Exerpt From The Book
15/11/2005

Today I am taking the easy way out by posting something that has been in existence for a long time. I have considered all sorts of things as potential subjects for the blog but not been happy with any of them. Eventually I ran out of time and decided that the best thing to do would be to post a taster from "The Book". It kills many birds with one stone. You get something to read (and be warned, it's quite long) and I avoid the guilt of not posting on a blog day. Plus, there are those who have been curious as to the contents of the book; this might give an idea of it, although any single chapter will mislead since the book is written in three different styles.

I am resisting the temptation to add any explanation to the text. This is Chapter Two, chosen because, well, I like it. My congratulations to any who manage to wade all the way through it.

The Gabbler's Testament

Chapter Two

He was the son of a farmer like any other, happy, open-faced and ruddy from the outdoor life, strong, broad-shouldered, the limbs beginning to swell with the hard muscle of carefree work and play. In only two aspects was he distinguishable from a hundred others of the same background; the first, a certain easy grace and elegance of movement that looked strange in the body of a farmboy; the second, and the one that had already, at the age of eighteen, occasioned the invention of a nickname that would stay with him till his death, an uncontrollable, ever active, and boisterous tongue that gave birth to a ceaseless flow of comment, appraisal, speculation, wit and banter, so that it was inevitable, almost, that he should be called "Gabbler". Those of his friends who first coined the name could have had no inkling that the day would come when this distinguishing feature would become so marked that "Gabbler" would be transformed into "The Gabbler", this fine distinction indicating the transition of the term of mockery into a mark of respect.

In those days, the Gabbler's home valley was near the edge of Revennian settlement, not truly "frontier", since there was nothing beyond the boundary but more virgin forest awaiting its colonization and the high, sheer walls of the encircling mountains where no man could live; but "frontier" in the sense that it was a harsh, simple and hard-working life for the settlers and the farms wrestled from the arms of the wilderness were only now beginning to yield of their true fruitfulness. And what little time there was for relaxation and entertainment was generally filled through the settler's own ingenuity, it being rare that the scops, the traveling singers and tale-bearers of the people, would visit these outlying areas where the work was plentiful but the rewards meager.

But visit they occasionally did and these rare occasions were highlights for the isolated families of the valley, an excuse to drop everything and gather for a feast and celebration, to be followed by the singing of songs and retelling of legends, the announcement of great events far away and the reciting of sagas and verse, all done by the scops in their high, chanting voices, without accompaniment, for they had no instruments of music beyond a tapping foot or a rapping knuckle to keep the beat. And the settlers would listen enthralled, even though so many of the tales had been heard before, for the scops sang of a magic land where each man was a hero, each maiden a beauty, every enemy a monster, and deeds were mighty and uplifting and defiant in the face of extinction. The listeners' hearts and spirits would be thrilled with the wonder of the telling and, for a few hours, they would be one with their ancestors, fighting again the great battles against impossible odds, braving the unimaginable hardships of the storm-lashed oceans and winning that last fleeting kiss of the loved one through all tribulation and tragedy.

This blessed and glorious day in the spring of 156, when the Westerlies had left off their incessant, stormy blast to go wandering in the empty wastes of the southern ocean, when the mountains collected and reflected the warmth of the brilliant new sun, so that the forests and fields of the valley swam and steamed in the heat, this day when the buds and the blossom strained so impatiently at their bonds, when the newly-wakened bees went on their first fat-legged and meandering flight through the orchards, and the new calves and lambs went bucketing through the meadows in their rapture, on this day was the little community stirred by news so welcome that it mimicked the spring itself in its relief from the hardship and tedium of winter. Along the dusty tracks, from farmstead to farmstead, the children ran, shouting with glee, "The scops are coming! The scops are coming!" And even the grown men, hard-weathered and callused, who would sneer at the scop's profession that left hands soft and white and voices light and lilting, even these looked up from their labors with pleasure and anticipation in their eyes. The young men, the maids and the wives all rejoiced and hurried through their work that they might not miss the preparations and the cry went up to the running children - "To whose farm? Where will they be?" - and the answer came back in trilling, excited voices, all shouting together, "On old Wylgi Aelfigsson's place, by the bent pine outside of his barn!" Then everyone knew where the pigroast would be, for they all knew the pine tree that Wylgi had refused to cut down, looking upon its curiously tortured shape, as though it had decided to grow back into the earth and then changed its mind and grown up again, as a good omen for the wealth of his farm.

