden and Eomer; he has said his grievous farewell to Eowyn already and turns his mind to the road ahead. After them follows Merry on his pony and the two riders from Gondor, and then twelve more picked Riders.

As they pass to the front of the long ranks, Merry notices a slight young Rider near the end of the line who glances at him with keen grey eyes. Merry shudders, for it seems the face ‘of one without hope who goes in search of death.’

The army goes along the Snowbourne (‘snow-born’) river, past Underharrow and Upbourn, two villages where sad faces look out of dark windows and doors at them. There are no horns or song or music as they pass, though there are songs sung years later of their fearful, fate-driven ride, five days to Mundberg (Minas Tirith) in Sunlending (translated from Anorien, ‘the land of the sun’), six thousand spears strong, and how they passed into darkness.

It is dark when they reach Edoras at high noon, where they are joined by about sixty more Riders, late to the muster. Theoden halts a short while to eat, then he bids Merry farewell. The hobbit is to stay safely here. Merry begs again to go with him; why did the king make him his swordthain (squire), if not to be with him. He does not want it to be said of him in song that he was only left behind!

Theoden reminds him that his pony is too small to make the long journey, and in the fighting they expect at the end there is little the hobbit can do. No rider can bear him as a burden. Theoden took him to keep safe, and here safe he shall stay. He will say no more.

‘Merry bowed and went away unhappily.’ He passes through the lines of Riders getting ready to move out, and in their busy ranks he is suddenly approached by the young doom-laden rider he noticed earlier, who speaks softly into Merry’s ear.

‘Where will wants not, a way opens, so we say,’ he whispered.' And he has found it so for himself. Merry obviously wants to go with Theoden, and good will and great heart should not be denied. The hobbit can ride with him, hidden under his cloak in the darkness, and none shall notice. Merry thanks him, though he remarks he does not know his name.

‘Do you not?’ said the Rider softly. ‘Then call me Dernhelm.’

So when the army rides out, Dernhelm’s steed Windfola secretly carries both Rider and Merry easily, ‘for Dernhelm is less in weight than many men, though lithe and well-knit in frame.’ They ride through the willows running along the Snowbourne into the Entwash, then rest for the night twelve leagues (about 36 miles) from Edoras. Then the next day through Folde and Fenmarch and past where Halifirien skirts the hills on the borders of Gondor.

As they go they find rumor of war in the north, lone men riding fleeing attacks by orc-hosts on the eastern borders, marching on the Wold of Rohan. But it is too late to turn aside. They must make haste to Gondor. ‘Ride on! Ride on!’ urges Eomer.

‘And so Theoden departed from his own realm, and mile by mile the long road wound away, and the beacon hills marched past: Calenhad, Min-Rimmon, Erelas, Nardol. But their fires were quenched. All the lands were grey and still; and ever the shadow deepened before them, and hope waned in every heart.’

 

Notes

And so we come at last to the end of this chapter, which we have been on since the start of the New Year. I have taken it in easy stages, usually writing it up in the early hours of the same day I post it, simply stopping at what seems a natural pause.

The Folde (Old Norse for land or country) is the center of the kingdom where the king and his kin live; it is bordered by the Eastfold and the Westfold.

The Fenmarch is the stretch of marshy land that follows the Mering Stream. It is the border between Rohan and Gondor.

The Firienwood (also called Firien Holt) stood beneath the Halifirien (‘holy wood’), an oakwood left unfelled to cover stealthy passage between the kingdoms.

Theoden, while impressing the distance to Minas Tirith on Merry, says it is a 102 league (306 mile) ride.

Dernhelm comes from dern (hidden, secret) and helm. So, helmet of secrecy, or as we might say, disguise. An odd entanglement, perhaps, as Grima (Wormtongue’s actual name) means ‘mask.’ Windfola means ‘foal of the wind’. The name implies the steed is as swift as the wind, being its child. It recalls old Greek legends of the land of Hyperborea (‘Beyond the North Wind’) where Boreas, the North Wind, fertilizes mares by blowing on them. Some writers identify Hyperborea with Britain, which makes an odd little connection with the Rohirrim and the English.

‘Where will wants not, a way opens’ loosely translates to ‘where there’s a will, there’s a way.’ In other words, if you want something enough, you’ll find a way. For years I misread it as ‘a way will open up where you didn’t want it, or least expected it.’

I’m going to be as cagey about Dernhelm as Tolkien himself is here, until the proper time comes. I imagine it will be no surprise to most people.

I Got Nothing

What can I tell you? I'm not feeling any post today. Not a diary entry (I seem to have got out of sync with my five-years-ago posting, and rather than going back to fix it I think it'd be easier to just let real time catch up). Not the shortest, feeblest example of my writing or 'poetry', nor anyone else's. Part of this must be my realization that I need to get a new computer mouse; my old one is making cutting and pasting an annoying task. Besides, all my energy is devoted to my Monday chores. It is a beautiful, bright sunny day (though cold; 41 degrees right now) and it's making me, well, lazy is not the right word, but let's say carefree. Tomorrow I may venture the roundtrip bus ride to Walmart to get a mouse. Today I cannot fit it into my schedule. My glucose is 120 this morning, and for me that's pretty good. 

The Reporter, a Prose Poem by Ivan Turgenev

 

Two friends were at a table drinking tea.

A sudden hubbbub arose in the street. They heard pitiable groans, furious abuse, bursts of malignant laughter.

'They're beating someone,' observed one of the friends, looking out of the window.

'A criminal? A murderer?' inquired the other. 'I say, whatever he may be, we can't allow this illegal chastisement. Let's go and take his part.'

'But it's not a murderer they are beating.'

