NEW YEAR, NEW STEAMPUNK STORY.

Wish you a Happy New Year.

Below is an extract from a new Steampunk story which I began recently.

THE STEAM WARS.

From ‘Blood for The Empire’ the biography of Sir George Jackson, MBE, Commander of Her Britannic Majesty the Queen’s Forces in the North. (by Aki Atkinson, Empire Publishing, 2035.)

            Sir George Jackson was born in the debtor’s prison in Appleby (Westmoreland, England) in December 1976- a hard year for the British Empire; one of the coldest winters on record, and the year in which The French Empire re-conquered Mexico and threatened The North American Commonwealth in the west, and launched an attack on Greater India in the east.

            His father (Sir Stanley Jackson) had died in a duel six months before. His disinherited mother (Lady Alice) had been incarcerated for debt one month earlier, and George was to spend his birth and his first Christmas and Easter in that cold dungeon. Unlike so many prisoners at that time, both he and Lady Alice survived.

            Upon gaining his freedom, they retired to a modest country cottage in Kirkby Lonsdale, where George was raised by his mother and uncle, the notorious poet James Hunter. At the age of five years and nine months he was sent to Lancaster Military Academy. At the age of sixteen he graduated as an Infantry Lieutenant in The Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment and served a year in the border guards in Africa. In that year his mother died fighting the French in Finland and his uncle was exiled to Orkney. At the age of seventeen he was sent to fight the French in India, where he served with distinction.

            The author requests that the reader remember this harsh beginning in life, and does not judge Sir George too harshly. As he himself once said ‘Her Majesty expects me to kill her enemies; She does not expect me to be a Saint’.                 

From the Diary of Sir George Jackson, MBE, Commander of Her Britannic Majesty the Queen’s Forces in The North, in The Year of Our Lord 2010.

13/12/10.

0700 HOURS.

            Have the most shocking hang over. Shall require a good dose of the jolly laudanum once the day’s duty is done.

            Last night we celebrated the one hundredth anniversary of the Battle of Hyde Park. How we drank to celebrated the day the French army was driven from London, and down to the sea, where their ships would be massacred by the brave pilots of the Royal Airship Force!

            If only things went as well now for our lads in Mexico… ah, but we still have India…

            Have a busy day today. Must inspect two new volunteers; a stout fellow who was a Lancer before he last a few fingers in Chile, and a young lady, recently made orphan from a charming family of good name from Carlisle. Must also speak with Professor Gribbenfaust regarding his new patent for the revolving musket, and other tedious matters.

2100 HOURS.

            Rather well now. Far better.

            Which is for the best, as I was informed that Tsarina Llydamilia of the Russian Empire is making a surprise visit to hunt with Her Majesty on Her Westmorland Estates tomorrow and I must organise a body guarding force to meet her airship. Think a squad of Heavy Cavalry, a squad of Heavy Infantry and couple of Steam Tanks will do it.

            Really big Steam Tanks!          

Glad that I have not been charged with the Tsarina’s catering…

            Lady Charlotte Duchess of Carlisle seems a most promising recruit.

14/12/10

2200 HOURS.

            The Tsarina’s visit was a success! Her Russian Majesty delighted Herself by shooting two Red Deer Stags, and Her Britannic Majesty showed her natural superiority by bagging a stag, a doe and thee wolves. The fest afterwards was excellent (thought of course the Tsarina did not take one bite), and –best of all- no attempts were taken on the lives of either Majesty.

            The Tsarina is a charming lady (despite all that they say about her- which is all true, but we must honour our allies). She reminds me a little of my darling Countess Fiona. God how I miss her! One day I shall take her back from France…

16/12/10.

0700 HOURS.

            Jolly News! The French Empire falters in Mexico. Out North American Commonwealth troops shall be roasting turkeys in Mexico City at Christmas!

17/12/10

1700 HOURS

            There was rioting in Lancaster, York and Newcastle today after Her Majesty announced that the age of conscriptions was to be lowered from eighteen to seventeen (due to recent losses in The Americas). I suspect that the riots were mostly caused by food shortages due to disruptions in trade caused by rogue German Privateers. Damn The Hun! (Fortunately, I am well stocked in laudanum and cake).

            Commanded our troops to be lenient on the rioters, as it is nearly Christmas. There were no fatalities in either side, and only a total of 75 causalities in the region.

19/12/10.

0520 HOURS.

            The French have invaded!

2100 HOURS.

            This afternoon a force of French Paratroopers landed in rural Lancashire at dawn today. Motives unknown.

            The first time that their experimental weapon was used on Jolly Old British ground.

Led a platoon of Dragoon’s from The Northern Defence Force against them, and was victorious.

            Lady Charlotte of Carlisle set a fine example to the troops by single handily slaying a French officer, and shooting down two more Paratroopers. God bless that fine lady!

