#Ken Stot

[kilifiliandthorin]

At your service

[poorquentyn]

Remember Your Name, Part 3: When That Other Man Had Come This Way

Series so far here

“That era has passed. Nothing that belonged to it exists anymore.”

At the end of In the Mood for Love, the film’s protagonist visits the ruins of Angkor Wat. He’d earlier mused to a friend about how back in the day, if you had a secret burning inside that you couldn’t bring yourself to share, you dug a shallow hole into a tree and whispered your secret into it, filling the hole with mud afterwards to keep the truth at bay.

But when our hero decides to try and leave behind the story of forsaken love we saw unfold over the course of the movie, he does not seek out a living thing that can survive and change and grow. He instead unburdens himself to a ruin: a monument to the ravages wrought and distances forged by time. In the sequel 2046, he disappears into the rose-colored fog within, surrounded by his ghosts on parade. Try as he might, he could not seal them away forever.

I have come this way before. It was a dangerous thought, and he regretted it at once.

“No,” he said, “no, that was some other man, that was before you knew your name.” His name was Reek. He had to remember that. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leek. When that other man had come this way, an army had followed close behind him, the great host of the north riding to war beneath the grey-and-white banners of House Stark. Reek rode alone, clutching a peace banner on a pinewood staff. When that other man had come this way, he had been mounted on a courser, swift and spirited. Reek rode a broken-down stot, all skin and bone and ribs, and he rode her slowly for fear he might fall off. The other man had been a good rider, but Reek was uneasy on horseback. It had been so long. He was no rider. He was not even a man. He was Lord Ramsay’s creature, lower than a dog, a worm in human skin. “You will pretend to be a prince,” Lord Ramsay told him last night, as Reek was soaking in a tub of scalding water, “but we know the truth. You’re Reek. You’ll always be Reek, no matter how sweet you smell. Your nose may lie to you. Remember your name. Remember who you are.”

“Reek,” he said. “Your Reek.”

The Drunkard’s Tower leaned as if it were about to collapse, just as it had for half a thousand years. The Children’s Tower thrust into the sky as straight as a spear, but its shattered top was open to the wind and rain. The Gatehouse Tower, squat and wide, was the largest of the three, slimy with moss, a gnarled tree growing sideways from the stones of its north side, fragments of broken wall still standing to the east and west. The Karstarks took the Drunkard’s Tower and the Umbers the Children’s Tower, he recalled. Robb claimed the Gatehouse Tower for his own. If he closed his eyes, he could see the banners in his mind’s eye, snapping bravely in a brisk north wind. All gone now, all fallen.

Memory and identity are inextricable. Who you were informs who you are, and who you are invariably filters your perspective on who you were. The weight of backstory has always been one of ASOIAF’s central claims to profundity. R+L=J, the story’s central revelation and the beating heart of the fandom, is also the burdensome duty that defined our fakeout protagonist Eddard Stark. What makes Ned’s life so meaningful is that he put it all on the line not to keep the secret that his purported bastard Jon is in fact his sister Lyanna’s son by Rhaegar Targaryen, but in the name of the values that keeping that secret instilled in him.

Time was perilously short. The king would return from his hunt soon, and honor would require Ned to go to him with all he had learned. Vayon Poole had arranged for Sansa and Arya to sail on the Wind Witch out of Braavos, three days hence. They would be back at Winterfell before the harvest. Ned could no longer use his concern for their safety to excuse his delay.

Yet last night he had dreamt of Rhaegar's children. Lord Tywin had laid the bodies beneath the Iron Throne, wrapped in the crimson cloaks of his house guard. That was clever of him; the blood did not show so badly against the red cloth. The little princess had been barefoot, still dressed in her bed gown, and the boy…the boy…                 

Ned could not let that happen again. The realm could not withstand a second mad king, another dance of blood and vengeance. He must find some way to save the children.

Jaime floats in heat and memory in the Harrenhal bathtubs, the truth finally swimming to the surface; Barbrey stares deep into a dead man’s face, the pleasure and pain of it eternally intermingled; Robert himself admits that all he wants most is to leave behind the crown it was all ostensibly for. They all sing the same sad song, the one Reek sings as he rides fearfully into Theon Greyjoy’s past at Moat Cailin: I tried to grasp a star, overreached, and fell. They followed the red comet, over the edge. Their songs broke, and broke them in their fall.

Following on Theon briefly coming unstuck in time in his first ADWD chapter, Reek II builds on that disorientation by externalizing it onto his environment. The chapter is thick with memory and riddled with decay, all swathes of mist that give way to fountains of blood, because that’s what the inside of Theon Greyjoy’s head looks like. That opening chapter in the Dreadfort gave us a blood-curdling glimpse of the crucible in which Theon became Reek before forcing him out of it; now, the story goes widescreen, taking in how the North has changed along with our POV since last he stepped out into it.

The hall was dark stone, high ceilinged and drafty, full of drifting smoke, its stone walls spotted by huge patches of pale lichen. A peat fire burned low in a hearth blackened by the hotter blazes of years past. A massive table of carved stone filled the chamber, as it had for centuries. There was where I sat, the last time I was here, he remembered. Robb was at the head of the table, with the Greatjon to his right and Roose Bolton on his left. The Glovers sat next to Helman Tallhart. Karstark and his sons were across from them.

The reference to time’s fire in which we burn (“blackened by the hotter blazes of years past”), the epochal weight of the table filling the chamber “as it had for centuries,” the evocation of the ghosts that haunt Theon--all of it grounds the business of the plot in memory and time, and thus in what’s happened to our POV. 

Theon smiled. Reek cannot. Theon had friends. Reek is a pariah. Theon came to Moat Cailin with an army. Now, that army is dead and gone, except for those who turned on the rest...just as he did. Moat Cailin has been made a ruin all over again, defeat and despair folded into it like Lannister crimson into Stark steel, a testament like Tristifer’s tomb to a shattered kingdom. Theon helped shatter it, and now he stumbles back shattered to help melt down what’s left. He is Moat Cailin, more or less, the broken towers a misty mirror for our broken man, the splintered teeth of his smile writ large. The fog that cloaks the fortress reflects how he’s been forced to compartmentalize his past, which is now screaming its way to the surface. There are ghosts in Moat Cailin, and he is one of them.