To Gabbler and his good friend, Aewal Wulfsson, this was exciting news, for both could remember the previous occasion, several years before, when the scops' tales had fired their young blood with valor and daring, giving inspiration to the games of their boyhood. So now, as they shared in the work of mending the fence between their fathers' farms, they made plans to be early at Wylgi's place and, hopefully, see the scops as they came in.

When they arrived in the late afternoon, they found they were not the first, for many of the youths and maidens from the farms farthest away had set off even earlier under the pretext of arriving in time and had then run themselves into a shouting, laughing frenzy to collapse whooping and gasping under old Wylgi's tree. Aewal and Gabbler joined in their excited chatter and happy anticipation until Wylgi came out and sent them scattering to find brushwood and pine cones for the fire. He told them that the scops had already arrived and that they would be coming out in due course. "When the pigs are ready," he said and the youths and the maids yelled their delight as they raced to collect the wood.

In the evening, when the older ones had arrived and the sun had hidden behind the Elfberg's rocky wall, leaving the sky burning like beaten gold, the first chill of night creeping from the deepening shadows, Wylgi came out again to light the fire. Behind him, in a group, walked the scops, murmuring and laughing amongst themselves. This was always an awkward moment, when strangers first appeared; and the throng quietened and became serious as they watched the scops, also nervous but pretending not to be, with exaggerated bravado coming right into the center by the piled brushwood. Then the fire was lit and blazed up, the first explosion of sparks sent the scops scattering into the crowd, and the ice was broken with laughter and jests, the pigs dragged, squealing, from the barn, the scops accepted, and everywhere was merriment and good fellowship. But Gabbler noticed that there was another, one who did not emerge from the house until the fire was blazing and who then stood quietly, unobtrusively, on the edge of the crowd, in the darkness where he was but a vague shape against the looming blackness of the barn.

In the revelry that followed, and then the mythic rapture induced by the scops, Gabbler forgot the unknown man but, as the last song was dying to its close and the stranger stepped into the light and moved towards the glowing embers of the fire, he remembered and watched the man closely. The song had ended as the man arrived at the center and, scooping up an armful of brushwood, he threw it with one movement on to the dying fire, so that it blazed up suddenly, dramatically, and all could see him clearly. He stood waiting, nonchalant, almost insolent, as the people hushed and inspected him, their peasant eyes goggling at his strange attire and his casual manner. A proud smile hovered at the edge of his mouth as he waited for the full effect of his appearance to be borne in upon them.

He was young, in his mid twenties, a tall, slim figure with flowing golden hair and a drooping moustache, his handsome face bronzed by the light of the flaring fire, his loose-limbed body at ease under the gaze of five hundred strangers; but it was his clothing that the simple farming folk were staring at, clothes that seemed to have been fashioned for the very tales they had just been listening to. On his head was a gleaming metal helmet that glittered red and blue in the flickering light, the boar's head at the crest standing proud, tusks flashing in its graven maw. Covering his chest and his loins he wore a long coat of ringmail over his shirt and breeches, this coat, too, reflecting the light in a thousand tiny flashes from its myriad rings; a thing of indescribable price they all knew. On his feet were doeskin boots, soft, like theirs, but interlaced and adorned with intricate patterns of glass and metal beads threaded upon leather thongs that wound around and around his calves to knee height. On his arms were leather wrist guards, these also being chased and inlaid with decorative patterns of silver. At his belt hung a scabbard, from which emerged the hilt of a mighty three foot sword. But more than these, astounding enough in that company, was the weapon he held loosely, casually, in his hand. There in the flickering firelight, flashing and sparkling from its polished surfaces, there was the most evocative and charismatic of all weapons, the very symbol of their ancestors, short-handled but beautifully weighted, the double-bladed battle axe of war.