            The RAF destroyed two out of three of the French airships which delivered that foul cargo.

My platoon lost only tree troops (and seven wounded), and twelve more British troops were lost in the conflict. There shall be severer retaliations against this attack (perhaps after the Christmas Truce)     

                     

24/12/2010

2300 HOURS.

Tomorrow is Christmas Day! Mexico City has been recaptured! Hurrah!

26/12/2010

1240 HOURS

            Jesus Christ’s Birthday was celebrated with the joy and glory which He so much deserves.

            The opium flowed like laudanum, the laudanum flowed like wine, the wine flowed like water, and the water was mostly in the form of snow… Such jolly fun was had in the Officer’s Mess!

            Am terribly tired now.

31/12/2010

1800 HOURS.

            A New Year is upon us, and with it a new hope of victory.

            This year, as with every past year, I am sure we shall finally beat the French. We have fought the scoundrels for 218 years, but never have we faltered, never have we surrendered, never have we lost sight of our inevitable victory!

            P.S The charming Lady Charlotte accepted my invitation for dinner on New Years day.

A CHRISTMAS TALE

The paintbrush in his hand shuck slightly. For most people it would have been difficult to wield a brush accurately with a hand that missed its little finger, but he had learnt to deal with the mutilation. It was the cold which was beginning to trouble him.

            The sun set beyond the small window, and the inside of that small window was covered in ice which sparkled in the light of the two candles and tiny fire which lit the room. Their breath drifted like smoke in that room, which served as his studio, kitchen and living room.

            ‘This is intolerable,’ declared Molly, the young lady who reclined on the floor at the other end of the room, wearing only a toga improvised from a bed sheet. ‘I shall become ill, like that poor girl from the Ophelia painting.’

            ‘That girl was immortalised in Waterhouse’s Ophelia, and you too shall be immortalised as the very archetype of beauty when I have completed ‘Guinevere’s Lust’.’

            She looked unimpressed, but remained dutifully still as he painted her.

            ‘Could you not put a little more coal on the fire?’ she asked a moment later.

            ‘Molly, my dear, there is to be no more coal coming until next week, and I wish to save some for Christmas.’

            ‘It is alright for you, I am only wearing a damned sheet.’

            ‘It is my understanding that you normally work with no clothes on at all.’

            Which was both true and insulting. She bit her lip. She knew that the more time she spent complaining, the longer the painting would take. Soon it would be too dark, and work would end for the day. She would remember the insult to use against him at a more opportune time in the future.

            He put down the brush and rubbed his hands together for warmth. Despite the fingerless wool gloves which he always wore in winter, his hands felt like they were made of ice. Even the missing finger was bitterly cold, which seemed unfair. After staring adoringly at her for a few moments, he rearranged the candles and stoked the fire to improve the light. For the next half hour he continued painting her toga, which was transformed on canvas to an elegant gown.

            After a final stroke, he laid his brush down. Looking first at his canvas and then at her, he smiled.

            ‘That shall do for today, thank you Molly,’ he said, rubbing his numb hands together.

            She stood, stretched her slender limbs, then rushed through to the other room to dress. When she returned, he was crouched by the fire. She joined him there and warmed her hands and face. Then she took a small, cracked mirror from her bag and inspected herself. She quickly ran a brush through her long dark hair, then applied a little colour to her lips and cheeks.

            She stood and silently looked at him, and then the door. He stood, and then they did what they always did. He paid her, she put the money in the hidden pocket of her petty coat (without making eye contact with him), then she hugged him.

As he pulled away from her embrace, he risked kissing her on the cheek, which he did not normally do- but it was nearly Christmas.

He opened the door for her, and she left.

            ‘See you next week,’ he called after her.

            As usual, she did not reply.

            He tidied away his paint and brushes, then gazed again at the canvas. He wished to paint in the fashionable Pre Raphaelite style, but he was not a member of the select Pre Raphaelite Brotherhood, and had been too busy in his youth to attend any of the colleges of art, so he did not know their secret methods which made the painting shine with inner light. But he would learn. He would paint the most beautiful woman in the British Empire, and then he would be the most famous artist in the British Empire.

            Eventually.

            After lovingly returning the bed sheet to his narrow bed, he pulled on his grey overcoat and red cravat and strode out onto the snow covered streets.                  

            Any passer by would have struggled to identify his class. At first glace he looked like an educated man, perhaps an educated man who was something of a Dandy. Closer inspection of his threadbare clothes and pinched features may have suggested a pauper who had stolen his suit from a corpse.

            A brief stroll took him to the relative warmth and comfort of his favourite tavern. After ordering a pint of porter from the comely serving maid, he joined his friend Lloyd.