(image by warsandpoliticsoficeandfire.wordpress.com)

This sense of desolation and loss is mirrored in the chapter’s purpose in the larger plot. The standoff between the Boltons and the Ironborn over the Moat (and by extension, the North as a whole) is little more than a feast for crows. Both sides went for the direwolf’s throat with no higher cause than plunder and the pleasure of it; all they’re fighting over is who did it more successfully. The Ironborn here were left to rot by their Lord Captain when he went chasing his brother’s crown...

“Victarion commanded us to hold, he did. I heard him with my own ears. Hold here till I return, he told Kenning.”

“Aye,” said the one-armed man. “That’s what he said. The kingsmoot called, but he swore that he’d be back, with a driftwood crown upon his head and a thousand men behind him.”

“My uncle is never coming back,” Reek told them. “The kingsmoot crowned his brother Euron, and the Crow’s Eye has other wars to fight. You think my uncle values you? He doesn’t. You are the ones he left behind to die. He scraped you off the same way he scrapes mud off his boots when he wades ashore.”

Those words struck home. He could see it in their eyes, in the way they looked at one another or frowned above their cups. They all feared they’d been abandoned, but it took me to turn fear into certainty. These were not the kin of famous captains nor the blood of the great Houses of the Iron Islands. These were the sons of thralls and salt wives.

...and the Dreadfort men can’t lay any credible claim to be acting as defenders of the North from the reaving invaders, given the Northern blood they’ve both happily spilled throughout. (Those who hunt people for sport shouldn’t throw stones, and all that.) Ramsay in this chapter is merely mopping up after and reaping the benefits of the hard-earned victory won by Howland Reed and his guerilla fighters, and even that he’s not doing himself, but forcing a helpless tortured prisoner to do for him. The Bastard’s unspeakably hideous treatment of the Ironborn after they surrender to him in good faith is the punchline to a very dark joke, poisoned icing on bitter cake. And of course, it’s all in the service of welcoming an army soaked in the blood of the men and women with whom they sat down to dinner, as allies, as friends, as guests at a wedding.

Three days later, the vanguard of Roose Bolton’s host threaded its way through the ruins and past the row of grisly sentinels—four hundred mounted Freys clad in blue and grey, their spearpoints glittering whenever the sun broke through the clouds. Two of old Lord Walder’s sons led the van. One was brawny, with a massive jut of jaw and arms thick with muscle. The other had hungry eyes close-set above a pointed nose, a thin brown beard that did not quite conceal the weak chin beneath it, a bald head. Hosteen and Aenys. He remembered them from before he knew his name. Hosteen was a bull, slow to anger but implacable once roused, and by repute the fiercest fighter of Lord Walder’s get. Aenys was older, crueler, and more clever—a commander, not a swordsman. Both were seasoned soldiers.

The northmen followed hard behind the van, their tattered banners streaming in the wind. Reek watched them pass. Most were afoot, and there were so few of them. He remembered the great host that marched south with Young Wolf, beneath the direwolf of Winterfell. Twenty thousand swords and spears had gone off to war with Robb, or near enough to make no matter, but only two in ten were coming back, and most of those were Dreadfort men.

Even as Reek struggles to keep Theon at bay (thinking of his life before the Dreadfort dungeons as the time “before he knew his name”), making contact with the people with whom Theon rode to war is stirring something inside him, and that’s reflected in the big picture of what it means for this army to arrive in the North. Grey Wind’s forlorn eyes from the House of the Undying are watching, and judging, and waiting. Wolves prowl and howl through the opening chapters of ADWD’s Northern half, singing the song of their fall, and of Jojen’s solemn promise: “the wolves will come again.” The ghosts of the Red Wedding follow this army to Winterfell, and hang heavy on the Ramsay-Jeyne wedding and everything that follows, crying out for redress. The gods have been insulted, and will have their due. Thankfully, there’s a man going ‘round taking names, and he decides who to free and who to blame...

...but discussion of His Grace King Stannis Baratheon, the Wrath of God, will have to wait for later chapters, as will Wyman Manderly’s culinary interpretation of divine judgment.

For the purposes of Theon’s arc, the Ironborn at Moat Cailin serve as the mirror from which he’s trying so desperately to look away. I said last time that what Reek fears most right now, even more than Ramsay, is being Theon. That name carries so much shame and pain with it that he prefers to be “your Reek,” fearing not only the external consequences of defiance (more torture and maiming), but also the internal consequences of identifying as his old self. All Theon wanted to do in ACOK was take control of his life, and now that’s the last thing he wants, because of what he did with that power once he had it. He returns to Moat Cailin flying a white flag of peace, but it may as well be one of surrender.

“I am Ironborn,” Reek answered, lying. The boy he’d been before had been Ironborn, true enough, but Reek had come into this world in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. “Look at my face. I am Lord Balon’s son. Your prince.” He would have said the name, but somehow the words caught in his throat. Reek, I’m Reek, it rhymes with squeak.

“Ralf Kenning is dead,” he said. “Who commands here?”

The drinkers stared at him blankly. One laughed. Another spat. Finally one of the Codds said, “Who asks?”

“Lord Balon’s son.” Reek, my name is Reek, it rhymes with cheek.

One of the Codds pushed to his feet. A big man, but pop-eyed and wide of mouth, with dead white flesh. He looked as if his father had sired him on a fish, but he still wore a longsword. “Dagon Codd yields to no man.”

No, please, you have to listen. The thought of what Ramsay would do to him if he crept back to camp without the garrison’s surrender was almost enough to make him piss his breeches. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with leak.

What gives this chapter its charge is that our POV is being forced by the man who shattered his old identity to resume that identity. It’s Theon playing Reek playing Theon, and he’s being made to remember his name in order to sway the people who represent his old life, because they’d never surrender to Reek. He knows that, because he used to be like them...or he wanted to be, anyway. When Theon first became a POV, his mind was aflame with song, lashing his in-between identity to the values and visions of the Old Way:

Once I would have kept her as a salt wife in truth, he thought to himself as he slid his fingers through her tangled hair. Once. When we still kept the Old Way, lived by the axe instead of the pick, taking what we would, be it wealth, women, or glory. In those days, the Ironborn did not work mines; that was labor for the captives brought back from the hostings, and so too the sorry business of farming and tending goats and sheep. War was an ironman's proper trade. The Drowned God had made them to reave and rape, to carve out kingdoms and write their names in fire and blood and song.