He stood and he waited while their inspection continued, well aware of the effect of his presence. And then, as the astonishment and wonder began to break out in a chorus of murmurs and exclamations, he spoke out in a loud and deep voice, so much in contrast with the wailing of the scops.

"Men call me Penda Pendasson!"

Into the sudden hush that followed, all being aware of the greatness and power of the Pendassons, he projected his voice in clear and resounding tones. He began by reminding them of that long ocean voyage that had brought their ancestors to the new land, laying special stress upon the fact that he was a descendant of the owner of one of the great ships that had made the feat possible, mighty Penda Hulfiggsson of the sagas. From there he led them on to remember how they had multiplied and spread out into the empty land, braving hardships and danger in their determination to make their foothold secure. And he recounted the famous tale of Elf Pindarsson, fisherman of Cnebbamund, who had wandered further north in his little boat than ever man had traveled before and been the first to sight a foreign sail, low down upon the horizon, and returned with the shattering news that they were not alone. He told of the later expeditions, tentative and cautious, to ascertain the nature of these discovered nations, and how the astounded sea captains had returned with tales of great cities built with blinding white stone, fleets of tall trading ships and wealth beyond their imagination. And, finally, he brought them through to the present, speaking of how young men of their land were gathering together to sail with brave leaders to plunder the trade routes of the foreigners, returning with riches beyond their wildest dreams and reputations that would never die.

Oh, he knew his task well, that bold young man, and well he might, having had much practice in the winter months of trudging from town to farmstead, fishing village to barn, bringing news of his dream and fire to the hearts of young men. How easily he led them on, with his mythic tales and dramatic gestures, so that, even though he told them nothing new, they hung on his words like wasps at a honey jar and their eyes burned with the stirring of ancestral joy of battle. As he finished, he made a great sweep of his arm to clasp the ringmail at his chest and announced, in a loud bellow of triumph, "This," and he paused for the full effect of his words to take hold. "This, I had off the captain of one of their fleets!"

The crowd drew their breath in wonder, as they realized that the man had been there and been part of these deeds. He stood proudly, still clutching his chest, and allowed their awed gazes to take in the vision of heroic manhood, the brave warrior of the legends, come alive and in their midst. Then, as their reverence began to break out in hushed comments, he held up his hand for silence and nodded at one of the scops. The scop came forward, staggering under the weight of a bundle slung over his back. Penda took a corner of the cloth holding it all together, then they both allowed the cloth to roll outwards, strewing its contents on the ground before their audience. There were gasps of astonishment as the people viewed the riches so carelessly thrown at their feet. Golden goblets and plates, silver knives and ornaments, precious stones set in glittering frames, pieces of rich cloth that shone and reflected the light, polished implements that no man could guess the use of, all rolled and scattered as a fabulous, bright, gaudy offering before them and eyes bulged, mouths fell open, at the sight. Penda leaped forward and began pressing random items into dazed hands, saying as he did so, "These are a few of the things I collected on my last trip. Go on, look at them, feel them, pass them around, all must have a chance to touch the riches available!" And, obediently, the people passed the magnificent objects amongst them, silent, amazed and dazzled at this carefree display of wealth.

A painstakingly-crafted little knife came into Gabbler's hands and he gazed at it in awe, fascinated at the play of light along its deep, blue blade and the intricate designs etched into the metal, a glowing red stone set into its haft. He passed the blade across his thumb and gasped as the blood oozed from the cut, for he had felt nothing. Turning it over and over in his hands to watch the reflections dance and play across the shining surfaces, he could think of nothing that would match the beauty of this exquisite implement. When at last, reluctantly, he passed the thing on to the next pair of reverent hands, he knew that this was what he wanted, a chance to earn himself a knife like that.

