Poetry & Prose

Here are some extracts of my writing – both published and unpublished.

I hope you enjoy them – tell me what you think (LINKS feedback form).

Kevan

THE LONG WOMAN - a novel by Kevan Manwaring

Chapter Two

HOLLOW HILL

Come, heart, where hill is heaped upon hill,

For there the mystical brotherhood

Of hollow wood and hilly wood

And the changing moon work out their will.

And God stands winding his lonely horn,

And Time and the World are ever on flight,

And love is less kind than the grey twilight,

And hope is less dear than the dew of the morn.

‘Into The Twilight’, WB Yeats

January 1^st 1923 Glastonbury

The frost-covered hill rose to the gunmetal sky. Between the spikes of frozen grass the gritted footpath snaked upwards to the tower. Maud’s ankle boots crunched on the salt crystals. She gulped down the icy air, letting it burn away the worries in her breast.

   The face of the man in Paddington had haunted her all night. She had been in no mood for joining in the town’s New Year celebrations, but fortunately the guest-house she always stayed in was a peaceful place. Mrs Middlewich respected her desire for privacy – the lilac-draped spinster had seen the state Maud had been in when she’d arrived from London and simply brought some hot sweet tea to her room as she unpacked. The landlady was used to seeing her guest forlorn, for she knew the nature of her visit, but she was surprised at Maud’s distressed demeanour this time. Yet she let the magic of the place do its work, and by the morning Maud had regained her composure and appetite, if not her social skills.

   After a quiet breakfast, she wrapped up and set off, filled with the energy of that special day – the importance of the New Year to her overshadowed by the significance of one nearly a quarter of a century ago – the day of their engagement.

   Isambard had kept his plans secret, persuading Maud to accompany him to Glastonbury ‘to celebrate the new century’. She knew he looked forward to visiting the Tor, Chalice Well, Wearyall Hill, and the ruins of the Abbey – he’d be making notes and measurements all the time for his damnable journal, she thought – the one he never let her read. Yet he had an ulterior motive that surprised and delighted her once romantic nature. She had always been a fan of Tennyson and the Pre-Raphaelites and so the Arthurian associations of the town thrilled her. She loved seeing the grave of Arthur and Guinevere – the lock of golden hair said to have been found amongst the bones set her imagination alight. Isambard had been sceptical for once, saying it had been a hoax to draw in medieval pilgrims – but she would not let him shatter her daydream. And even he had to admit the place had an unmistakable enchantment.

   Seeing the famous Glastonbury Thorn in flower made the mystery seem immanent. The gnarled tree bloomed with white blossom in the middle of winter – a living symbol of rebirth in a barren landscape. Isambard said it was believed to have been grown from the thorn tree that sprouted from the staff of Joseph of Arimathea, plunged into the spot where he first set foot on soil after his long journey from the Holy Land. Her husband was more interested in the idea that this was an early example of geomancy – that Joseph was ‘fixing the spot’, the earth energy of the place, with his rod.

   Her Sammy had loved his sticks. Maud had borrowed one from the guest-house, to steady her as she ascended the Tor. The ground was treacherous underfoot in places, and the exertion of the climb made her concentrate upon every step – like a devout pilgrim, with head bowed.

   Yet the divine spark had gone out. She was left with the burden of existence, with a mundane world devoid of divinity. When her husband had been taken from her God, had died in her heart, and all hope of an afterlife. She carried the whole weight of her mortality up the slippery steps. This cursed body, she thought. I’ll be glad when its journey is over.

   The bitter morning air found every gap in her clothing, despite thick stockings, gloves, and fur-trimmed coat buttoned up to the neck, with a russet scarf looped around and over her felt hat to stop it being whipped off by the strong gusts that spiralled around the Tor.

   The ascent began to warm her bones a little as she applied herself to climbing the curiously shaped hill, which stood out like a ship on the green sea of the Somerset Levels.

   She remembered her husband’s comments when they had first climbed here – how he loved to extrapolate!

   ‘At one point it would have been all under water,’ he had said, gesturing around them at the flat expanse with his field glasses, ‘and the Tor would have indeed been an island – Ynis Wytrin, the Isle of Glass, as it seems to us now in the ice of winter, or Avallach, the Isle of Apples, in fecund summer. It was thought of by some as the Isle of Avalon, the Celtic land of the dead.’