Aegon the Dragon had destroyed the Old Way when he burned Black Harren, gave Harren's kingdom back to the weakling rivermen, and reduced the Iron Islands to an insignificant backwater of a much greater realm. Yet the old red tales were still told around driftwood fires and smoky hearths all across the islands, even behind the high stone halls of Pyke. Theon's father numbered among his titles the style of Lord Reaper, and the Greyjoy words boasted that We Do Not Sow.

It had been to bring back the Old Way more than for the empty vanity of a crown that Lord Balon had staged his great rebellion. Robert Baratheon had written a bloody end to that hope, with the help of his friend Eddard Stark, but both men were dead now. Mere boys ruled in their stead, and the realm that Aegon the Conqueror had forged was smashed and sundered. This is the season, Theon thought as the captain's daughter slid her lips up and down the length of him, the season, the year, the day, and I am the man.

This chapter, Theon I ACOK, slots right in between Davos I (the one with Lightbringer) and Daenerys I (the one in the Red Waste), both of them positively soaked with messianic imagery and focused on weighty questions of power, prophecy, and the price you pay. But in Theon’s chapter, the launching pad for the most stubbornly secular storyline in ACOK, the messianic mindset is stripped of its finery and exposed as pitiful self-delusion. This is who you are, Chosen One, all the more clearly with neither dragons nor shadowbinders at your back: a mirror-drunk fool dreaming of atrocities while your dick gets sucked.

Three books later, that self-image has been racked and flayed and castrated before being spat back out at us as Reek. He thinks of himself as having been born beneath the Dreadfort, molded like clay from Theon’s blood and pain; are you my mother, Ramsay? He keeps retreating to his new name in his thoughts, a mantra to keep the fear away. The identity of which he dreamed is now the nightmare he cannot shake. And what better way for the author to reflect that than by bringing him up against the death of his dream, the most unshakable images of the rot eating away at the Old Way?

Reek passed the rotted carcass of a horse, an arrow jutting from its neck. A long white snake slithered into its empty eye socket at his approach. Behind the horse he spied the rider, or what remained of him. The crows had stripped the flesh from the man’s face, and a feral dog had burrowed beneath his mail to get at his entrails. Farther on, another corpse had sunk so deep into the muck that only his face and fingers showed.

Closer to the towers, corpses littered the ground on every side. Blood-blooms had sprouted from their gaping wounds, pale flowers with petals plump and moist as a woman’s lips.

Ralf Kenning lay shivering beneath a mountain of furs. His arms were stacked beside him—sword and axe, mail hauberk, iron warhelm. His shield bore the storm god’s cloudy hand, lightning crackling from his fingers down to a raging sea, but the paint was discolored and peeling, the wood beneath starting to rot.

Ralf was rotting too. Beneath the furs he was naked and feverish, his pale puffy flesh covered with weeping sores and scabs. His head was misshapen, one cheek grotesquely swollen, his neck so engorged with blood that it threatened to swallow his face. The arm on that same side was big as a log and crawling with white worms. No one had bathed him or shaved him for many days, from the look of him. One eye wept pus, and his beard was crusty with dried vomit.

“What happened to him?” asked Reek.

“He was on the parapets and some bog devil loosed an arrow at him. It was only a graze, but…they poison their shafts, smear the points with shit and worse things. We poured boiling wine into the wound, but it made no difference.”

This is how the Old Way has always died, with broken towers and the stench of corpses, from Aegon melting Harrenhal to Robert smashing Pyke. Every time it falls, the seeds are sown for its next rise; the ideology’s exposed festering folly is folded into a Lost Cause mythos that weaponizes resentment and ennobles suffering. The last time it fell, part of the price paid was Theon’s identity, and his desperate drive to reclaim it by reviving the Old Way is what led him here. He’s unrecognizable to the very world in which he hoped to finally recognize himself.

The garrison will never know me. Some might recall the boy he’d been before he learned his name, but Reek would be a stranger to them. It had been a long while since he last looked into a glass, but he knew how old he must appear. His hair had turned white; much of it had fallen out, and what was left was stiff and dry as straw. The dungeons had left him weak as an old woman and so thin a strong wind could knock him down.

And his hands…Ramsay had given him gloves, fine gloves of black leather, soft and supple, stuffed with wool to conceal his missing fingers, but if anyone looked closely, he would see that three of his fingers did not bend.

That fall from grace, the violent collapse of his projected identity, is reflected back at him by the sorry state of the Ironborn garrison. They came here as an army, together, one people; they knew who they were. And now...?

Someone seized him and dragged him inside, and he heard the door crash shut behind him. He was pulled to his feet and shoved against a wall. Then a knife was at his throat, a bearded face so close to his that he could count the man’s nose hairs. “Who are you? What’s your purpose here? Quick now, or I’ll do you the same as him.” The guard jerked his head toward a body rotting on the floor beside the door, its flesh green and crawling with maggots.

“I am ironborn,” Reek answered, lying. The boy he’d been before had been ironborn, true enough, but Reek had come into this world in the dungeons of the Dreadfort. “Look at my face. I am Lord Balon’s son. Your prince.” He would have said the name, but somehow the words caught in his throat. Reek, I’m Reek, it rhymes with squeak. He had to forget that for a little while, though. No man would ever yield to a creature such as Reek, no matter how desperate his situation. He must pretend to be a prince again.

His captor stared at his face, squinting, his mouth twisted in suspicion. His teeth were brown, and his breath stank of ale and onion. “Lord Balon’s sons were killed.”

“My brothers. Not me. Lord Ramsay took me captive after Winterfell. He’s sent me here to treat with you. Do you command here?”

“Me?” The man lowered his knife and took a step backwards, almost stumbling over the corpse. “Not me, m’lord.” His mail was rusted, his leathers rotting. On the back of one hand an open sore wept blood. “Ralf Kenning has the command. The captain said. I’m on the door, is all.”

