Fiction

On Kickstarter

Kicking things off

I mean that’s what it was all about, yeah? Just, like, getting things started? Kickstarter might have changed its policies enough that more and more creators are jumping ship to Backerkit but it doesn’t change the impact it has had on the RPG scene (as well as many other indie scenes.) Many, many projects would not have existed without Kickstarter connecting their instigators with people who wanted them to instigate. I think we can all be grateful for that.

Swedish Machines

This is not the first Free League product that I have backed on Kickstarter and it probably won’t be the last. Right now, I’m waiting for the Replicant Rebellion Blade Runner boxed set and, another Simon Stålenhag project, the Electric State Roleplaying Game, for which I am rather excited.

But Swedish Machines is not an RPG book at all. In fact, if it is anything like the Tales from the Loop art book I received as a Christmas gift a few years ago, it is going to be a loose narrative related to the artworks presented in it. Together, in Tales from the Loop, at least, the art and the text tell the story of this strange, alternate 1980s where technology developed in a very different way than in the real world. That fact leads to some fascinating and terrifying occurrences that appear in a kind if vignette consisting of art and short fictional pieces.

I have every reason to believe that’s exactly what it will be. And I can’t wait to see what his mind has come up with this time.

Here is a short extract from the Kickstarter page to give us an idea:

Stålenhag’s most personal work yet, Swedish Machines explores masculinity, friendship, and sexuality in a queer science fiction tale about two young men stuck in the past – and in each other’s orbit. Their story spans decades, as fleeting moments become defining memories, and they set out to explore a mysterious forbidden zone together.

Set in his native Sweden and based in an alternate version of Mälaröarna outside of Stockholm, the place where he grew up, and still lives to this day, Swedish Machines juxtaposes giant futuristic machines and vehicles against the inner turmoil of the characters facing a social dystopia.

It makes me think Tales from the Loop and his other books must be related to this one. The setting, Mälaröarna, is also the setting for the Tales from the Loop RPG if you set your game in Sweden, rather than Nevada (the other option from the core book.) And, as well as that, the existence of giant futuristic machines makes it sound like this is in the same universe. I think it’s also really exciting that the book is focusing on this queer couple and their story. I have not read all of his books, but, certainly, Tales from the Loop had a much more ensemble tinge to its cast of characters.

And let’s just focus on the art for a moment. I don’t have the vocabulary to fully do it justice but I love how Stålenhag goes for realistic depictions of the world at a very specific time and in a very specific place but inserts the impossible into them. These impossible things, like the huge cooling towers with blinking lights in Tales from the Loop, or the giant cat mascot collapsing an overpass in Electric State are ignored or, at the very most, treated as mundane, by the characters in it. And the characters? Almost all have their backs to you, encouraging you to see the world through their eyes or to take their place in it. It’s great.

I believe that, once again, I am just a day too late posting this as the Kickstarter campaign finished up on September 5th. Still, it’s worth keeping an eye out for and picking up a copy when it is released more generally.

Kal-Arath

Slaps the roof of Kal-Arath This baby’s got everything your average OSR gamer could ever want or need. You want to drive Kal-Arath solo? No problemo. You want a co-driver, just you and them out on the open hexes? Kal-Arath’s got you. You want to take a group of four or five passengers out on a road-trip to who-knows-where with no preparation and hankering for some adventure on the highway of fantasy? DONE!

I became aware of Kal-Arath as a project by following Castle Grief on Instagram. And it is one of the projects I am most excited to receive. It has a wonderfully indie, hand-made quality to it and it’s telling us it’s going to do a lot of the work for us at the table:

Oracles, Starting Adventure Seeds, Points of Interest, Encounters, Settlements, NPCs, Dungeons, Items – all of these have their own tables for generation, and combined together create a setting flavorful setting that emerges from the tables themselves

That was actually an extract from the Castle Grief itch page, which you should also go and check out, dear reader!

The rules are purportedly a combo of elements from a number of other games. It uses 2d6 and employs at least some aspects from two games I have played before, Mörk Borg and Black Sword Hack. I am a big fan of both of these OSR games and really enjoy a 2d6 system in general. I know the actual dice you chuck don’t really make that much difference at the table, but 2d6 just feels good. OK?

Also, it’s got a lot of gnarly hand-drawn art too. It fits the idea of this game so well. I love it.

Anyway, Kal-Arath is definitely still live so go back it!

And, if you’re interested in Simon Ståhlenhag’s art, you should still be able to pick up a copy of Tales from the Loop.