            ‘God save the Queen!” Lloyd said, which was his usual way of greeting people.  

            ‘God save the Queen,’ he replied dutifully. ‘How are you?’

            ‘Quite well. How do you do?’

            Both men were in their mid thirties, but Lloyd looked the younger man by far. A Lieutenant in the Dragoons, Lloyd enjoyed rather more in the way of fresh air and exercise than his artistic friend.

            ‘Not bad,’ he said, taking a swig from his porter and feeling the nearby fire warm him. ‘In fact, rather well.’

            ‘Jolly good. How goes the painting?”

            “Well.’

            ‘And the lovely Molly?’

            ‘Lovely… She will be happier when the spring comes.’

            ‘As shall we all be. But I must say that if a few more Londoners spent a summer in Africa, India or Afghanistan then they might be less inclined to complain about the cold.’

            He nodded agreement. Lloyd had a very unfashionable tan and a few scars to prove that he had spent most of the year in those boiling corners of The Empire. He was wondering what is would be like to be too warm when the serving wench came to refill their glasses.

            ‘Do you want to put me in one of your paintings, mister?’ she asked playfully.

            ‘Not right now,’ he replied awkwardly. ‘Maybe in my next painting…’

            She looked thoughtful for a moment and fiddled with her golden hair. Then she broke out into giggles and leaned over to Lloyd.

            ‘Then maybe Mister Lloyd could prefer to keep me company,’ she said.

            ‘Later,’ he replied.

            She blushed, giggled some more, and trotted away.

            ‘We shall get drunk today,’ Lloyd declared. ‘It is nearly Christmas, and an officer ought to be generous.’

            So they did.

            Soon it was midnight, and a great deal of ale had passed through them.

            He rose unsteadily to his feet and headed for the outhouse. On the way past the bar, the serving maid winked at him, and so he was utterly distracted when he walked into the very large man, and knocked the very large man’s drink all over his very large and expensive shirt.

            ‘You, sir, have spilt my drink!’ the very large man roared.

            He looked up at the man, who was very tall, very broad- but not fat- and wore the dress uniform of a Heavy Cavalry Officer and an impressive moustache on a face which was red with drink.

            ‘My apologises sir, my friend shall buy you a new one.’

            ‘Your friend? Your friend?’ roared the very large man, who was now surrounded by several associates in the same uniform. ‘Are you such a pauper, sir, that you cannot pay for your own mistakes?’

           ‘I, sir, am an artist.’

            ‘An artist indeed! First you spill my drink, then you stain my shirt, then you have the nerve to pursue such a disreputable trade! Damn your eyes, sir!’

            ‘Damn your manners, sir. You do no credit to your rank. Allow me to replace your drink and offer my apologies, and let the manner rest.’

            ‘Never! I demand satisfaction!”

            ‘Satisfaction?’

            ‘A duel! At dawn on Saturday, if you are man enough for it!’

            ‘But sir, Saturday is Christmas Eve,’ one of the large man’s associates said.

            ‘Christmas Eve! And a fine Christmas it shall be after I have slain this lowly artist!’ the man boasted. ‘Sabres or pistols?’

            ‘Sabres, and where?’ he know there was no backing out.

            ‘Horse Guards Yard.’

            ‘So be it. Good night to you sir,’ he said as he rushed to the outhouse.

            On his return to the tavern, the artist avoided eye contact with the very large man and returned to his table.

            ‘Who is yonder giant and pompous oaf?’ he asked his friend.

            ‘That, my friend, is Sir Thomas Blake, and you ought to be a tad more careful with your words, as he is said to be the finest swordsman in London.’

            ‘It is a little late for that, he has already challenged me to a duel.’

            ‘Dash.’

            He woke with a sore head the next day. Even though he was fully dressed, it was freezing in his bed. He dragged himself out of it, and staggered through to the next room where he lit a fire with wood chippings and a few handfuls of coal. After blowing it carefully for a few minutes it produced some heat, and he began frying bread and dripping.

            After breakfast he tried to work on his painting. There were parts which he could paint without Molly- the crown beside her, the lance she held suggestively, the woodland and setting sun behind her- but he found it impossible to paint well without her. She was his muse.

            After an hour he gave up, and read some of the many poems which Tennyson had written on Arthurian themes. They inspired him a little, but he could not be distracted from the fact that he would probably be dead by Christmas.

            As an artist and a Post Romantic he had always been comfortable with the idea that he would die, and that he would probably die young. It would increase the value of his paintings. The difficulty lay in knowing the exact date, and the exact- particularly painful- way in which he would die. It was Thursday, in less than two days he might die.

            It was horrid to think of, so he had lunch instead.

            At sunset, he set off to the tavern, where he found Lloyd.

            ‘You have finally done it,’ Lloyd said, after commanding God to protect his Queen.