“And who is this?” Reek gave the corpse a kick.

The guard stared at the dead man as if seeing him for the first time. “Him…he drank the water. I had to cut his throat for him, to stop his screaming. Bad belly. You can’t drink the water. That’s why we got the ale.” The guard rubbed his face, his eyes red and inflamed. “We used to drag the dead down into the cellars. All the vaults are flooded down there. No one wants to take the trouble now, so we just leave them where they fall.”

“The cellar is a better place for them. Give them to the water. To the Drowned God.”

The man laughed. “No gods down there, m’lord. Only rats and water snakes. White things, thick as your leg. Sometimes they slither up the steps and bite you in your sleep.”

Reek remembered the dungeons underneath the Dreadfort, the rat squirming between his teeth, the taste of warm blood on his lips. If I fail, Ramsay will send me back to that, but first he’ll flay the skin from another finger. “How many of the garrison are left?”

“Some,” said the ironman. “I don’t know. Fewer than we was before. Some in the Drunkard’s Tower too, I think. Not the Children’s Tower. Dagon Codd went over there a few days back. Only two men left alive, he said, and they was eating on the dead ones. He killed them both, if you can believe that.”

Moat Cailin has fallen, Reek realized then, only no one has seen fit to tell them.

And now they are lost, turning on each other, their god forgotten. Cannibalism rears its head again and again in ADWD, as the taboo wilts in the face of winter and war. Theon came here with the knights of summer; Reek returns to find the living dead. Two different armies, two different peoples, as one in his mind now. After all, he’s been trying to bridge this particular gap for most of his life. The abyss awaited both armies to occupy the Moat, as it awaited Theon. Never forget Kubrick’s parting shot in Barry Lyndon:

In ACOK, Theon tried to shed the Northern self exemplified by that shining army at the Moat like dead skin, giving himself over to the image of the Ironborn self in his head. Now Reek returns to Moat Calin to play that image, only to sacrifice it as he was as a child, sacrificed like the men at Moat Cailin to the Old Way...

“Kill him,” Reek told the guard. “His wits are gone. He’s full of blood and worms.”

The man gaped at him. “The captain put him in command.”

“You’d put a dying horse down.”

“What horse? I never had no horse.”

I did. The memory came back in a rush. Smiler’s screams had sounded almost human. His mane afire, he had reared up on his hind legs, blind with pain, lashing out with his hooves. No, no. Not mine, he was not mine, Reek never had a horse. “I will kill him for you.” Reek snatched up Ralf Kenning’s sword where it leaned against his shield. He still had fingers enough to clasp the hilt. When he laid the edge of the blade against the swollen throat of the creature on the straw, the skin split open in a gout of black blood and yellow pus. Kenning jerked violently, then lay still.

...and then again as an adult, this time to the Bastard of Bolton.

Reek swung down from his saddle and took a knee. “My lord, Moat Cailin is yours. Here are its last defenders.”

“So few. I had hoped for more. They were such stubborn foes.” Lord Ramsay’s pale eyes shone. “You must be starved. Damon, Alyn, see to them. Wine and ale, and all the food that they can eat. Skinner, show their wounded to our maesters.”

“Aye, my lord.”

A few of the Ironborn muttered thanks before they shambled off toward the cookfires in the center of the camp. One of the Codds even tried to kiss Lord Ramsay’s ring, but the hounds drove him back before he could get close, and Alison took a chunk of his ear. Even as the blood streamed down his neck, the man bobbed and bowed and praised his lordship’s mercy.

When the last of them were gone, Ramsay Bolton turned his smile on Reek. He clasped him by the back of the head, pulled his face close, kissed him on his cheek, and whispered, “My old friend Reek. Did they really take you for their prince? What bloody fools, these ironmen. The gods are laughing.”

“All they want is to go home, my lord.”

“And what do you want, my sweet Reek?” Ramsay murmured, as softly as a lover. His breath smelled of mulled wine and cloves, so sweet. “Such valiant service deserves a reward. I cannot give you back your fingers or your toes, but surely there is something you would have of me. Shall I free you instead? Release you from my service? Do you want to go with them, return to your bleak isles in the cold grey sea, be a prince again? Or would you sooner stay my leal serving man?”

A cold knife scraped along his spine. Be careful, he told himself, be very, very careful. He did not like his lordship’s smile, the way his eyes were shining, the spittle glistening at the corner of his mouth. He had seen such signs before. You are no prince. You’re Reek, just Reek, it rhymes with freak. Give him the answer that he wants.

“My lord,” he said, “my place is here, with you. I’m your Reek. I only want to serve you. All I ask …a skin of wine, that would be reward enough for me…red wine, the strongest that you have, all the wine a man can drink…”

Lord Ramsay laughed. “You’re not a man, Reek. You’re just my creature. You’ll have your wine, though. Walder, see to it. And fear not, I won’t return you to the dungeons, you have my word as a Bolton. We’ll make a dog of you instead. Meat every day, and I’ll even leave you teeth enough to eat it. You can sleep beside my girls. Ben, do you have a collar for him?”

“I’ll have one made, m’lord,” said old Ben Bones.

The old man did better than that. That night, besides the collar, there was a ragged blanket too, and half a chicken. Reek had to fight the dogs for the meat, but it was the best meal he’d had since Winterfell.

And the wine…the wine was dark and sour, but strong. Squatting amongst the hounds, Reek drank until his head swam, retched, wiped his mouth, and drank some more. Afterward he lay back and closed his eyes. When he woke a dog was licking vomit from his beard, and dark clouds were scuttling across the face of a sickle moon. Somewhere in the night, men were screaming. He shoved the dog aside, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

The next morning Lord Ramsay dispatched three riders down the causeway to take word to his lord father that the way was clear. The flayed man of House Bolton was hoisted above the Gatehouse Tower, where Reek had hauled down the golden kraken of Pyke. Along the rotting-plank road, wooden stakes were driven deep into the boggy ground; there the corpses festered, red and dripping. Sixty-three, he knew, there are sixty-three of them. One was short half an arm. Another had a parchment shoved between its teeth, its wax seal still unbroken.