The Apprentice, Chapter 2

A break from out regular programming

I know I said that I would get into some detail on each of the projects I’m backing right now and I will! I promise! For now, if you are interested in that, go check out this post here.

But can I tempt you to hang around here and enjoy a tale of the macabre? This is chapter 2 of the Apprentice. If you want to get caught up, this is the post you’re looking for. But, honestly, you could probably read this one as a short story and never know it was part of a wider story.

It’s quite a bit longer than most of my posts so go get yourself a nice cuppa and take it easy for a little while, why don’t you. So, here it is,

Chapter 2: The Tale of the Dead Count

An old count once lived in a far away land. People called this land “the Land of Gold” it was so rich. Count Ravetzi had an enormous castle on the top of a steep hill overlooking the town of Hopefield. The commoners all loved the Count, the Countess and their two brave and handsome sons, Bors and Lors (I always thought these were the worst made-up names I had ever heard in any of my father’s stories. He always just winked at me and said, “That’s how you know it’s true! Who would make up such ridiculous names?”) The noble family often gave to the poor of the village, the two sons brought glory to the town and the province in tourneys from Arabella to Zoarfrost, the Countess sponsored the education of many of the town’s second-born sons in the Great University of Spirehall, and the Count; Count Ravetzi was the most extraordinary of all; it is said he had healing hands. Stories abounded; Count Ravetzi had cured Old Nan Mercer of the pox, the warts fell off the hands of Fat Harolt when he touched them, he made Grandpa Gorenson see again, and a leper that lived in the ravine had his curse lifted after the Count paid him a visit. Hopefielders called him The Marvellous Count Ravetzi.

Now, as I’ve explained, this land was incredibly rich. Even the beggars on the streets used bowls of gold, it was rumoured. It had been able to remain rich because it was in a fertile valley bordered on three sides by steep mountains of great stature stretching all the way to the sea, a sea of such renowned ferocity and danger that not even the finest navigators of the age would dare to attempt a landing at the small harbour there with anything larger than a row-boat. In other words they were secure against invaders, sheltered from extreme weather and just generally safe from harm.

One day the brothers, Bors and Lors (laughable monikers!) went to the southern end of the valley near the mouth of the great River Arga which had carved it. There was an ancient forest there, famous for the size of its wild boar. The birthday of their father approached and it was always celebrated with the finest boar of the season roasted on a spit in the courtyard of the Count’s great castle. They would once again prove their skills as the greatest hunters in the Land of Gold and bag the boar for the spit.

Stalking their prey for three days and nights was not too much for them and they were rewarded finally with the sight of the most enormous boar either of them had ever encountered. The beast’s tusks were as long as Bors’ arm from wrist to shoulder and its bristles could have been used as daggers. They circled the beast as it drank from the shallows of the river and they were about to spear it when a volley of shafts streaked from the trees hanging over the riverbank, felling the beast and dashing the hopes of the brothers. When a shout came from the leader of the bowmen in the trees to drop their weapons and surrender, Lors and Bors, brave and mighty warriors though they were, had no choice but to comply.

Back in the castle, the Count and Countess knew nothing of the events in the forest and when the Count’s birthday arrived they had no doubt that their two sons would make it back in time with a prize beast for the feast. All preparations were made by the castle’s servants and the Countess herself oversaw them. Bunting was hung, banners were flown, helmets and trumpets were polished and a magnificent cake, seven tiers high was brought up from Hopefield’s proud master baker’s shop.

Everything was in readiness when Lors led his retinue through the gates and entered the courtyard. He was scarlet-faced and he did not cheer as he entered and he did not perform a lap of victory around the courtyard as was he was wont to do after a successful hunt. Most importantly, however, he was not accompanied by his brother.

“Where is Bors, where is your brother?” called the Countess. “He will be along shortly, Mother. You will see him soon.” Seemingly, the Count and Countess accepted this vague explanation and left the remaining preparations, those of the spit-roast, to Lors and his retinue.

Now, when my father told me the Tale of the Dead Count I was only seven years old and even I knew the fate that lay in store for poor old Bors. Must I actually relate it to you? I suppose I must.

That evening, all of the land’s worthies were gathered at the castle and many of the not-so-worthies as well. The Count’s generosity was well known and he displayed it particularly on the feast of his birthday. He would grant a boon to all who came to his feast. As a result, many folk who had not even received an invitation turned up at the castle or, if they did not manage to gain entry by bluff or stealth, waited outside the gates on the off-chance the Count or Countess would take pity on them and invite them in.