   ‘Where King Arthur was said to have been taken to heal from his wounds inflicted by Mordred his son!’ Maud had chipped in.

   Isambard’s dark eyes had widened at this, then he had squeezed her hand – pleased to find in her a kindred spirit – someone with whom he could share his hidden passion.

   The ash stick tapped out her progress up the ancient stone steps worn smooth by countless pilgrims. Her breath grew shorter as she climbed the five hundred odd feet in as many steps. She forced herself not to stop and enjoy the view – she would wait until she reached the top, as her Sammy would have done. The wind increased around her as she gained height, its freezing force making her eyes water – but she would not let it steal tears from her. They belonged to her husband and she carried them for him – frozen inside her like diamonds.

   Bulky shapes shambled around the summit, cows silently steaming, nosing for tufts of grass. Apart from them she was alone on the Tor. One noticed her and lowed, a foghorn in the mist still clinging to the Levels. Reaching the brow of the hill, Maud emerged into the stark light of a new year.

   Up ahead loomed the hollow tower like a stone needle. Through the eye of its empty doorway threaded the wind. As she reached the flat summit the wind hit her in full force, making her gasp. The north wind stripped away any sense of self. Maud clutched her hat. Using the stick to steady herself, she made for the weathered walls and stood against them for support, glad of their solidity. In the lee of the tower she had some shelter. Catching her breath, she looked out over the view of the town and the white Levels, spread out like unleavened bread in the weak winter sun.

   They had stood in that same spot two decades ago, hugging one another for warmth. It had been the dawn of a new century – she was about to turn twenty, Isambard thirty one. It had all seemed so perfect. They felt it was their time, the future belonged to them. It was as if they could see the map of their life spread out below them. Maud planned to get a teaching job in the south when she graduated from her Oxford College the following year; Isambard had begun work for the GWR. They wanted a house on the coast. Only one thing was left out of the equation – the most important of all.

   When she had opened up the small velvet box he had presented her nervously and saw the ring gleaming there, it was as if a new world was encapsulated within it. Her reply had been drowned out by a roar of wind – he misheard and she had to shout it out, shout it to the sky.

   At the same time he gave her the ring, Isambard had a flash of inspiration – his gaze fixed on the horizon. ‘The shining roads!’ he had murmured in awe.

   The perfect moment had been almost ruined by his obsession. Isambard had become very excited for the wrong reason, talking about a network of ancient tracks that criss-crossed the country. He recalled passing Dod Lane on the way here. The Dod men, he had explained, were the ancient surveyors of the land, usually seen with the two staves of their siting poles, one in each hand. Like a chalk figure, he couldn't remember where.

   Maud went inside the ruined tower – empty now, doorless, a square of sky above her head. She had tried not to cry back then as she had faced the wall – feelings fluctuating inside her, of elation and disappointment. He had finally followed her, after his reverie, as if he had just remembered her. Flustered, he apologised and kissed her in a corner out of the wind.

   She warmed to him once more – forgot his thoughtlessness. It would not be the last time.

   They toyed with the idea of scratching their names into the stone but were too conscientious. But then they had noticed somebody had already done so with what looked like their initials: MA + IK. Soon, they would have the same surname. No more Maud Arkwright. They had laughed with nervous delight, but his feathers had been ruffled, as though he’d climbed a mountain to find a flag already there.

   The tower acted as a kind of wind tunnel, yet in the centre you could stand in the eye of the storm and be kept upright by the current. She remembered him holding her there, telling her to close her eyes and trust. Then he let go and she floated in the hollow of the wind.

   She felt foolish trying it now but was compelled by memory. It was part of her ritual of remembrance. She felt so much older, heavier with life. Surely the wind was not strong enough to carry her now. But the wind whispered to her – let go, let go, let go.

   She closed her eyes and held out her arms.

   The wind howled about her but she felt strangely still and calm. She felt as if her husband was near and would catch her if she fell. A warm glow swept over her that made her shiver. Was it voices she heard in the wind or whispers in her head? She found herself singing, singing, for God’s sake! When was the last time she had done that?

‘The lads run like a windy day

The lasses run like rain…’

   Suddenly she felt she was not alone. She opened her eyes, just as she lost her balance.