“So few. I had hoped for more.” The soul shudders. And oh, how casually “somewhere in the night, men were screaming” strolls into the middle of a paragraph, and Reek rolls back over to sleep...

To be clear, I’m not holding Theon responsible for what happens to his sixty-three fellow Ironborn left at the Moat. He’s in no position to refuse Ramsay, as GRRM makes clear in his inner monologue throughout the chapter. But Ramsay is deliberately putting his prisoner through a gauntlet of the self. He has our POV act as Prince Theon son of King Balon, forces him through a cruel mummer’s farce of “choosing” to stay at Ramsay’s side as Reek, and then viciously annihilates the people who represent Theon’s connection to that old identity. It has exactly the effect Ramsay wants: “He pulled down the kraken banner with his own two hands, fumbling some because of his missing fingers but thankful for the fingers that Lord Ramsay had allowed him to keep.” This is what it means to have been Theon and to now be Reek.

This pattern will repeat itself over the course of Theon’s next two chapters, as Roose and Barbrey conspire to have him give Jeyne away to Ramsay publicly, as Theon, and so help cement Bolton control of Winterfell. At every step, Theon's identity is weaponized and turned against him. He flinches from his past, drinks to annihilate his present, and can barely conceive of a future. He is unmoored, drifting through external and internal fog, and he has once again unlocked the North on behalf of heinous authority figures he desperately wants to please. Indeed, Ramsay has wrought a fearsome image of himself in Theon’s mind, a devil equally at home tempting and punishing, and that dynamic is recreated at Moat Cailin:

One of the Codds even tried to kiss Lord Ramsay’s ring, but the hounds drove him back before he could get close, and Alison took a chunk of his ear. Even as the blood streamed down his neck, the man bobbed and bowed and praised his lordship’s mercy.

On that note, one persistent critique of both AFFC and ADWD is that the violence stopped meaning anything--the author started leaning on brutality for brutality’s sake, because he bought into his own rep and/or was out of ideas. I think it’s a valid complaint when it comes to, say, Biter eating Brienne’s face. But on the flipside, the horrific violence in Theon’s storyline is consistently linked to intertwined themes of memory and identity in a manner that I find resonant. Look no further than the man who accepts Ramsay’s offer, and why:

It was the one-armed man who’d flung the axe. As he rose to his feet he had another in his hand. “Who else wants to die?” he asked the other drinkers. “Speak up, I’ll see you do.” Thin red streams were spreading out across the stone from the pool of blood where Dagon Codd’s head had come to rest. “Me, I mean to live, and that don’t mean staying here to rot.”

The one-armed man walked at the head of the procession, limping heavily. His name, he said, was Adrack Humble, and he had a rock wife and three salt wives back on Great Wyk. “Three of the four had big bellies when we sailed,” he boasted, “and Humbles run to twins. First thing I’ll need to do when I get back is count up my new sons. Might be I’ll even name one after you, m’lord.”

Aye, name him Reek, he thought, and when he’s bad you can cut his toes off and give him rats to eat. He turned his head and spat, and wondered if Ralf Kenning hadn’t been the lucky one.

“All they want is to go home, my lord.” And so does Theon, but he has no home to go back to.

Now, of course, Adrack Humble’s dream of counting up his sons is hardly a utopian vision--he kidnapped and enslaved most of their mothers. But the world to which he belongs is the world to which Theon wanted to belong, believing in it so badly he put his life on the line for it...and it failed him, just as it always ultimately fails your average [H]umble man of the Iron Islands. As such, Reek now thinks that the man who rotted without getting his hopes up was the lucky one. This is how he talked when the Young Wolf’s army marched south...

"But such a battle!" said Theon Greyjoy eagerly. "My lady, the realm has not seen such a victory since the Field of Fire. I vow, the Lannisters lost ten men for every one of ours that fell. We've taken close to a hundred knights captive, and a dozen lords bannermen. Lord Westerling, Lord Banefort, Ser Garth Greenfield, Lord Estren, Ser Tytos Brax, Mallor the Dornishman … and three Lannisters besides Jaime, Lord Tywin's own nephews, two of his sister's sons and one of his dead brother's…"    

Theon Greyjoy was seated on a bench in Riverrun's Great Hall, enjoying a horn of ale and regaling her father's garrison with an account of the slaughter in the Whispering Wood. "Some tried to flee, but we'd pinched the valley shut at both ends, and we rode out of the darkness with sword and lance. The Lannisters must have thought the Others themselves were on them when that wolf of Robb's got in among them. I saw him tear one man's arm from his shoulder, and their horses went mad at the scent of him. I couldn't tell you how many men were thrown—"    

...but his story is always interrupted, his comrades died at dinner, and now he dreams only of blood. We rode to war with songs on our lips, but by the time the last notes faded and left us alone with the silence, we were utterly transformed. When Theon eagerly embraces his wine and his half-chicken and his collar, trusting them to silence the screams, all I can think of is this:

“And the man breaks.

“He turns and runs, or crawls off afterward over the corpses of the slain, or steals away in the black of night, and he finds someplace to hide. All thought of home is gone by then, and kings and lords and gods mean less to him than a haunch of spoiled meat that will let him live another day, or a skin of bad wine that might drown his fear for a few hours. The broken man lives from day to day, from meal to meal, more beast than man. Lady Brienne is not wrong. In times like these, the traveler must beware of broken men, and fear them...but he should pity them as well.”

Two chapters prior to Reek II, half a world away, the Shy Maid sailed through another mournful ruin, and when Tyrion stared into the Sorrows, they stared back.

The grey moss grew thickly here, covering the fallen stones in great mounds and bearding all the towers. Black vines crept in and out of windows, through doors and over archways, up the sides of high stone walls. The fog concealed three-quarters of the palace, but what they glimpsed was more than enough for Tyrion to know that this island fastness had been ten times the size of the Red Keep once and a hundred times more beautiful. He knew where he was. “The Palace of Love,” he said softly.

“That was the Rhoynar name,” said Haldon Halfmaester, “but for a thousand years this has been the Palace of Sorrow.”