The boons granted by Count Ravetzi ranged from prize livestock to tales of wonder but, although there were no formal rules surrounding the requesting of boons it was simply not done to request money. No-one ever had, of course, so it was not certain that he would not grant it. The unspoken rule existed all the same and it never had to be tested as everyone in the Land of Gold was, as has been made abundantly clear, perfectly well off.

The final touches had been made to the courtyard and gardens where the party was to take place. All of the guests mingled freely in the courtyard, dressed in their very finest finery. They enjoyed the valley’s cherriest red wine, which had been perfected over centuries by the growers of the northern slopes; they nibbled on the fruit of the southern forests and cheese of the lowlands where they bred the most fertile and productive cattle in the known world. And everything was served on glittering gilt platters and from gem-studded goblets delicately crafted by the Land’s most famous artisans, whose skills were sought after from the frozen wastes of the North to the sizzling deserts in the South. The Land of Gold and all its riches were on display in that courtyard and dinner had not even been served.

The Count and his lady wife greeted their guests at the summit of the steps leading into the keep, he dressed in a specially tailored suit of azure silk and gold trim, and she in a shimmering golden gown and a stole of mountaintop-mink.

When they had greeted everyone and surveyed the party, again they asked Lors, “Where is your brother? Where is Bors?” Lors, eyes downcast and feet shifting answered, “You will see him at dinner.” Once again the noble couple simply accepted the answer and called for the feast to move to the garden for dinner.

The entire three hundred strong party followed their hosts around the keep to the torch-lit gardens and were seated at the feast-tables which were already groaning under the strain.

They had all followed the Count and Countess but they might as easily have followed their noses. The spit-roast had obviously been glazed in honey and spiced and the aroma hooked the hungry guests like prize-trout on the end of a line. The roasting pit itself was hidden behind a painted caravan, awaiting the serving-time when it would be revealed in all its glory. Once all guests had settled and all goblets were refilled the Count tapped his glass and rose to give his speech:

“Tradition has made this land the richest and happiest in all of Mittern. Tradition has led us here today to celebrate as we do each year. You have asked your boons when we met earlier, as tradition dictates, and they shall be granted, from century-old tokay to impossible riddle, when our evening’s feasting comes to an end. I have been asked one boon this year, however, that I cannot grant as it is not wholly for me to do so. My loyal and learned peer, the Duke of Minia Prima, has proposed a joining of our two proud houses through the marriage of his enchanting and radiant daughter, Suskia, to my first-born son and heir, Bors.”

The party-goers grew giddy with excitement and wine and a round of raucous applause had to be settled by the Count, still standing, speech unfinished.

“I, personally, would not even afford the answer a second thought. If it were my decision alone I would reply wholeheartedly, ‘yes!’”

More applause was once again settled by the Count who continued, “My son, Bors, is his own man and I have always trusted his instincts and his decisions. Someday he will make a fine Count and I would have him choose his own Countess. What say you Bors?” he raised his voice now to the crowd, as his eyes roamed over it, in a vain attempt to pick out his son. “Lors! You said your brother would be here for dinner! Where is he now? He has an important decision to make.” The Count still suspected nothing, Lors replied, “I believe he is ready, Lord Father.” With that, the caravan driver whipped the horses into action revealing the spit roast behind it.

Of course it was no great boar, it was the Great Bors. Now, as I explained earlier, I had guessed at the fate of poor Bors as soon as I heard that young Lors had returned alone. By the time my father reached this moment in the story, I think the impact of the mental image of the young man, crackling and spinning and popping and browning, his own body-fat hissing into the flames below and his face caught in a dripping-candle rictus had been lessened somewhat. Nonetheless, I never felt quite the same about the smoky rich smell of roasting meat after hearing the tale for the first time.

The Count’s face turned immediately ashen and then, quickly, began to redden. The Countess collapsed into a dead faint when, eventually, she realised the true nature of the spit-roast. Guests stood and shed napkins and goblets as they stared in horrified fascination at the roasted young man spinning, slowly spinning as he was turned by a man of Lors’ retinue.

“What are you playing at, man! Don’t you realise what you’re doing?” cried one of the stupider young nobles to the cook.
“Of course I knows what I’m doin’ Your Graciousness. If I don’t keep turnin’ this ‘ere spit, ol’ Bors ‘ere, ‘e won’t get done even-like on all sides,” a wretched human being, to be sure, but a dedicated cook I think you’ll agree. The stupid nobleman flung his goblet onto the lawn and grasped his sabre’s jewelled hilt. In a moment he sprouted four arrows, back, throat, belly and eye before collapsing to the lawn.