   And that's when she saw him.

   He was thin – more defined by what wasn't there than what was. Yet there was a power that emanated from him: a dark energy. He stood taller than a tall man, as though stretched. A foggy cloak seemed to smooth his contours, made them blur, flicker. A staff he held in one hand alternated with the other, as if she were seeing him from the front and back at the same time – or as though he held two. He seemed to walk towards her, looming larger. His face was shadowed by his hood, but she caught an impression, no more, of his gaunt face. Dark orbs glimmered like distant stars. They called to her from across an unfathomable divide. He reached out to her, imploring. An icy hand brushed her face. She screamed in terror, her cry amplified by the tower. It shattered the visage like a stone cast into a pool’s reflection. There was a sudden blast of wind and he was gone.

   Maud crumpled on to the stone bench in shock. It was as if the world she knew had suddenly lurched, no longer as solid as she thought. As though a little bit of her memory had been lodged free, she suddenly remembered something about an earthquake that had destroyed the church that had once stood here, leaving only the tower. An earthquake on the Levels! It was hard to imagine but it had happened. She gripped the cold stone and gulped down the colder air. What had she seen? The wind must have made her giddy. Indeed, she was feeling light-headed. She should descend and get herself a sweet tea and a snack, her sensible voice was telling her. She had to pull herself together. Other sightseers were starting to arrive up the steps. Maud did not want them to see her in this state! The need to save face and avoid unwanted attention gave her a sudden burst of speed.

   Smoothing her skirt and adjusting her hat she got up and, gripping the cane tightly, briskly walked down the hill, acknowledging the visitor's ‘Happy New Year’ salutation with a polite but thin smile.

   She passed a grey heron on the way down – keeping sentinel over the Somerset Levels, perpendicular in a flat land. Silently, it took flight, stretching out its wide wings and gliding into the white.

Maud sat in the Assembly Rooms on the High Street – the only place she could find open - trying to sip her cup of tea without rattling the crockery. She was shaken but did not want to show it. Holly, ivy and mistletoe festooned the walls. Two portly ladies prepared lines of teacups and slices of cake behind a counter. Otherwise, she had the place blissfully to herself – though not for long.

   There was a talk on in the main hall, a meeting of the Chalice Orchard Club, something about the 'Glastonbury Zodiac' by a Katherine Maltwood. Sounded kranky to her. People were spilling out now and as the caf� area began to fill up she was glad she had got a seat early. They were mostly middle-class middle-aged ladies, chatting animatedly about the lecture. As they queued Maud overheard some strange conversations about giants in the land, earth mysteries, leylines, astrology and alignments – not unusual topics in a town with more than its fair share of ‘mystical’ types, as she had found over the years. . Normally she'd be derisive of such talk but after what had happened it made her feel somewhat queasy.

   'You've had a loss recently haven't you?'

   Maud's mouth pursed. She went ashen. Oh no, she’d been spotted.

   'Are you alright, dear?'

   A stout but fey looking woman, with a violet scarf about her face, looked at her concerned. She had strong cheekbones, a proud nose and a firm mouth. Make-up softened a fierce darkness about her eyes. Her accent was a strange mixture of northern, Welsh, and West Country.

   Maud tried to put on a brave face, but her bluster was strained.

   'Oh, I'm fine. Just felt a little giddy, up on the Tor.'

   The woman nodded emphatically.

   'It has that effect on you if you're not used to it. It bowls me over sometimes and I'm   an Avalonian now.'

   Maud looked puzzled. Normally she'd be instantly sceptical but nothing was certain any more. 'What do you mean?'

   'Oh, I’ve moved down here from London. May I?' The woman motioned to sit down.

   'Oh, sorry, of course. I'm not myself this morning.'

   'I hope I'm not disturbing you, but it looked like you needed a chat. My name's Dion. I'm an author.'

   ‘Pleased to meet you.' That last remark caught her attention. 'I'm Maud. English teacher. Written anything I know?'

   'Not likely. They’re quite specialist. Esoteric. Niche market. Not everybody’s cup of tea. I'm working on a book now about a.– friend of mine.’ She paused, pursed her lips.

   'It's a kind of eulogy and extrapolation of his ideas. Like you, I've lost someone I've loved. He was High Priest of our Order?'