The ruin was sad enough, but knowing what it had been made it even sadder. There was laughter here once, Tyrion thought. There were gardens bright with flowers and fountains sparkling golden in the sun. These steps once rang to the sound of lovers’ footsteps, and beneath that broken dome marriages beyond count were sealed with a kiss. His thoughts turned to Tysha, who had so briefly been his lady wife. It was Jaime, he thought, despairing. He was my own blood, my big strong brother. When I was small he brought me toys, barrel hoops and blocks and a carved wooden lion. He gave me my first pony and taught me how to ride him. When he said that he had bought you for me, I never doubted him. Why would I? He was Jaime, and you were just some girl who’d played a part. I had feared it from the start, from the moment you first smiled at me and let me touch your hand. My own father could not love me. Why would you if not for gold?

Through the long grey fingers of the fog, he heard again the deep shuddering thrum of a bowstring snapping taut, the grunt Lord Tywin made as the quarrel took him beneath the belly, the slap of cheeks on stone as he sat back down to die.

And therein lies a theme that runs through ASOIAF but for me finds its richest expressions in A Dance with Dragons: you can’t go home again.

Quentyn did not want to die at all. I want to go back to Yronwood and kiss both of your sisters, marry Gwyneth Yronwood, watch her flower into beauty, have a child by her. I want to ride in tourneys, hawk and hunt, visit with my mother in Norvos, read some of those books my father sends me. I want Cletus and Will and Maester Kedry to be alive again.

Home is haunted, by the love you lost and the family you failed.

The door to the roof of the tower was stuck so fast that it was plain no one had opened it in years. He had to put his shoulder to it to force it open. But when Jon Connington stepped out onto the high battlements, the view was just as intoxicating as he remembered: the crag with its wind-carved rocks and jagged spires, the sea below growling and worrying at the foot of the castle like some restless beast, endless leagues of sky and cloud, the wood with its autumnal colors. “Your father’s lands are beautiful,” Prince Rhaegar had said, standing right where Jon was standing now. And the boy he’d been had replied, “One day they will all be mine.” As if that could impress a prince who was heir to the entire realm, from the Arbor to the Wall.

Griffin’s Roost had been his, eventually, if only for a few short years. From here, Jon Connington had ruled broad lands extending many leagues to the west, north, and south, just as his father and his father’s father had before him. But his father and his father’s father had never lost their lands. He had.

Home is a border wall, a chain digging and twisting.

“Do you have brothers?” Asha asked her keeper.

“Sisters,” Alysane Mormont replied, gruff as ever. “Five, we were. All girls. Lyanna is back on Bear Island. Lyra and Jory are with our mother. Dacey was murdered.”

“The Red Wedding.”

“Aye.” Alysane stared at Asha for a moment. “I have a son. He’s only two. My daughter’s nine.”

“You started young.”

“Too young. But better that than wait too late.”

A stab at me, Asha thought, but let it be. “You are wed.”

“No. My children were fathered by a bear.” Alysane smiled. Her teeth were crooked, but there was something ingratiating about that smile. “Mormont women are skinchangers. We turn into bears and find mates in the woods. Everyone knows.”

Asha smiled back. “Mormont women are all fighters too.”

The other woman’s smile faded. “What we are is what you made us. On Bear Island every child learns to fear krakens rising from the sea.”

The Old Way. Asha turned away, chains clinking faintly.

Home is leagues and years away, and yet so close you can almost touch it.

Bran closed his eyes and slipped free of his skin. Into the roots, he thought. Into the weirwood. Become the tree. For an instant he could see the cavern in its black mantle, could hear the river rushing by below.

Then all at once he was back home again.

Lord Eddard Stark sat upon a rock beside the deep black pool in the godswood, the pale roots of the heart tree twisting around him like an old man’s gnarled arms. The greatsword Ice lay across Lord Eddard’s lap, and he was cleaning the blade with an oilcloth.

“Winterfell,” Bran whispered.

“I have my own ghosts, Bran. A brother that I loved, a brother that I hated, a woman I desired. Through the trees, I see them still, but no word of mine has ever reached them. The past remains the past. We can learn from it, but we cannot change it.”

You have no home. You never will.

Water splashed against the soles of her feet. She was walking in the stream. How long had she been doing that? The soft brown mud felt good between her toes and helped to soothe her blisters. In the stream or out of it, I must keep walking. Water flows downhill. The stream will take me to the river, and the river will take me home.

Except it wouldn’t, not truly.

You’ll give up everything just to get home, please, please...

Jon flexed the fingers of his sword hand. The Night’s Watch takes no part. He closed his fist and opened it again. What you propose is nothing less than treason. He thought of Robb, with snowflakes melting in his hair. Kill the boy and let the man be born. He thought of Bran, clambering up a tower wall, agile as a monkey. Of Rickon’s breathless laughter. Of Sansa, brushing out Lady’s coat and singing to herself. You know nothing, Jon Snow. He thought of Arya, her hair as tangled as a bird’s nest. I made him a warm cloak from the skins of the six whores who came with him to Winterfell…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…I want my bride back…

...but it’s gone.

“I have no wish to die, I promise you. I have …” His voice trailed off into uncertainty. What do I have? A life to live? Work to do? Children to raise, lands to rule, a woman to love?

Home is a time, not a place, and there were so few times that Theon was at home. One of them was here, not so long ago, though it feels like it was. For a brief shining second as the banners caught the breeze, with roaring Umbers and fierce Karstarks, with a powerful army around him, with his brother in all but blood marching to avenge his (their?) father, he knew who he was.

And now, he can’t even remember his name.

How could who I was mean anything if it can be taken away from me like this? I was a Greyjoy among Starks, and then a Stark among Greyjoys; I was Theon and had to become Reek, I am Reek and have to become Theon. Forgive me, he calls through time to the smiling man he used to know, I was not strong enough. But Theon can’t hear Reek and never will.

...and yet.

A light rain had begun to piss down out of the slate-grey sky by the time Lord Ramsay’s camp appeared in front of them. A sentry watched them pass in silence. The air was full of drifting smoke from the cookfires drowning in the rain. A column of riders came wheeling up behind them, led by a lordling with a horsehead on his shield. One of Lord Ryswell’s sons, Reek knew. Roger, or maybe Rickard. He could not tell the two of them apart. “Is this all of them?” the rider asked from atop a chestnut stallion.