            ‘Done what, exactly?’

            ‘What you always wanted to do, become famous!’

            ‘How so?’ he thought for a moment that his luck had changed.

            ‘That duel, old boy. Everyone at Horse Guards is talking about it. No one has duelled all season, and now you are fighting Sir Blake. It is quite legendary.’

            ‘Ah, so my corpse shall be famous?’ the artist almost buried his face in his hands.

            ‘Quite famous! Indeed, they are holding bets on it at Horse Guards- to add to the sport, seeing as it is Christmas!’

            ‘What are my odds?’

            ‘Not good.’

            ‘Please get me a drink, gin if you would be so kind.’

            The next day passed slowly, and the night passed drunkenly, and then it was dawn on Christmas Eve.

            The artist found himself in the middle of a large crowd of officers in the centre of The Horse Guard’s Yard. The courtyard was covered with four inches of snow, as where the stately building which surrounded it.

            A senior officer briefed them on the rules, which involved killing each other in the most gentlemanly way possible. Then they stripped down to their shirt sleeves, and were handed identical sabres.

            He looked up at the very large man, and the very large man looked down on him, and then they shuck hands.

            After they had moved three paces apart, the senior officer commanded them to begin.

            Sir Blake leapt forward, swinging a massive over arm cut- clearly hoping to expand his considerable reputation by killing a man in one blow.

            He dodged it by half an inch, and managed to cut the large man’s exposed arm.

            The crowd cheered for first blood.

Sir Thomas Blake showed no surprise or pain under his moustache, but adopted a more careful stance. The artist stood with his feet wide apart and his sabre on-guard.

            Sir Blake lunged at him, but he parried, and struck for the large man’s knees.

            Sir Blake easily parried it.

            As the artist had anticipated when he had made that fein. His sword struck upwards in an arch, then rapidly down into Sir Blake’s right collar bone.

            The very large man dropped his sword to the ground, and his self to his knees.

            The crowd fell silent as blood flowed rapidly.

            ‘Will you surrender, sir?’ he asked.

            ‘Yes,’ Blake gasped as he coughed and spat blood.

            ‘Then you shall have quarter, because it is Christmas.’

            He put down his sword, and stood back as men rushed to Sir Blake’s aid. Then he noticed that all of the crowd looked at him in moody disgust.

            ‘Lloyd,’ he called out to the crowd, ‘have I done some thing wrong?’

            His friend came to his side, and shuck his hand firmly.

            ‘No, sir, you have done well,’ Lloyd told him.

            ‘These gentlemen do not look impressed.’

            ‘All of these gentlemen bet against you, you see. Some have lost a fortune today. No one thought that you could win.’

            ‘Did none of them know that I was in the Dragoons in my youth?’

            ‘No, even I forget that sometimes.’

            The crowd dispersed in poor spirits, and Blake was carried away on a stretcher.

            ‘Do they think I lost my finger to a rouge paintbrush?’ he asked indignantly

‘Some of them believe that you sold your finger to a medical student in order to buy gin… No one bet on you…’

‘Not quite no one.’

After putting on his coat, and collecting his winnings, he had breakfast washed down with a great deal of sherry.

Then he went out and bought a sack of coal, and a bag of potatoes, and a turkey, and a bottle of port, and a small gold ring. As an after thought, he bought himself a new paintbrush.

Then he bought Lloyd and himself a drink.

Then he started looking for Molly.

All night he trailed the taverns and ally ways for her. He heard the clock strike midnight, and still he had not found her.

He had almost given up, and was heading for home, when he saw her leaning against a pub doorway. She looked tired under her smile, and she must have been very cold.

‘Hello,’ she greeted him.

‘Hello Molly. Come home with me. You cannot work tonight, for it is Christmas day… and we shall have ever so much fun.’

           

              THE END

 Image by Victoria Francise.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, AND GOOD WILL TO ALL MEN! (AND WOMEN, BUT NO GOOD WILL AT ALL TO TORY POLITICIANS, THE POLICE AND SECURITY GUARDS).

 

The Microcosmic Razor

Below is an essay which I have been working on over the last weeks months, any criticism would be appreciated.

Microcosmic Razor.

            Everything is a microcosm.

            A some what bold statement, but consider the following examples and theories.

            The patterns of ‘veins’ on leaves look very much like the shape of the trunk and branches of the tree itself (or the roots). This pattern is repeated on a larger scale in rivers. If we could look at it from far enough away, there might be something on a cosmic scale which also looked like that.