Panic gripped the assembled dignitaries and commoners alike. The ladies screamed and the gentlemen roared their indignation. The retinue emerged from behind hedge and wall and outhouse and took aim at the feasters with bows and crossbows. Of course, the retinue was made up of none other than the forest-ambushers, as you may have guessed.

“Great Count Ravetzi, Thank you for your hospitality on this, your birthday.” A crone emerged from behind Lors where, it seems, she had been lurking, unnoticed, the entire time. She was a shrunken, balding, ancient creature who was short one eyeball and all her teeth. She gripped a stick of willow in one hand, pointed at Lors. “Your youngest son, here, has been most accommodating. We came a long, long way from our homeland over the mountains and we were lost in the southern forest of your beautiful valley when we came across your two sons hunting. As I said, we had journeyed far and they welcomed us as kin. We camped together and supped together and I explained to them how we had heard of the fabulous wealth of the Land of Gold and the Count Ravetzi, it’s master. We had heard the stories so we decided to come and see it for ourselves.”
“We discovered a long forgotten mine which connects our barren, war-ravished land to your sun-blessed and lucky one. It was a difficult trek through the roots of the mountains and many of our number were lost to rockfalls and pale, saucer-eyed beasts but the sight of your verdant valley made all of our hardships seem worthwhile.”
“When we met your boys, why, they offered the hospitality of your own good house. They also explained that we could each ask a boon of you since we have arrived here on your birthday. Such generosity has been absent in the people on the other side of these mountains for generations, so we felt we had to come and witness it first hand. So! Here we are! Let me introduce myself, I am Valenna Gretzi and I am the mother of these boys…and their sorceress.” With that she tweaked her stick in the direction of the count’s remaining son who collapsed in a mess on the grass.

“What have you done to him?!” screamed Ravetzi, “My son! My son!”

“Your son! Your son! He yet lives but only as long as I decide to prolong his miserable, envious existence. I had to nudge him, but only ever such a little, to have him agree to our plans for Bors. He may have played the devoted brother and son very well but he was a jealous little bastard really. He wanted nothing more than to be the Count when you finally dropped dead but he also could never have done what his ambition required of him without my help. He did a fine job on Bors here, don’t you think? When I release him from my hold, he will, no doubt, suffer great remorse for his actions. It would not surprise me if he took his own life…”

“No!” The Count had dropped to his knees on the lawn in front of the witch. “Please do not take another son from me. Why? Why are you doing this? What have we done to you?”
This was, of course, typical of a blue-blood. They never really understand what drives the peasants and the commoners. Admittedly, the average tenant farmer does not go around cooking people and casting spells, but the principle is the same. This is neither here nor there, of course. What is important is her answer.

“What did you do? Well you woke up this morning in a magnificent castle beside your beautiful wife, threw back your satin sheets and pulled back your heavy curtains to reveal these well manicured gardens, My Lord. You sat down for a breakfast of quail’s eggs and pastries with fruit juice all prepared by your servants. You wore that ridiculous outfit because you can. You do all of these despicable things because you can, because you’re rich, because you have more gold under this castle than anyone could count in a lifetime. I hate you for that, my boys hate you for that just as much as I do and we want it. We want to take it away from you and leave you as broken and miserable as our lives are beyond those black mountains to the east. And we want to show all of these good people that we can do it whenever we want because we are willing to do what our ambitions require of us. That is why we are here. So, it is time to request my boon.”

“Boon…?” Ha!” Impossibly, the Count laughed, his voice cracked and his eyes bulged but he definitely laughed. “You want a boon from me after you forced my youngest son to murder and cook his own brother? You are mad?”

“What of your tradition?”

“Damn you.”

“You will be cursed. If you do not uphold the tradition of your family, you will fall under a curse so foul, you will wish you had granted me whatever I asked. You will live a life of death.”

“You have made me a life of death. How could it be worse? You are the curse upon my life, you foetid crone. I will grant you no boon. If you wish to take anything from me, you must take it by violence!”

With that the Count shouted for his guards and drew his sword. He leapt at the old witch and swung his gold-plated ceremonial sword in the direction of her wisp-haired head. It passed through a thick smoke pall instead. He lurched about, swinging wildly and roaring with wordless ferocity like a beast. His guests sat and stood where they had been, still surrounded by the Crone’s Boys.