“All who weren’t dead, my lord.”

“I thought there would be more. We came at them three times, and three times they threw us back.”

We are Ironborn, he thought, with a sudden flash of pride, and for half a heartbeat he was a prince again, Lord Balon’s son, the blood of Pyke.

We are Ironborn. We are Ironborn. The point isn’t that being Ironborn is, in itself, some great moral progression for Theon. The point is that he just thought of himself as one of them, as Theon, in spite of Ramsay arranging everything that happens in Reek II to convince him that he is not. He has, just for a second, found himself.

This spark grows in strength when Roose Bolton and his army arrives to escort his bastard’s bride home. As I said last time, the identity shell-games extend beyond Theon himself; his arc in ADWD only works as well as it does because it resonates with what’s happening in the plot. The North went south united, but returns divided. Roose doesn’t exactly have “a peaceful land, a quiet people” on his hands, and bringing the hated Freys north will only further provoke Stark loyalists (as we’ll see in later chapters). Moreover, his army had to pass through the Neck, controlled by one of said Stark loyalists, Howland Reed. As such, it’s not safe these days to be Roose Bolton...so he outsourced the job.

Collared and chained and back in rags again, Reek followed with the other dogs at Lord Ramsay’s heels when his lordship strode forth to greet his father. When the rider in the dark armor removed his helm, however, the face beneath was not one that Reek knew. Ramsay’s smile curdled at the sight, and anger flashed across his face. “What is this, some mockery?”

“Just caution,” whispered Roose Bolton, as he emerged from behind the curtains of the enclosed wagon.

This is a terrific way to reintroduce a villain. We haven’t seen Roose since he shed all pretense and revealed himself, a snake with new skin, at the Red Wedding. What could be more fitting than for him to wrong-foot us along with Ramsay upon re-entry? We lean forward to see him, only to hear his soft voice behind us...

Reek pretending to be Theon paved the way for the man pretending to be Roose and the girl pretending to be Arya. It’s a mockery, a mummer’s farce, a hall of mirrors. By weaving the central question of Theon’s story--who am I?--into the characters and plot points surrounding him, GRRM elevates that story. It’s the classic existentialist quest: the eternal hunt of the elusive Real. The question of whether Theon will remember his name fits like a puzzle piece with the question of whether the North will remember its name. And the North remembers.

But Theon, try as he might, is not a Stark...and neither is Ramsay’s bride-to-be.

(image by Elia Fernandez)

Jeyne Poole is not Arya Stark, and everyone knows it. Her presence is a marker of Bolton success: the key to Winterfell, a gift from their Lannister patrons, a declaration that the old has been humbled before and folded into the new. Yet more than anything else, it is the lack of anyone willing to call the Dreadfort men on their fraud that points to their rising fortunes at this moment. This is precisely why Davos’ defiant stand against the Freys in the Merman’s Court (in the chapter immediately prior to this one, worth noting?) hits home so hard. The man who stuck his neck out for the truth will not suffer these noxious lies about what happened to the Northerners who went south, and it’s all the more admirable because he (seemingly) stands alone.

And after a chapter of his identity being used against him, rewarded with a collar for handing his people over to a butcher, telling himself again and again that he is Reek, not Theon but Reek...our POV finally drops the disguise.

The girl was slim, and taller than he remembered, but that was only to be expected. Girls grow fast at that age. Her dress was grey wool bordered with white satin; over it she wore an ermine cloak clasped with a silver wolf’s head. Dark brown hair fell halfway down her back. And her eyes…

That is not Lord Eddard’s daughter.

Arya had her father’s eyes, the grey eyes of the Starks. A girl her age might let her hair grow long, add inches to her height, see her chest fill out, but she could not change the color of her eyes. That’s Sansa’s little friend, the steward’s girl. Jeyne, that was her name. Jeyne Poole.

“Lord Ramsay.” The girl dipped down before him. That was wrong as well. The real Arya Stark would have spat into his face. “I pray that I will make you a good wife and give you strong sons to follow after you.”

“That you will,” promised Ramsay, “and soon.”

It’s only internal. There’s nothing moral about it yet. He’s yet to relate her fortunes to his own. But by allowing Reek to play Theon, Ramsay has unknowingly reintroduced his captive’s pre-captivity identity into his bloodstream like an antivirus, and Jeyne’s arrival crystallizes what this means for our POV. If she’s not Arya, then he’s not Reek.

The past is present. The mud you pack into that hole in the ruined wall won’t keep your ghosts at bay. But (to borrow from Barristan) mud can nourish the seeds from which you will grow, your past the fertilizer for your rebirth.

At the edge of the wolfswood, Bran turned in his basket for one last glimpse of the castle that had been his life. Wisps of smoke still rose into the grey sky, but no more than might have risen from Winterfell's chimneys on a cold autumn afternoon. Soot stains marked some of the arrow loops, and here and there a crack or a missing merlon could be seen in the curtain wall, but it seemed little enough from this distance. Beyond, the tops of the keeps and towers still stood as they had for hundreds of years, and it was hard to tell that the castle had been sacked and burned at all. The stone is strong, Bran told himself, the roots of the trees go deep, and under the ground the Kings of Winter sit their thrones. So long as those remained, Winterfell remained. It was not dead, just broken. Like me, he thought. I'm not dead either.    