'It's not a murderer? Is it a thief then? It makes no difference, let's go and get him away from the crowd.'

'It's not a thief either.'

'Not a thief? Is it an absconding cashier then, a railway director, an army contractor, a Russian art patron, a lawyer, a Conservative editor, a social reformer? ... Any way, let's go and help him!'

'No ... it's a newspaper reporter they are beating.'

'A reporter? Oh, I tell you what: we'll finish our glasses of tea first then.'

July, 1878

[The Moral: Some people's sympathies only go so far.]

The Wistfulliest Wish List: The Land of the Lord High Tiger

 

A while back I posted about books on my Wish List that I was unlikely ever to get. The Old English Exodus by Tolkien, Shakespeare’s Boy Actors by Robertson Davies, and Jurgen by James Branch Cabell (illustrated by Frank C. Pape. I could have added The Anatomy of Puck by Katherine Briggs, Walt Disney’s Uncle Remus Stories, The Last Unicorn: The Lost Journey by Peter S. Beagle, and the reprint of The History of Four-Footed Beasts, Serpents, and Insects by Edward Topsell (3 Vols.). Most of these were only out of reach because of cost. But there was one volume most unlikely to ever even be seen by me, a book that had only been published once in 1958. It was unavailable anywhere on the usual sites. Here is the most I could find out about it, a couple of reviews on Goodreads.

 

The Land of The Lord High Tiger

Roger Lancelyn Green, John S. Goodall (Illustrator)

160 pages, Hardcover

First published January 1, 1958

 

About the author

Roger (Gilbert) Lancelyn Green was a British biographer and children's writer. He was an Oxford academic who formed part of the Inklings literary discussion group along with C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien. Born in 1918 in Norwich, England, Green studied under C. S. Lewis at Merton College, Oxford, where he obtained a B.Litt. degree. He delivered the 1968 Andrew Lang lecture. Green lived in Cheshire, in a manor which his ancestors owned for over 900 years. He died in October 1987. His son was the writer Richard Lancelyn Green

Reviews

 A children's book with the pun-wit of The Phantom Tollbooth rather than the in-depth stories of Narnia. Speaking of which, "Narnia North" is a stop on the rail line in The Land of the Lord High Tiger...Off of the "Inner Ring," in fact. Also "Screwtape" is mentioned very early on in the book. All titles of works by Lewis. Not sure who inspired/borrowed from whom on those points. [The Narnia books began to be published in 1950; it was Green who suggested that the book series be called 'The Narnia Chronicles.']

This is not an easy book to find, as there was only one edition printed (and the publisher is long out of business). Though the story is more fanciful wordplay than a real, solid story, it is worth bringing back into print. – Jody, on Goodreads

 

“You are Prince Roger of the Land of the Lord High Tiger and the clocks have given you three wishes to use while you are in my land. Go out on your quest, oh Prince, and take with you your three friends. And when there is need of magic, I will be ready in my Den of Enchantment to help you” (20).

With these words, Sir Timothy, the Lord High Tiger, sends Roger on his fairy tale adventure.

The Land of the Lord High Tiger by Roger Lancelyn Green is a work of original fantasy fiction from an author better known for his retellings of classic myths and stories, as well as his biographies of other writers. Green was also a member of the Inklings, the writers’ group of which Lewis and Tolkien were famously members.

Published in 1958, Land of the Lord High Tiger might prompt a few casual comparisons to Lewis’ Narnia books, but the similarities are mostly superficial. While Narnia is grand, sweeping, and full of deeper meaning, Lord High Tiger is a funny romp through fairy tale tropes.

King Katzekoph, rule of the land that is truly that of the Lord High Tiger, is under threat from the Black Wizard and his minions – the sworn enemies of both himself and Sir Timothy the Lord High Tiger. The Lord High Tiger says that to stop the Wizard, they must summon a prince from another land “where I live also” (11).

In the midst of telling bedtime stories to his stuffed toys, Roger sees the light of the oh-so-rare blue moon and knows that this night will be the night he can travel to the land he so often dreamed of. After instructions from the Lord High Tiger, he decides to use one wish immediately to bring his friend (or possibly sister?) Priscilla along for the adventure. The door to his room now opens up to a much longer hall than it ever has before, and walking down the hall, he finds himself in the royal castle of King Katzekoph.

Roger and Priscilla soon enter a royal ball, where Priscilla plays a Cinderella role (with some creative twists). Soon Roger is off on an adventure to rescue Priscilla, accompanied by his no-longer-stuffed-toy friends, a fox, a lion, and a squirrel. Through this adventure, we meet a Phoenix with a magic carpet (a clear nod to the work of E. Nesbit), a giant who would like to put them in a stew, a mad gardener, a strange tower, a horde of robbers, an old woman with a slightly suspicious cottage, and of course the evil wizard.

The Land of the Lord High Tiger is full of funny puns (“Make your footmark here – it’s the sole signature needed”), nods to well-known works such as Narnia (the king must dance with the Queen of Narnia at the ball), and just general funny moments (Leo the lion is always pulling just the right item out of his seemingly endless pockets). At 160 pages, it is a relatively fast read and if it were more available, I am sure it would still be loved by young readers.

The Land of the Lord High Tiger is absolutely a five-star book for me. I can see why perhaps it is not a great classic like Narnia or Lord of the Rings, but it is absolutely a shame that this book is so long out of print and rare/hard-to-find. We’ve seen other very rare children’s books come back into print, so perhaps this could be another book to add to our reprinting wish lists!

Thank you to the Kerlan Collection of Children’s Literature in the Andersen Library at the University of Minnesota for holding a copy of this book so I could visit the library and read it today! – Kirsten Hill, on Goodreads