And the Boys themselves? They laughed to see the great man torn down. Their laughter seemed to push Ravetzi over the edge of madness and he ran at the nearest bowman. He charged through a gaggle of jewel-laden ladies and flung them to the ground in his attempt to reach the guffawing intruder. He did not make it ten paces before the man’s colleagues made a quiver of him. Shafts emerging from his chest and stomach snapped with a terrible cracking as he fell, the only audible noise, it seemed to the assembled guests. He lay face down on the lawn for a moment, still but for his flowing blood. One last thing came to his ears before his heart stopped. “Your life of death, it didn’t last very long, eh, dearie? Never mind. You’ll have no more cares now. I’ve won and you have lost but I’ll take care of your beautiful home for you now you’re gone.”

Was this all for Count Ravetzi, do you think? Of course not, don’t be stupid. The tale, in case you are memory-deficient, is entitled “The Tale of the Dead Count.” We are approaching the end of the story but we have not seen the end of the Count. So I will continue and speed us to the finish lest you become weary of this.

The Count’s eyes cleared. It was as if a film had been lifted from them. It was not like awakening from sleep for he had not fallen asleep; he had died. He knew that. His heart no longer beat, his chest did not rise and it did not fall; it was still. His arms and legs felt as though they had fallen asleep, but once again, this was not the case; they were dead. He determined all of this in the few seconds since the clearing of his eyes but decided to try rising, despite having come to the conclusion that he was no longer amongst the living. It seemed to work though not as he remembered from his many days spent alive. He knew he was moving but he did not feel it. Looking about him he did feel something, however, and it was anger.

He surveyed the destruction that Valenna Gretzi and her Boys had wrought in the wake of his demise. His first-born son, Bors, spinning, spinning, like a pig on a spit; his younger son a broken heap lying on the ground, alive but dead to the world; all his guests were running now from the Boys who were using them for target practice; the ancient witch stood by the head table with the silken hair of the Countess grasped tightly in one gnarled talon and a shining steel dagger clutched in the other. He reached out his dead fingers towards his beloved wife and wheezed in a breath that he would need to make a shout. It was not loud when it came but it sounded like nails scraping on the inside of a coffin and the whispers of temple-mourners.

Everyone looked to him. A woman screamed, another arrow struck him, a dog howled and even Valenna Gretzi stared at the Late Count Ravetzi in horror. She struck anyway. A fountain bloomed from the throat of his love and before he could blink he was beside her. The Crone began to speak, “You were accursed. This is my-” She was cut short, however, by the lightest of touches from the Count’s hand on her face. She dropped dead, not before time, it might be argued. However, he had no time to celebrate the defeat of his enemy, the Countess lay dying at his feet. He was still a healer, was he not? He tried to heal her as he had Fat Harolt, Old Nan Mercer and Grandpa Gorenson, by laying on his hands.

The bleeding did stop almost immediately but when he took his hands away from the wound and examined his wife he could see that all else had stopped too, sight, breath, feeling, all gone. Grief gripped him and he screamed a coffin-nail scream clutching lamely at the stars. All those who heard it took to their heels. All those except his last remaining family, Lors, who had seen what his dead father had wrought on his mother and desired the same treatment. Lors was just shy of seventeen but the guilt he felt for the spit-roasting of his brother was enough for a lifetime. The young man threw himself into his father’s arms as the count knelt on the grass by his dead mother. When the Count looked down at his son, only a grey-faced corpse remained. As he looked into his son’s lifeless eyes. The Dead Count dropped the body beside his wife’s and walked to the castle, the screams of party guests and Mother’s Boys still filling the air around him, he closed the door of his home behind him and no-one has entered that place since that night.

So that was the Tale of the Dead Count. I related it for a reason. It was not that it was one of my favourite childhood stories, in fact I found it too predictable and full of holes. It was certainly not because my father claimed it was the story which turned his hair flour-white, I knew for a fact that that had occurred on the day of my birth and the day of my mother’s death. It was because I grew to know how the Dead Count fell at the end of the tale. I knew what it was like to be the death of people and want to hide away from the world. I will explain this eventually but first you will have to read of my years in the town of Pitch Springs.

The Apprentice, Chapter 1

I have been thinking a lot about inspiration today. Why? Well, mainly because I did not feel particularly inspired to write a post. Usually, I am bubbling over with ideas and topics I want to discuss here on the Dice Pool. But I was out late last night. Went to see the Pixies in concert. If you have never seen them live, and you get the opportunity, go! They played wall-to-wall hits.

Anyway, I digress. Inspiration is what I am talking about. Unsurprisingly, I have always drawn inspiration from the writings of fantasy and sci-fi authors. When I was young these included Tolkien, Le Guin, Banks, Asimov, Carroll, Eddings (long before I knew he locked his kids in cages,) Weis and Hickman etcetera etcetera. It is unlikely there is a single person involved in the RPG hobby that is unaffected by the books they read and the ones they read as children.