And it was then, when they were at their weakest, when the awe and the wonder and the glory of it all had emptied them of reason and sense, it was then that Penda laid his dream, his vision, before them. The young men, of course, were easily fired, perhaps would have been desperate to go without being washed in the grand, blood-stirring drama that swept them along; but Penda knew his people and knew also that it was the older, wiser heads, especially the women, that he had to make drunk with emotion to ensure their easy acquiescence. He spoke of how the vision had come to him right there in the Gulf, as their ship picked and nibbled at the edges of the great fleets of traders, and of how he had seen a mighty fleet, not of the foreign ships, stumbling along like frightened sheep before the sheepdog, but a fleet rather of Revennian warships, low, swift and sure, come swooping upon the milling tradesmen, like a pack of wolves upon the flock, to take a bountiful harvest such as had never been seen before. He spoke of how the vision had carried him through the winter, coaxing, persuading and cajoling, until at last he had assembled just such a fleet, a mighty gathering of the warships of the people, ships that even now were approaching Cnebbamund. He spoke of how he had traveled, often footsore, hungry and near frozen to death, to communicate the vision, and of how, at this very moment, young men were setting out from as far away as Offasund to join the fleet and play their part. And lastly, when he could see in their faces that they were already won, he offered, with open arms, the chance for them to be in with his dream, to share in the glorious future that lay waiting for them.

So well had he performed his task, so cleverly brought them to an unbearable pitch of excitement and yearning, so masterfully drawn and enticed them on, that as he finished his speech and stood waiting, arms still wide in acceptance, for their reply, the people shouted, with one great roar of approval, their determination to be with him on the day that he brought his wonderful fleet crashing into the lumbering ranks of the traders. As the mighty shout ended and the hubbub of eager anticipation and boastful declarations began to rise, Penda shouted above the din his final exhortation. "Be with me in Cnebbamund! Three days from now." Then he turned abruptly and strode back to the house, leaving them chattering in the wonder of their decision.

He knew, of course, that in the hours and days that followed common sense and reason would reassert themselves and that many of those who shouted loudest now would find later that they must bow to the pressure of a wife or parent and try to forget their dream of glory and riches. But he knew, too, that some, at least, of those who had heard him that night would find a way, through sheer pigheadedness if necessary, to be there on the appointed day.

Gabbler and Aewal understood without speaking, as their eyes met through the jostling crowd, that they would be amongst those who gathered; and Gabbler knew as well that he would have to achieve the deed by stealth, for his glance had caught the worried look on his mother's face as she looked across at his father, still shouting his support for the scheme. On the long walk home they were silent, each wrapped in his dream of valor, only the father sometimes giving vent to the swelling pride in his breast with a comment on the sight of the battle axe or the appearance of Penda, his head shaking at the vision. The mother glanced uneasily between the shining eyes of her menfolk and prepared for her own battle to come.

In the morning, good sense had returned and the mother's argument with the father was brief and totally victorious; already he knew that the farm imprisoned him and for him, at least, the dream could not be; he fought only to keep the vision a few sweet moments more. Then both turned on the young one, the one they knew most enraptured with the possibility of it, and they reasoned and persuaded and explained while Gabbler sat silent, merely nodding at the words with which they sought to win him back. In the end, they accepted at face value his gestures of acceptance and allowed the storm of their pleading to die down and grow quiet, but they saw in his eyes and knew in their hearts that the decision was made and nothing could turn him from it. Gabbler's quiet, so unheard of in him, spoke so clearly of his intention that they had to force themselves to disbelieve what they knew to be true, only this hope giving them the strength to return to the work of the farm.

Over the next couple of days Gabbler and Aewal laid their plans in snatched, furtive moments, for they knew that they were watched. They heard that others, most of the youths of the valley, indeed, were adopting the same covert strategies and they linked their plans with those of others, glad of the chance to bolster their determination with the mutual support of a group.

Three nights after the visit of the scops, the young men of the valley crept from their beds and, once out of earshot of the farms and united with their comrades, went whooping through the forest in the direction of Cnebbamund. The old ones heard their stealthy preparations for departure and did nothing, their impotence to halt the flow of young passion too apparent to them. And, as the tears for the parting went running down to be soaked up by the bedclothes, they whispered prayers that their sons might be bold and upstanding, bringing glory upon the family name, returning with honor and wealth heaped on their shoulders.

Tags: Exerpt

Clive

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