            Each individual cell which makes up an egg, looks very much like the egg itself. Which also resembles a planet or a star (what with its core and outer layers)

Scientists believe that an ‘atom’ looks very much like how they consider the solar system to look, and our solar system exists on a similar model to a galaxy, and the universe is likely to look like lots of galaxies spinning around a central point- a bit like an ‘atom’

A human body correlates to the five elements (head for spirit, right hand for earth, right foot for air, left foot for fire, left hand for water). This is symbolised by the pentagram. (Remember the Leonardo da Vinci drawing with the man inside the circle and the square?)

If you swirl a bowl of cereal or a half full pint of ale, you get a pattern that looks very much like a mini galaxy.

None of these examples are conclusive- at all- but they hint at greater things.

The human mind is constantly looking for patterns and correspondences. This is a way of thinking that we need to survive; if our ancestors had not noticed that certain animals ate certain things (such as us), or that certain things grew at certain times of the year, we would not be here now. Without noticing the patterns of seasons, they would have starved or frozen. Without noticing that night and day worked in a circular pattern, they would have gone mad.

Not only were early people aware of patterns in the world, it seems that they were also aware of the microcosmic nature of these patterns. This can be seen their monuments (see Mounds and Microcosms) and myths. (Creation and post death myths tend to have a circular nature, like the changing of seasons, or night and day).

  The most obvious and perhaps most important pattern is that of circular motion. The moon moves around the earth in a circle, which effects its phases, the tides and the menstrual cycle. The earth moves around the sun (or the sun around the earth) in a circle which effects day and night and the seasons. Hence most early beliefs regarding life and the cosmos being circular, for example reincarnation, or the continued creation and destruction of the earth, as in the Ragnarok. If most important things going round in endless circles, it is not unreasonable to assume other things- like life- do the same (in fact this can be observed in plants).

Another important pattern is that of pendulum motion, which can be observed in many physical objects, and in the tides. It is the idea that ‘what come up must come down’ and that any deviation from a central point (or state of balance, neutrality or harmony) must correct itself to an equal and opposite extent. This is an important part of both Hermetic philosophy and Jungian psychology.

The principal of pendulum motion is linked with the tendency for balance in nature. Things which the human mind often thinks of as polar opposites exist in a state of balance in the world. For example, the world moves between light and darkness (day and night) with a vast spectrum between the darkness of midnight and the light of midday. In the darkest night there are stars and the brightest light casts shadows. Over the course of a year, there will be equal quantities of light and darkness. The same applies, on both an abstract and a physical level, with masculinity and femininity. An equal balance between the two is necessary for the continuation of life, and there is a balance of masculinity and femininity in all things- as Jung said ‘no one is so masculine that he has no feminine in him’.    

Another, which has been observed from the Ancient Greeks onwards, but ignored by Christian cosmology and some scientific theories, is that something cannot be made from nothing. This can be seen everywhere in nature, and when applied to a cosmic scale logically necessitates the immortality of the soul, the endless recreation and destruction of the world, and an infinite universe.

The scientific idea of ‘cause and effect’ may appear to be observable in nature, but as Hume states, we do not observe one thing causing another, we observe several things happening one after the other. This supports Jung’s idea of Synchronicity.

Hermetic philosophy is based on the observation of pendulum motion, circular movement, gender balance and the microcosmic theory which these lead to. In Hermetic philosophy all things are a microcosm of The All- the Mind or Will of The Universe. The true nature of universe is said to be mental- the All is mind/spirit. All material things are representations of fractions of the All: That is the meaning of the maxim ‘as above, so below’.

Astrology is an excellent example of the application of ‘as above so below’. The stars and planets are said to correlate with the lives of people because all things are connected. All things are one. All things are microcosms.

Certain patterns repeat themselves in nature, on both a huge and a tiny scale, because all things are microcosms of the universe.

It could be said that those things which do not show patterns which are repeated on a cosmic scale are not been observed correctly.

Which exhausts my arguments for the statement that all things are microcosms.

It is not entirely conclusive, but nothing in philosophy is. As Plato wrote, ‘wisest is he who does not know’.

However, if the world is observed and considered logically, it seems likely that certain patterns will always repeat themselves in a manner of correspondence which suggests the microcosmic nature of material things.

The point is, that this observation could be used as a test for theories and beliefs. Like Occam’s Razor, there could be a Microcosmic Razor as a simple test. Those beliefs or theories which do not conform to the principals observed in nature, and therefore the universe, are impossible and therefore not valid. That which cannot be seen to be a microcosm is not logically valid.

For example, the human soul must be immortal, and run through a cycle of death and rebirth, because the same pattern is seen in the seasons and in day and night, indeed the entire universe is in a constant state of creation and destruction. Or the linear Christian cosmology could be said to be unjustifiable because nothing in the world runs in a finite, linear manner.

    

RAGNAROK (Continued from 06/12/10)

'Brother fights brother-they butcher each other,

And sister’s sons- shall kinship stain,

Harsh it is on earth- that mighty whoredom,

An axe time, a sword time- shields are smashed,

A wind time, a wolf time- before the world falls,

Men shall never- spare each other.'

from The Voluspo.