   Maud’s empathy turned to discomfort. 'Good heavens!'

'They’re occult but not anti-Christian. Pagans aren't Devil worshippers you know. Although they do honour the Horned God. Not Satan. Different kettle of fish.' She waved with a Bath Oliver, before taking a bite of it.

   'I see.' Maud studied her tea. Around them, similar conversations took place. Was she surrounded by witches or lunatics? Eccentric theories seemed to be a staple diet in Glastonbury. She was starting to think of excuses to leave.

   'Look, Maud, I'm no crank. I might be able to explain what happened to you. I'm very familiar with the mysteries of this place. I've taken it to heart, or, rather, it has taken me in to its heart. What did you see up there?' Dion held her hand across the table and looked at her with concern.

   Maud squirmed. She did not want to appear a fool, but she need never see this person again. What did she have to lose?

   'I saw a man.' She stopped, shook her head. 'It must have been a trick of the light.'

   'No, please go on. Give me the facts and let me decide. You could say I'm on expert on these matters.'

   Maud gave her a hard look. Dion looked sympathetic, sincere. She seemed to genuinely want to hear. Maud stirred her tea and spoke, not looking up. 'He, he was tall and thin, wearing a cloak - perhaps holding a staff - or two. Oh, this is ridiculous!'

   She cast down the teaspoon.

   'No, carry on,' implored Dion.

   Maud sighed, struggling to express the experience. 'He turned, pointed and, and.' She mouthed the word ‘vanished’ and shuddered.

   Dion placed both her hands over Maud’s and reassured her with a gentle voice. 'You’re safe now. It's alright now. Drink some tea, dear.'

   Taking a deep breath, Maud carefully sipped her tea, trying not to show her trembling. Dion's presence was strangely soothing. She felt a sisterly connection. She could trust this woman. Perhaps she didn't have to carry it all herself, keep it all in. Her shoulders lightened and she nodded determinedly, shoring herself up.

   'That's better. You’re being looked after Maud. You were meant to be here. You were meant to meet me. It’s what the Swiss psychologist Jung calls “synchronicity”. Glastonbury is one of the green roads of the soul. Pilgrims have been coming here for centuries for healing and revelation.'

   Maud looked uneasily into her tea. She had come here out of simple remembrance, hadn't she? Then why the cold ache inside that this woman threatened to crack open.

   'Let me tell you about the Tor. The local belief is that it's the entrance to the underworld, the Celtic land of the dead, as ruled over by Gwynn ap Nudd, the Hades of the West Country. He's said to ride across the sky with his Gabriel Hounds, gathering up the souls of the dead.’ Dion stared at her. ‘I believe you saw him.’

   Maud shook her head in denial. This was getting out of hand!

   ‘This is remarkable. I need to write this down - if you would give me permission.'

   'No, no – definitely not!' Maud stood up defensively. 'I - I don't want this mentioned. It didn't happen, you understand. None of it ever happened.' She made a dismissive gesture, knocking over the tea things with her sleeve. The china, milk and sugar went flying, smashing on the tiled floor in spectacular fashion. The room quietened around them, absorbing the shock. All eyes were upon them.

   'Maud, it's alright, I promise. Just sit down please. Calm yourself – you’ve had an encounter with spirit and need to ground yourself. Please.’

   Maud wavered, seeing the mess at her feet, the milk running down her skirt, as though upon a stranger’s body.

   ‘You were meant to meet me. Deo ne fortuna. By God, not by chance. Our family motto.’ Dion suddenly looked vulnerable. Her voice cracked. ‘I know what you're going through.'

   Maud felt like she was looking into a broken mirror. No! The madness had to stop here. She gathered up her things, looking in dismay at the mess she had caused. She hated scenes. She tried to pick up the fragments but it was no good. It was as if she had broken the chalice itself. In a terrible fluster she left the room, feeling the gazes of the ladies burning into her.

   She had to leave Glastonbury and never come back. The phrases of the violet lady rang in her ears. Green road of the soul, land of the dead, Gwynn ap Nudd, Gabriel hounds, By God, not by chance ... But God was dead.

   She would show them. She would outrun them all.