But when I was in my late teens, I dropped the hobby more-or-less completely. I didn’t have the desire to get involved when I was in university as I was more interested in other pursuits. For a decade or so I didn’t do any role-playing. Instead, I got interested in writing short stories and novels. I think I mentioned here before that I used to take part in the National Novel Writing Month every year. I wrote five full books that way; all fantasy novels.

But I also wrote one before I ever knew about NaNoWriMo. It has gone through a lot of edits over the years and it has had three very different titles. It started off being call “Pitch Springs” but it just didn’t work for me. Then I changed it again to something that just gave the game away too early, like a bad movie trailer. I have changed it again in preparation for sharing the first chapter of it with you, dear reader. It’s just, “the Apprentice” (for now, at least. I welcome feedback on the title, especially as it potentially brings to mind a certain TV show.)

Chapter 1: Of My Birth and My World

I don’t remember it, of course, but I killed my mother as a newborn. How would you feel to discover such a fact? I had always watched the other local children in the arms of smiling women or being scolded by scowling ladies. Either way, I envied them. I wondered constantly why I didn’t have a mother of my own. My father never thought it worth his while to explain to me why I was motherless. Or, perhaps, he had not the emotional resources to have such a conversation with his son. He never even told me that she was dead and buried. I was not aware of it at all until my sister told me. She has never forgiven me for it.

“You made her scream and scream and scream tryin’ to get you out of her. Your huge head…your big ugly turnip…You came out all wrong and she screamed until the very moment you tore your way free, bathed in her blood and wailing. She never even held you, you know. She just faded away as her life’s blood drained. It was the only time I ever saw Poppa weep but once he started he didn’t stop for days. Old Aggie came to collect jars of his tears, said they was magic, mad old biddy.”
I remember answering her, “But…I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to kill her. She was my Momma too! Why would I want to? I was only a wee babby. it wasn’t my fault.”

“It don’t matter whether or not you meant it. You killed her so you’re cursed. You can’t go around killing your own parents and not expect to get cursed, you just can’t.”
So, there you are, Mother-killer and Accursed too. It was a lot to shoulder for a young lad. I was six when Primmy predicted the life of death I had to look forward to. A six-year-old cannot pretend to understand such a concept. Up until that point the worst thing I had to worry about was the neighbour’s mutt.

The Markinson’s had an ancient mongrel bitch which they had whipped and beaten and starved into raving insanity. They let it loose around their farmyard. I would often watch it from our lower field, which looked onto the road and the gate of the Markinson Farm. That hound circled the yard with a high-shouldered, low-headed gait. Clouds of chickens and squawks erupted sometimes as it patrolled, round-and-round all day long. If the Farmer Markinson or one of his huge sons loped stupidly across her path the dog would retreat, tuck-tailed, to the safety of a rotten, upturned wagon, which served as her doghouse. She would watch them until she had the yard to herself again and she could continue her rounds.

I approached the gate once, when I was no more than three or four years old. My sister had thrown a pig’s bladder ball for me to catch. My clumsy, toddler’s efforts inevitably failed me and it came to rest on the dirt road outside Markinson’s gate. At my sister’s cruel urging, I waddled over to retrieve it, oblivious and unwary. The dog hit the iron gate as if magnetised to it; clatter, bark, growl, bark, clatter, clatter, clatter! The terrible din bowled me off my tiny feet. Fear gripped me so tightly that I remember my throat constricting and my bowels loosening. In my memory I can smell the breath of that scarred and enormous monster; it was a sick odour, rotten flesh and shit. Death was upon me, I was certain of it. Of course, death did not come, the gate held and, in the end, the farmer came dashing out of his barn, pitchfork in hand, swinging it at that bitch and shouting nonsense at her. He struck her a glancing blow in the ribs with the shaft and she dashed for the safety of her wagon-house, yelping and yipping.

The damage had been done, however; that hell-hound haunted my nightmares for years afterwards. She was always there at the end of those dreams, breath stinking and teeth tearing me to shreds as my sister stood in that field weeping with laughter. That nightmare sister continued to laugh long after the real Primmy stopped.