LONDON, 09/12/10

'We destroy to build better', V. I.Lenin.

Very Short Stories.

Have tried writting a spot of 'flash fiction' recently.

 SIX MINUTES.

He lit his cigarette with the lighter she had given him. The one with their names engraved in a language which no one had spoken for over a thousand years.

Inhaling deeply from it, he thought about how every cigarette was suppose to reduce your life expectancy by six minutes. ‘But the last six minutes are crap anyway’, his friend used to say.

Which was almost ironic, because the previous six minutes had been crap too

He watched the smoke drift up to the dark sky in elegant coils. ‘There is a beauty in that which no one can ever take away from us’, he had once told her as they sat at a wooden pub table watching their smoke dance in a beam of light.

It didn’t matter about the six minutes, because- he had heard- a glass of red wine repairs the damage done to the human heart by six cigarettes. And he had drunk a lot of red wine.

He savoured the last drag of the cigarette, knowing it would be his last before sleep took him.

Crushing the end of it between weather beaten fingers, he cast the remains of it onto the street, and walked home to an empty bed.

SPIDER.

Two thousand and ten years ago a spider spun a web across the mouth of a cave where Christ and his parents hid, saving Him from infanticide.

Over a thousand years later, the same spider did exactly the same thing with another cave (spinning a web really fast, so that it looked like no one had been in recently), and saved the life of Robert The Bruce.

A few hundred years after that, the same spider worked very hard building and rebuilding her web on a windy day, and convinced Nietzsche that life was worth living. In fact, she convinced him that life was worth living over and over again.

Now, as the spider sits in her web, chewing on a fly, she reflects that Christianity did not work out as well as she had hoped, Scotland still wasn’t quite independent, and Hitler had misinterpreted Nietzsche a great deal.

But, on the other hand, she had spun some very pretty webs, which had caught some very tasty flies. And she was, after all, just a spider.     

RAGNAROK

 Thor, by Arthur Rackham.

The Voluspo ('Wise Woman's Song') is an epic Nordic saga describing the history of the world in the Heathen cosmology. It ends with a description of The Ragnarok (the last Battle at the end of the world), followed by the return of Balder and the making of the new world.

In the Ragnarok there will be three harsh winters followed by a winter which lasts for three years. The sea levels rise. There is war and civil strife across all the world.

A translation of one stanza the Voluspo which describes the Ragnarok is produced below.

'Brother fights brother-they butcher each other,

And sister’s sons- shall kinship stain,

Harsh it is on earth- that mighty whoredom,

An axe time, a sword time- shields are smashed,

A wind time, a wolf time- before the world falls,

Men shall never- spare each other.'

Look outside to see the people fighting the police on frozen ground under a frozen sky whilst the government struggles to destroy our nation as it sends warriors off the die in god's- forsaken corners of the earth.

Minor Essays

Post Romanticism and Gothic are a world view as well as being a genre of literature and generally rather dashed cool. Thus, as a break from the poems and stories, here are a few tiny essays from the Minor Essays chapter of a book called The Things We Need To Change About Our World, which I've been writing for the last few years. Those of you who are not overly familiar with metaphysics, Hermetic philosophy and Jungian psychology may wish to look at the essay found in the box at the top marked Essays which is something of an introduction.

On Fear of Death.

It seems likely that Christianity can be held largely to blame the fear of death in our society. The Christian sees life as being linear; one is born, dies, faces judgement, and then spends eternity in Heaven or Hell. The judgement is the first cause of fear, the Christian God asks more of people than they are naturally capable, and often seems contradictory in His demands, and His punishment is unimaginably harsh. The second problem lies in the linear model, which runs in conflicts with all else in nature (which, like the sun, moves in circles), and offers no second chances (with reincarnation, we have eternity to learn from our mistakes).

But Christianity has become a fringe faith. In the modern, western world, it has mostly been replaced by materialism and science, yet the fear of death remains. If anything it has grown stronger, so that the very thought of death is intolerable.

This may be a left over side effect, a fading shadow, of Christianity, and it seems likely that if Christianity had not preceded materialism, it would not be so stark. However, there is still much in modern materialism which breeds the fear of death.

Firstly, there is no life after death. No resurrection, no redemption, no second chance. This in itself is not pleasant, but it is not fearful, once we pass away, nothing matters.

The problem lies with the Ego. In modern society the Ego is king, it could even be said that the individual’s ego replaces God. The Self (or soul, which is immaterial) does not die, but the Ego (which is concerned only with the material) does. Therefore, the Ego is at war with the Self: the Ego breeds fear of death to further its own ends.

On Herd Animals and Pack Animals.