Available from www.amazon.co.uk from December ISBN: 0-9546137-5-9

or �7 (incl UK P&P) by cheque payable to 'Tallyessin' Awen, 7 Dunsford Place, Bath BA2 6HF

Poetry

Green Fire – magical verse for the wheel of the year

Published by Awen 2004

Celebrate the turning of the wheel with this collection of bardic verse. It is based upon my repertoire as a performer and has developed over thirteen years. Each one of these poems I perform from memory, in the bardic tradition. I suggest you do the same. In learning the words by heart we can speak from the heart and not from a piece of paper – the performance becomes immediately more powerful and personal, audience awareness increases as eye contact can be maintained, and the audience’s respect for the poet also is heightened. I have used these poems to create a magical mood, to sanctify, to raise energy. They are invocations and blessings – ways of honouring the gods, our sacred times and places, and ourselves.

Sample poem from Green Fire

The Song of Taliesin

I hail from the realm of the summer stars -

I am the living memory of Merlin.

My lord, Elffin, caught me in a weir -

His bard I became: behold, Taliesin.

Yet this is but one branch of my ancestry –

Before I was a boy as old as history…

I have been a mountain hare, crazy-eyed, tail high,

I have been a wise salmon swimming up stream,

I have been the king of the birds, catching sky,

I have been a wheaten seed of golden gleam –

Swallowed into the belly of the Black Hen.

By White Sow reborn,

a helpless babe on a boundless sea –

Deep waters where I was also the wind’s shadow,

The wrathful wave upon promontory.

My eyes are the fiery tears of the sun,

My Muse from the Moon Queen’s Cauldron.

Poetry is my spear,

I am a warrior of words!

I know the lays of this land

And the language of birds,

The tongue of stone

And the song of trees

And the forest of your families.

I know the first name of constellations,

The blessed ancestors

And the Undying Ones.

I was born when the world was still in womb,

I shall be with humanity ‘til the crack of doom.

Proud kingdoms I have seen ebb and flow,

Their glory I have sung and echoed their woe.

My curriculum vitae is universal and timeless,

I am the quicksilver serpent of the Caduceus.

By fire and fur and feather and scale,

I, Taliesin, bid thee hail!

The Sun Miners

Children’s novel

A magical adventure for all ages.

Shortlisted for the Brighid’s Fire Books Novel Competition, New York 2003.

1

THE PIT BOY

   That day Tallin went deeper than any lightminer had been before. He was a pit-boy whose job was to crawl into the narrowest fissures of the lightmine in search of sunblood, the prized white-gold liquid that was the brightest thing in the dark land of Ashalante.

   Tallin lived in a world of shadow - his home was dark, his work was dark and, although his dreams flashed with forgotten fires, he awoke to a land in eternal twilight. With a constant iron lid of clouds the change between night and day was only degrees of greyness. Yet at eleven turnings old he knew no different. No one had for longer than is recorded in the annals of the Quingdom.

   Every cracked dawn Tallin left the ramshackle podfarm where he lived with other orphans under the tough loving care of Ma Cottle, and made his way to the lightmine across the rickety walkway known as the bitter track. It crossed the reeking Noyzum Marshes. The clumps of bogwort stuck out like his tuft of black hair from the smoke-coloured water, the same hue as his skin. He followed other silent Dunmire men to the pit-head – a fang-wired compound watched over by the Scarab shiftmaster and his snuffer. The Scarab’s beetle-armour ground together as he paced up and down, checking names from his list, voice metallic beneath his helmet. The snuffer always made Tallin nervous, its tiny black eyes fixed upon them as it grunted – always on the point of rage, ready to squeal out their guilt. The wereboar, more wildpig than man, upright but hunched, gnashed its tusks, the veins on its thick neck bulged and its muscled back bristled.

   The last shift was emerging, grey with ash, bleary-eyed and stiff-limbed, as if from the dead. The snuffer sniffed them one at a time to check they weren’t trying to smuggle out any sunblood, as if anyone would dare. Illegal possession of the precious substance was strictly forbidden. Anyone caught, and Ministry spies were always eager to inform on their neighbours, were taken away and never seen again.

   Some of the lightminers grunted greetings.

   ‘Morning.’

‘Morning.’

   They were all mourning, thought Tallin ruefully. Nobody laughed or raised their head. It was as if they dragged the mine about with them like manacled animals.