In my first years our farm was my world. My father had little or no time for us children so we were largely left to our own devices. Equally, my sister, for reasons I believe I have already illustrated, wanted little to do with me, murderer that I was. I spent a great deal of time on my own, exploring my world, spying on beasts of land and air. I saw their whole lives, I thought. I saw their births; lambing season was a harrowing time for a small child. As many of the wee sheep died screaming or disappeared down the gullets of wolves as survived to make it to market or to our table. Their screams; I often fancy I can hear them even now, even when I know there is not a living sheep within earshot. I hated it and wandered even further in those days to escape it. Out in the far top field I walked and spotted burrowing moles and hiding hedgehogs, egg-full nests and forgotten feathers. I watched the rodents raid the nests and kestrels catch the rodents; I once saw a wild-cat tear the wings off a kestrel just before it was shot itself by Cunard, the poacher. Cunard was a satisfied man that day.

Of course, I told my father that evening at the supper table, what I had seen. He was indignant. My father was a great believer in law and living by it. Justice also, was important to him. I heard, a week later when the local magistrate was invited to our home for a spiced lamb dinner, that the poacher’s cabin had been searched after my father had reported what I saw. Of course they discovered not only the wild-cat but a whole locker full of ill-gotten gains.

“This is a good lesson, boy!” I recall the magistrate said to me, “You steal and you will be punished appropriately. We took old Cunard’s right hand. He’ll find it difficult to cock a crossbow now!” This, obviously had a profound effect on me, instilling in me the very sense of law and justice my father wished it to. I learned much later that old Cunard the no-longer-poacher passed away in agony and delirium when his stump festered and a fever took him.

My father worked hard. He worked so very hard that, as I have explained, my sister and I would often go days without ever seeing him. He relied on Primmy on those days to take care of us; make sure we ate food, donned proper clothing; washed ourselves. She was five years my senior and usually perfectly capable of doing this for us. But I will admit that it often occurred to me to ask where my father had gone. Why did he leave us, his own two children to fend for ourselves? Why was I to be left eating nothing but porridge for three meals a day when I knew that he could cook us something so much better? Why did I have to put up with the incessant bullying and psychic torture at the hands of Primula when, were my father there, he would have put a stop to it as soon as it began?
The answer is the same to all of the questions above: because he was a small farmer who lived from month to month and could not afford to pay himself anything extra, never mind a farmhand. It was a harder life than I had any concept of at that age. So, obviously, I asked why he couldn’t be there for me. Invariably, my sister would answer that my father had gone away because he could no longer bear to be near me, that the very stench of me drove him to violent thoughts and that he was afraid at all times that he might smash my child’s skull in the stove’s heavy, glossy, black door or hold me face down in the muddy water trough out in the back yard or throw me over the fence to face my worst nightmare, the Markinson bitch.

I didn’t believe her. At least, I mostly didn’t. My father did always have a certain bubbling anger under his surface calm. I was often able to see it in behind his eyes; I think many people could see it, in fact, for I happened to know that he intimidated many of our neighbours and acquaintances.

Once, when Primmy’s employer, Grey Greta came to our house to demand money back from Primmy for allegedly missed hours of work, I got to see the effect he had on others.

Grey Greta was a contemptible old bag of bones at her best but on that day she was very much at her worst, her greediest and her most spiteful. She knew, as everyone in the area did, that Father spent most of his day and very often his night too, out on the farm working to see his children fed and his house maintained. I am certain that, armed with this knowledge, she came that day to take advantage of my father’s absence. I don’t recall exactly what drove her all the way out to our house to collect Primmy’s couple of schillings back off her but I later heard that the woman was an inveterate gambler. Apparently she regularly stayed up till the birds awoke with a bunch of the other village women in the common room of the inn playing some friendly hands of Bruschian Luck. Perhaps that night, the Luck had not been hers. Anyway, the point of this aside was to illuminate exactly how intimidating my father was capable of being, not to describe the inadequacies of Grey Greta.

The dreadful old harridan had come in our back door and was sitting at our kitchen table with her feet up on a stool and her hand in a jar of crackers when I returned from one of my jaunts. I recall it was early evening, but must have been summer as it was still bright outside. My sister, who had finished work for the day, was fussing around Greta, clearly trying to make a good impression by wiping surfaces and tidying away crockery and scraps of food. Indeed, Father had been missing for a couple of days by then and we had no reason to expect him home that evening so the place was, perhaps, not quite as clean as it should have been.
“Scrawny little beast, aincha?” said Grey Greta, looking, with some disgust, in my direction. Now, at this point in life I was timid and had no means to defend myself but I remember thinking how unfair such an assessment was coming from Grey Greta, the under-stuffed scarecrow. Of course, I did not say it. Instead, Primmy decided to side with her repulsive boss, “Oh, he is, and ever so lazy as well, Ma’am.” I glared at her, hurt and confused. I should never have expected anything better from her though. Still, as I have mentioned, Primmy was far from clever and had just given Greta the opening she was looking for.
“Must run in the family, Prim, eh?” said Grey Greta. Primmy stood, visibly shaking for a moment and stared at the floor, smiling all the while. “You see, I haven’t come on no social call like the ladies in St Frackasburg. I’m ‘ere for a reason, young Sharpetzi, ain’t I?”