Our Society encourages us to be herd animals, weather it is as a nation under a government, or as a company under a boss, we are forced into the role of herd creatures. Very few people lead very many.

In school, children will (despite being put in the herds of classes, years and schools) form social groups of threes, fours or a few more. These groups of people left to their own devises and too young to be fully brainwashed by society, form groups closer to packs than herds. The same is true of ‘gangs’ in alternative sub cultures. The family unit of two parents, or one parent and another adult, with several children resembles the wolf pack with its @ Male and Female and their dependants. Often on nights out, I have observed that social groups normally consist of one couple and several addition members of the same sex.

The natural unit of humanity is the pack.

The herd is both against our nature and our interests. It serves only the ruling minority.      

On Justice.

The great philosophers tell us that justice exists, but on an abstract yet objective level. Not here in the material world, but in Kant’s Nominal World or Plato’s World of The Forms. If we want justice on Earth, and they tell us it is our moral duty to do so, we must attempt to bring it here.

To implement the Idea of Justice on Earth.

On The Creator.

God is often referred to as ‘The Creator’ by both orthodox Christians and Gnostics or Spiritualists.

One has to ask, what does a ‘Creator’ do.

A Creator creates- in both the past and the present tense.

God: The Creator is not the distant being which created the world in The Old Testament and then sat back and refused to intervene. If there is a Creator, it is a constant source of creation; the creation of all things, everywhere, forever.

In short: The Universe. Which is also the only thing which can be all powerful, all knowing, and everywhere.)

On the highest metaphysical level, the only thing which can be thought of as ‘the one true God’ is the universe itself.   

 Diogenes, by Waterhouse.

(Note the lamp at the great sceptic's feet, which he used 'in search of a good person'.)

The Last Berserker

Wrote the short story printed below a few days ago, to go with several other Norse Heathen short stories which I've been writing over the years. Can't take much credit for this, as the bulk of the story is the retelling of an old Norse folk story. Am a tad preoccupied with death at the moment.
It called 'The Last Berserker'. The word 'Berserker' means 'bear scinned' or 'bare scinned', which is ambiguous, but the general idea is that they are warriors dedicated to Odin, who fight with no regards to their own safety. This sounds rather heroic, but in the sagas, Berserkers spend most of their time turning up at parties and starting fights... 

The woman tended her fire with slender, wind tanned hands.

Outside her home of wooden timbers and thatch, the howling of wolves competed with the howls of the wind.

It was lonely in her dwelling, after the Grim Reaper had taken her husband and children away. She put another few sticks on the fire and rubbed her hands together in the hope of stopping there shaking.

Then she flinched as she heard three pounding knocks on her door, like the blows of a mighty hammer. Visitors to her home were rare, especially on such a foul night. She touched the bronze cross that lung around her neck, and found the strength to open the door.

Outside she saw a beast of a man. A head taller than her, and twice as broad. Despite the snow which dusted his long dark hear and beard, he wore only a fur jerkin, woollen breeks and high leather boots. His eyes blazed from his scarred, brass tanned face like a polished blade under a summer sky. An upside down cross made of bone hung from his bull neck and thick silver torcs adorned his wrists. A Broad Sword hung on one side of his belt, and a long dagger from the other. His bare arms bled from a dozen minor wounds, and blood soaked through his jerkin.

‘Christ preserve us!’ she gasped, but she did not flinch from the creature which she thought must be a demon.

‘Odin made the world,’ the man muttered back.

For a moment they stared at each other with mutual disgust.

‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ she managed to say.

‘Thorfast Sigurdson of Whale Fjord seeks hospitality.’

Then she knew that he was no demon, but a heathen, which was just as bad, and rarer in those days. But she knew that Christ that said to ‘Love Thy Neighbour’, and spoken of Good Samaritans. She remembered the great importance which her grandmother- a Hell-bound pagan, but a good woman- had placed on hospitality. And she did not remember a priest ever telling her that heathens had asked permission before pillaging and ravishing.

‘Enter, Thorfast of Whale Fjord,’ she said defiantly.

He nodded, shuck the snow from his hair like a dog, and strode in.

‘Sit by the fire, there is a little stew left over,’ she told him.

‘Thank Odin,’ he grunted.

‘There will be no Devil worship in my home,’ she snapped.

For a moment his eyes blazed like fire in fury. She clutched her cross, but faced him, staring up, her face inches from his own. Then the fire faded from his eyes, and he laughed, deep and dry.

‘My Gods fight monsters far worse that your demons,’ he stated.

She smiled at that, and the tension left the air.

‘Sit down,’ she said, and he did.

In the warm fire light he could see that she was not the miserable crone that he had first thought. She was not old, and still pretty, and the waves of her red hair glistened in the light like a gentle sea under the sun.