Then one by one his fellow miners descended. Tallin gazed down the black shaft lit only by the lantern at the bottom. Without even checking for footholds he scampered down the bone-tree ladder into the pit.

   ‘Bottom of the morning to you, Master Tallin,’ greeted Vran, the blind old miner, who lived in a little alcove at the base of the shaft. Everybody knew him as White-eyes, but Tallin never called him it to his face, gnarled and cracked like a bone-tree. The pit-boy was fond of the strange caretaker, who was always kind to him in his brusque manner. The other miners often complained Tallin was in the way, or being too annoying - always asking questions. Vran was the only person who answered them or tried. ‘Why is the sky dark?’, ‘Where does sunblood come from?’ or ‘What’s the Void?’

   ‘Morning, Vran,’ Tallin yawned.

   ‘Don’t blow your top again today, will you?’

    ‘I’ll try not to.’

    The day before someone had called him a Mama Cottle’s boy and he had punched him. Tallin’s temper was notorious. He would get annoyed with something until he saw sparks and started spitting and hitting the walls. His knuckles were often bruised. The miners were used to his tantrums and found it easy to wind him up, asking him to go on an errand for a bucket of air or teasing him about his oombliccle. It provided some grim amusement.

   He collected his tin hat. In the rim of it was notched a greasy candle made from shambler fat, and his miner’s belt, which he was so proud of. Attached to it by hooks were a little iron hammer - to test for seams, a plumb line – to test for depth, suction-bellows and empty phials of black glass for the sunblood, carefully counted. Around his chest was wound his oombliccle – a rope of skin like a long boneless finger starting at his chest and ending in a sucker with tiny teeth. Only Dunmire boys had them – girls had snake-tails instead. Yet the oombliccle grew out of the chest from birth and was cut off at coming of age, while snake-tails started growing then – but were shaved by the Bright Ones, who considered them vulgar. Oombliccles were exceptionally useful in lightmining, used as safety-ropes by the pit-boys that dangled from them down the shafts – until they were too big to be held by their suckers. Then, at the cusp of manhood, the Cutting took place.

   It was nearly Tallin’s time.

   The older boys had been teasing him about it, rubbing in the pain of the ritual. He was not looking forward to it.

   All Dunmire males were forced to slave in the lightmines from the age of seven. The boys could squeeze into smaller places and so were forced to go the deepest. Tallin was the best pit-boy in Shaft Seven. He had discovered some of the richest seams of sunblood in the area, the Duchy of Agate, where the milky stones glistened in the black rock like eyes.

   Searching for a tiny glimmer of light, a sign of sunblood, in a smothering darkness…It was hot hard work. The lightmines were a narrow maze of tunnels and workings, pitch-black except for the tiny candle flames of the miners, frail against the void – so easily blown out by a freak gust from an air vent. Cramped and aching, knees and elbows raw from scraping through caves, Tallin would spend half the day down there, although the only way of telling the time was by their candles – when it ran out your shift was up. Depending on your luck it could be longer or shorter, but normally about twelve hours. The ash covered the lightminers from head to foot, so only their eyes and teeth shone out. It was filthy choking work. The coughing was the worst; it was a dry retching that worsened as you got older, the black spit becoming blood, until it eventually killed you. Tallin wore a rag across his nose and mouth to prevent it as much as possible, but sometimes it got too difficult to breathe and he had to take it off.

   There were a couple of breaks for peat-tea and funguscheese pasty. The Miners huddled together in alcoves. Talk consisted of blunt murmurings. The old miners were tough as stone but everyone was generally exhausted.

   Occasionally, wizened-skinned White-eyes, would tell the pitboys a story…of the Legend of Lightfell or encounters with the Clickers, the creepy unseen creatures who haunted the lightmines, luring unwary miners to their doom, their clicking mistaken for a fellow miners tappings. It was believed that the Clickers were the spirits of miners who had lost their lives in one of the frequent cave-ins. The younger pit-boys were teased about them but everyone was terrified to hear a Clicker.

   Perhaps it was boredom. One of the bigger lads turned his attention to Tallin in the corner.

   ‘Oi, podling, how’s your dad today?’

   The rest of the gang restrained their mirth, waiting for the reaction.

   ‘Shut it, Mang, at least my dad wasn’t a snuffer!’