I recall watching the proceedings from the space between the sideboard and the wall and hoping that Grey Greta would not decide to pick on me again, that she would just stick to bullying Primmy.

“I been noticin’ you recently, Primula. I been watchin’ you watchin’ them boys out the back, in the yard. I been watchin’ you lollygaggin’ when you should be scrubbin’ and moonin’ when you should be foldin’ too. You shouldn’t be doin’ that, Prim, no you shouldn’t. You’re too young to start thinkin’ with that bit o’ your anatomy.” Here, I remembered being surprised she knew the word.

“But, what you do is your business except if you do it on my time, understand me?” She stuffed a cracker in her gob and stared at Primmy, who flinched away even as she smiled her stupid smile.

“So, I was down the Millers’ Pride and Kassie says to me I should come and get some of my generous pay back off you. Teach you a lesson, like. And I said I should so then I did!” At this Primmy looked up at Grey Greta, still smiling but with tears welling in her doe eyes. The money she brought into the household, while meagre by anyone’s standards, was important to us since most of the crowns Father made went back into the farm. I will credit her for being aware of that fact even then. But she was in no position to negotiate with her boss so she nodded her understanding and marched off towards the stairs to fetch her coins from their hidey-hole. Grey Greta sat and stuffed another cracker into her rotten mouth, watching her go. Just as Primmy passed the front door it opened and Father came in backwards, kicking his boots off into the porch.

“I’m back, Primula! Let’s get some potatoes on the go, eh? I could eat a whole goat, horns and all! Primmy-“ He stopped with his mouth open as he turned to see Primmy’s erstwhile extortionist lounging at our table eating our food. He said nothing; just reached his hand out to place it on Primmy’s shoulder before pulling her in towards him, protectively. Grey Greta rose, pushing back her chair with an embarrassed scrape, and dusted cracker crumbs off of her bodice. She was already flustered.

“Can I help you, Greta?” asked my father. I think it was the first time I had ever heard him use this particular tone of voice; it put me in mind of a dog’s low growl just to let you know that it’s there and is big enough to rip your throat out in one bite. Greta reversed away towards the back door and crashed into the chair which scraped again across the stone floor and then fell over.

“Me? No! No! Mr Sharpetzi, I don’t need nothin.’ I was just passin’ by, like, and thought I should pay you all a visit. Y- y- you…” She fell silent as my father continued to stare at her.

“Thank you for stopping by,” was all he said but what Grey Greta seemed to hear was, “I’m going to cook you your own liver and watch as you eat it.” She simply turned and ran out the back door, still trailing cracker crumbs and, once again, stumbling and almost breaking her neck falling over her chair.

I was impressed and so was Primmy. She idolised Father, of course, but I never saw her look at him like that before. Her eyes had saints and heroes in them when they looked at his face. He was her hero then. I wondered what it must feel like to be anyone’s hero.

In the Western pastures I trod the sheep pellets into the grass as my father’s beasts chewed all around me. I heard a story once of a man who stared into the eyes of a sheep for so long that he stopped the poor creature’s heart. “Untrue!” you might well cry; “Why?” you might wonder. I recall very clearly thinking of this story as I strolled between those sheep and pondered not the veracity of the tale or the reason behind it but the practicalities of it. “How?” was the question I posed those ill-fated animals. “How can a person kill you with just a stare?” The question fascinated me. I was a young lad still when I became obsessed with this idea and it never once occurred to me that it might be nothing more than a story.

“Was it magic? Was the man a sorcerer? A demon in the form of a man? Was it sheer force of will? The superiority of our species over theirs impressed on the sheep in a terrifically lethal way? Whatever it was, I decided that I had to know about it. Bearing in mind that I could not even write my own name at this point in my life you might be able to understand that the likelihood of a lad like me learning anything other than agriculture was almost non-existent.

The Story of the Man Who Killed a Sheep with a Stare was my personal favourite but there were many others. My father would tell these tales as we sat around the hearth in the cold, dark winter evenings. He would sit in his ancient rocking chair, taking his ease with a pipe in one hand and an old cat under the other and do his best to scare us white-haired as he used to say happened to him. In fact he told us the story that he said aged his hair prematurely. Needless to say, it did no such thing to us. This was The Tale of the Dead Count.

To be continued!