In the light she could see that one of the wounds on his arm was deep, and that there was more blood coming through his jurkin.

‘Let me dress your cuts,’ she said, ‘I have needle and thread, and a few herbs, and-‘

‘It is too late for that.’

There was such weariness and determination in his voice, as though he was patiently waiting for death; that she knew not to argue. For a moment she felt pity for the man, then that was overwhelmed by curiosity.

‘What is your business here?' She asked him.

‘Odin already knows of the deeds that I have done, and He has a seat waiting for me in his hall, with a tall glass of mead in front of it. My father waits on the right hand side of my seat, and the prettiest of valkyries waits on the left. There is no need for me to boast of my life to you,’ he said proudly, then he saw the disappointed look on her face, and spoke more kindly. ‘But I can tell you another story, if you wish, to pass the time.’

‘That would be kind.’

He poured some of the stew from the bowl to his mouth, then wiped his beard with a blood stained hand. The wolves outside had ceased their howling. The distant wind and the crackling of the fire comforted the lady.

‘This is the story of The Troll’s Cave,’ he began. ‘There was a young man, lets call him Olaf, who had heard that troll’s lived in a cave on the fells by his home, and that they had a mighty hoard of silver. He decided to find the troll’s cave, and rob them.’

‘What is a troll?’

‘A monster made of stone, who prowls the land at night.’

‘A demon?’

‘No, a Troll... After searching for most the day, Olaf found a rock which blocked the door of a cave, on the top of a fell. Opening his strength-hoard, he pushed the rock aside, and climbed down into the cave. It was a big cave, and it led down into the earth. He lit a torch and followed it down for a long time. Then he heard a voice calling for him to halt. He had his dagger ready. “What brings you here?” the voice asked. Olaf did not think it could be a troll’s voice, for it was soft- like a woman’s. “I am looking for trolls” he said. “Then come closer,” said the voice. He did, and then he saw a tall man, with a pretty face, like an elf or a southerner. The man was dressed in silk robes and wore a fine sword. “Come to our hall and feast with us”, the pretty man said.

 ‘Olaf was lead to the hall in the cave. It was the finest hall he had ever seen, fit for a king it was. Great piles of silver sat on the floor. And a king’s hall it was indeed, for a king sat at the head of the table, another tall, slender, pretty man. A queen sat beside him, who was also slender and elfin, and more beautiful than any woman Olaf had ever seen- and he had known many. But the princess that sat next to them was prettier still. “Be seated, feast and drink with us”, the king said. So he did.

‘Then after the feast, the king excused himself, and told Olaf to sleep because they all had to leave, and he must not follow them. When Olaf woke the next day, he found even more silver in the hall. The pretty people asked him to join them for another feast, so he did. Olaf stayed with them for many days in their cave, and they slowed him great kindness. The princess fell in love with him, and they were married, and the king showered him with gifts- rings, and swords and furs and more.

‘It was only on the bridal bed, when all that should be done was done, that Olaf understood what is hosts were… They were trolls. But in their own land, the trolls were pretty and kind, and only became ugly and cruel when they emerged into the world of men.’

There were so many questions which the lady wanted to ask, but she could not bear to interrupt the story.

‘Olaf lived with his fine troll princess wife for a few more days. And every day he was given a mighty feast. But, he noticed, there was never any rosemary to season the meat at the feast. “I will go up and get us some rosemary, for I want it on my meat,” Olaf said. He walked out of the cave, put the rock back behind him, and began looking for wild rosemary. What he found instead was a puddle. Looking at himself in the puddle, he saw an old man staring back. He had been in the cave for only a few weeks but he had aged many generations. He staggered back, then saw a herdsman, and ran to him. “Who is king here?’ Olaf demanded of the herdsman. “Foolish old man, everyone knows that Sven Redbeard is king”, the herdsman said. “That cannot be, last I was here, Erik Thorgrimson was king,” he said. “I have heard of Erik Thorgrimson, he was Sven’s father’s, father’s father,” the herdsman said. Olaf fled in horror. He ran back up the fell and tried to find the troll’s cave. But he could not. He reasoned that he must be on the wrong fell, so he searched another and found nothing. For the rest of his life, Olaf searched for the door to the troll’s cave, but he could never find it.’

The lady felt sorry for Olaf, but she had liked the story. She looked at Thorfast’s face, which was now very pale, with a new admiration.

‘There is a lesson in that story,’ she said.

‘There are many,’ he replied, ‘some I have learnt, and some I have not. But I go now to the hall of kings, and I will not complain if they lack for rosemary.’

He pulled his sword gently from its scabbard, and held it tight with both hands. Then he lay down on the floor and closed his eyes.

‘Valhalla’, he said once in a voice thick with pride, and then never again.

A raven called out once from the distant winter sky.