   The gang guffawed, much to Mang’s annoyance. His face did have a pig-like quality to it, especially when he was angry.

   ‘At least I know who my dad is! Who was yours – a Clicker?’

   The laughter cut into Tallin. They all knew he was an orphan. It was the one thing guaranteed to make him flip. He started to see sparks. Clenched teeth, fists. The gang eagerly awaited the eruption. Then he remembered Vran’s advice. He won’t blow his top again. He won’t. It’s what they want. Biting back the urge to fight he howled his rage at them, then throwing his half-eaten pasty in Mang’s face, he ran off, hounded by the taunts behind.

   ‘Clicker son, Clicker son!’

   Fighting back the tears, Tallin scrambled down and down until the voices faded, though they echoed in his mind. He kept going until he came to the bottom of the lowest working. There had been a serious cave-in down there a week before – caused by gas explosion. Five miners had died and their bodies had not been recovered. Pockets of gas built up underground – a side effect of the sunblood. Harmless by itself, it was flammable in confined spaces. Miners were constantly alert for its sulphurous smell, which reminded Tallin of rotten hopper eggs from the podfarm. Some carried pets to warn them – flame-geckos were the best. In the presence of the fumes they would change colour like a peat-fire. Tallin kept one in his mantlet hood called Gribble. It was his one true friend and kept him company in the deep mines, making him laugh by the way it wriggled and stuck out its tongue. He had caught it himself in the swamp on the edge of his podfarm while collecting shrooms. It was always getting him into trouble, stealing other miners’ lunches or running off.

   While Tallin curled up into a ball and rocked himself, his flame-gecko disappeared down between the rubble. The pitboy called after Gribble – he was not keen to go down there amongst the dead men. But he didn’t want to lose his pet. Reluctantly he crawled after him, securing his oombliccle to the rock wall first. It was dark and stuffy. He was careful not to knock his candle stub. The tiny flame was all he had against the endless darkness that pressed down upon him. He must be a league under the Noyzum Marshes by now. Further than podfarm to pit-head, the length of his world.

   ‘Gribble?’ he called out, his voice dry and croaky. No reply. He crawled on. He felt the weight of the huge rocks around him. They could give at any minute. His heart pounded in his chest. It was stifling – he must be near a seam. Sweat made the dust stick to his body. Over his breathing he heard the scuttling of Gribble’s little leathery feet. A bit further in. He could reach him if he just crawled a little more…Tallin tried not to think about the dead miners – he could be placing his hands upon them as he groped for holds to climb down.

   Was that clicking? Tallin held his breath. Silence. So heavy you could almost feel it. Then a sound like bones being cracked. The Clickers! Nobody had ever seen them. Tallin didn’t want to be the first. He frantically searched around for Gribble. There he was! Glowing in the dark…Gas was near - he had to get out! But then he saw the seam – a line of light. He had to check. Extinguishing his candle and plunged into complete darkness he quickly dropped down. His lifecord stretched taut, catching his breath. It was like hanging by the hair. He reached for the hammer hooked to his belt. It slipped in his hand from the sweat but he caught its loop. The clicking was closer. Or was it his teeth chattering? He could almost feel their breath upon him. The dead miners were coming to get him...He tapped the rock around the chink of light. It sounded hollow. He tapped again to be sure. A discovery of a major seam of sunblood would bring rewards to the mine gang and his podfamily – extra rations, shorter shifts. He imagined the sunblood oozing on the other side of the rock. He’d only ever seen tiny drops of it – finds of size were rare. It was collected in the suction bellows, squeezed into the phials clinking around his waist and handed back to the shiftmaster on the way out. It was like an unsticky treacle, shining with a starry light and forming slow shapes as if it had a mind of its own. The older boys - so worldly-wise after their Cutting, allowed to enter the Temple of Light now they were no longer 'unclean' - told him it was poured into a blackglass chalice and held aloft by the white-robed Minister before the kneeling worshippers. And one by one they got to taste it. Only a sip, but enough to set your soul on fire. Sacred sunblood, light of the Void. The Blood of the Big God who had died to save the world from total night. Yet Vran said that this was the wrong way around. Big God had been murdered by Bad God and had been cast down into the Pit, leaving old Shadow-heart in charge and Dunmires in darkness and misery.

   Tallin tapped a third time with his hammer. He had to be sure.

   Then the world gave away.

   The night ripped apart and he fell into a burning river.

   He was sucked under by the torrent and, gasping at the shock of immersion in the liquid light, he swallowed mouthfuls. He thought his wick had been cut short. Yet his flame did not go out – in fact he felt in the very heart of life. Cradled in the arms of a giant, feeling the rise and fall of its chest like waves, the beating of a big heart drumming him home. Then he was pulled up to the surface. Gasping, he saw where he was. As he splashed frantically about he caught flashes of the vast chamber through which the river roared, dazzlingly bright – after so long in darkness his eyes squinted at the sharp light. Not just a seam - a whole river of sunblood! This would be the largest strike ever – but there was so much here! And all the time they sweated away for drops of the stuff, went to the Temple to sip a little from a chalice. Now he was swallowing mouthfuls as he kept going under. Its blood-warmth was comforting. He wanted to stop resisting and just float down to eternal rest from the toil of life…

   But then he felt a tug from his chest. His oombliccle snapped taut, strained and he was pulled out of the subterranean torrent, too half-drowned to mind the agony. For a moment he was suspended above the river of stars, dripping light. He turned slowly, like a lazy windmill. The world looked strange upside down. Then darkness consumed him.

   Coughing and spluttering, Tallin was hauled back up through the cave-in, into the dark rock world. From a ledge his flame-gecko jumped onto his shoulder, the innocent-looking cause of all this, as Tallin was lifted to the upper chamber where his oombliccle ended. It went slack as he was laid on the floor. His gang gathered around, faces shadowed by the candles in their hats.

   ‘We thought we lost you this time.’

   ‘Seemed like the bottom of the world fell in.’

   ‘Where would you be without your gang – stick closer next time!’

   ‘Hothead! You’re lucky to be alive…’

   It didn’t feel like it at that moment. He was shivering uncontrollably – more from the shock than the soaking. His oombliccle throbbed – it felt like his heart had been stretched to breaking point. Then Mang began pounding his back – he was made to throw up. A spew of sunblood gushed out. He had swallowed some. It was worse than they thought. All Dunmires knew that an excess of sunblood was bad for you. No one could take so much pure light.

   Gribble licked Tallin’s face with a little forked tongue. This time he had really landed him in it and Ashalante would never be the same again.

The Ghost Tree

Novel

A time-travelling ghost story set over a thousand years of English history.

PROLOGUE

White may blossom fell around the entwined bodies of the lovers, each petal catching the shafts of sunlight that pierced the grove. Amongst the budding branches a dawn chorus trilled and whistled, stirring them awake. The man and woman lay naked on a makeshift bed of cloaks, over a soft mulch of last year’s leaves. Smooth and jagged, limbs disentangled. The man’s eyes flicked open, cold blue, reflecting the canopy above. He scratched the soft down upon his chin and yawned. The woman murmured, stretching like a cat – long auburn-hair tousled around slender cheekbones, a pale neck, pert breasts. Smiling, she opened her dove-grey eyes and surveyed her lover – blonde, thin and wiry. Sensing her gaze, he turned to her and they were locked in the moebius loop of mutual fascination, as if seeing each other for the first time.

   A twig snapped, shocking them out of their reverie. The man sat up and scanned the foliage. His lady pulled the cloak around her.

From the shadows they felt dark eyes burn into them and knew they were doomed.

The warrior stepped forward, scales of black leather and studs absorbing and reflecting the light. A scarred face glared at them from beneath an iron helmet, revealing only a crow-black beard and fierce eyes. His mailed hand unsheathed a wide chipped sword. The sound rang in the grove.

   The shadow of the blade fell over them.

    The naked man scrabbled to his feet, desperately trying to pull on his robe. The warrior ignored him and strode up the woman, cuffing her with the back of his hand. She fell to the floor, clutching a bleeding mouth.

   The robed man leapt at the warrior, but he was no match. The fighter brushed him aside like a fly, spitting a curse. Then he raised his sword.

   The defender offered his open hands, shaking his head, stepping back. He tripped on a fallen branch and stumbled backwards onto the floor. Grinning with malice, the warrior roared above him and ran him through – skewering him to the ground. The woman screamed. Birds exploded from the trees in terror.

   And the world turned red.

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