[superdecade]

Levidromes

A levidrome is a word that when spelled backwards makes another word. Well, at least not yet. It is not in the Oxford English Dictionary. Levi Budd is a six-year-old boy from British Columbia in Canada who has coined the term 'levidrome' after spotting that the word 'STOP' spells 'POTS' backwards. After realising that there is no such word in English for this phenomena, a social media campaign has started to get this word in popular usage (hence this post). I wrote a short Python script this morning that will pull all of the levidromes from a dictionary file. The full list is copied below.

aa ab aba abac abba abo abos abut acca ad ado ados ae aga agar agas agenes ah aha ahs aia aider air airts ajar aka al ala alan alif alma alula am ama amahs amas amen amene amir amis amla amman an ana anal anan anana anes anew anger animal animes anna annat anon ante apod araara arak arb arbas are ares arf aril arret arris arum arval aryl assam asses at ataata ate ates aua auks ava aval avel avid avo awa ay ayahs ba bac bacs bad bag bal bals ban bans bard barf bark bas bat bats bed beef ben bens bib bid big bin bins bird bis blub bo bob bobac bobak bod bog boh bok bon bonk boob boord bor bos bots bows boy bra braced brad brag braw bro brod bros bru bub bud bug bulb bun bunk buns bur burd burg bus but buts cab caba cabob cam camus cap card cares cep ceps cire cires cis cit cite cito civic clat cod cor cos cot cram cran crem cur da dab dace dad dag dah dahs dal dam dap daraf darb darg dart darts das daud daw daws day de deb debut decaf decal decarb dedal deed deem deen deens deep deeps deer dees deet deets def defer deffer deffo deg degami degged deid deified deifier deil deke deked del deled delf delis deliver delos dels deman demit demits den denier denies denim denis denned dennets dens depart deport depot depots derat derats dere dered deres deros derris dessert desserts deus devas devil devils devots dew dewans dewed dexes deys di dial dialer dials diaper dib did died dif dig dim din dinar diol diols diram dit div diva do dob doc dod dog doh dohs dol dom don dons doom door dop dopa dops dor dorb dormin dorp dorps dort dorter dos doser dot doy drab drac drail dram drap draps draw drawer draws dray drey drib drier droob drool drow drows drub duad dual dub dud duel duo dup dups ea ean eas eat ecad ecce ed edile edit ee eel eels een ef eh ehs eke eked elide elides elutes em eme emes emir emit emits emmets emong emos en ene enema enes enol enows er era ere ered eres ergo eric eros ervil eses esnes espial esse et eta etas etat etats eten etic etna euk eve even evil eviler evils ewe exul eye faced farad fe fed feeb feer fen fer fet fid fier fig fila fir fires fled flog flor flow fool fra frab fret fro gab gad gag gal gals gam gan gans gaps gar garb gas gat gateman gater gats gay ged gel gelder gem gen get gib gid gif gig gins gip girt girts git gnar gnat gnats gnaw gnaws gnome gnus gob god golf gon gons goog gorp gorps gos got grad gram grub gu gub gul gulp guls gum gums guns gup gups gur gut guv guy ha habus had hadedah hah hahs hajjah halalah hales hallah hallan halos han hap haram hay he heh henry hep her hey ho hob hod hoh hon hoo hoop hop hos huh hup id ikat imaged io iris iron is it itas iwi jar kabob kaiak kak kam kara kat kay kayak keek keel keels keep keet keets ken keps kier kips kirks kis kiths knaps knar knit knits knob knop knot knots know knub knuts kob kook kor korat kow krab krans kue la lab laced lacer lad laded laer lag lager laid laipse lair lam lamina lana langer lap lares larum las laud lava lavra leat leben led lee leek leep leeps leer lees leet leets leg leir lemel leper les let leud leva level lever levins levo lez liar liard liart lias lied lies lin lion lira lit live lived livre lobo lod loges loid lone loof looks loom loons loop loops loord loos loot looter loots lop los lotos lug luxe lyra ma mac macs mad madam maes mag mak mal malam mallam mals mam man map maps mar marah marc marcs mard marg marid marram marrum mart mas massa mat maws may me meed mees meet meets meg mem merc meter mets mew mho mid milks mils mim mined minim mips mir mis mm mo mod mom mon moo mood mool mools moops moor moos moot mop mor mos mot moy mu mug mum mura mural mures murram mus mut muton muts na naan nab nae nag nah nala nallah nam named namer nametag namma nan nana nap napas nappas naps naras narc narcs narks nas nat naw ne neb nebel ned nee need neep nef neg nek neks nelis nema nemas nep net nete nets neve neves new nib nid nil nimrod nip nips nis nit no nob nod nog noh noil nolos nom non nona nonet noo noon noop noops nori nos not notes notum now noy nu nub nun nur nus nut nuts nys oat ob oba obey obo obol od oda odas offed offer ogre oh ohm oho ohos oi oiks om on ono oo ooh oohs oom oon oop oor oot op oppo orb orf os otic otto oud ova ovel ow owt oxo oy pac pacer pad pah pal palp pals pam pan pans pap par pard part parts pas pat pats paw paws pay pec peed peek peel peels peen peep pees peh pelas pen peons pep per perp perts pets pig pin pins pip pir pis pit plap plug po pod poh pol pols pom ponk poo pooh pool pools poon poons poop poor poort poos poots pop port ports pos pot pots pow pows prat prep prod prog pud pug puh pullup pup pupils puris pus put puy radar rag raga rager rages raggas rail rait raj raja ram ramis rang ranid rank rap raps ras rast rat rats raw ray re real reaps rebus rebut recal recap recaps reccos redder redes redia redips redleg redraw redrawer reed reef reeks reel reels reens rees ref refed refer reffed reffo reflet reflow regal regar regna regnal regos reh reif reified reifier reik reiks reined reird reknit reknits reknot reknots relaid relit relive reliver reman remeet remit renies rennet rep repaid repaper repel repins repot repots res resat resod retag retem retool retrod retros revel reviled reviler reviver reward rewarder rewets rexes ria rial rias ribas riel rif rim rima rime rims rip rits rob roc rod rok rolf rom rones roo rood room rooms roop roops roots rosies rot rotator rotavator rotor rub ruc rucs rug rums run sab sabir sabra sad sadis sado sados sae sag saga sagas sagenes saggar sail sair sakis sal salep salles sallets sam sama samas samen san sanes sap sapan sappan saps sar saran saros sarus sat sate sati sav saved saw saz scab scam scares scot scram scran scur seals seam seat secret seder sedes sedile seed seeks seel seem seems seep seer sees segar segol seil seined seiner seis seisor seities sekos sel selah selahs seles sellas selles seme sememes semes semina sena senas sene senega senegas sennet senor sense ser sera serac seracs seral sere sered seres seric serif serons serres serum sese sesey sessa sesses set seta seton setule seven sexed sexer sexes sey seys sha shad shah shahs shakos shales shama shay shaya she shod shoo shtik si sib sic sidas sies sik sikas siled silen sim sima simar simis sin sined sinnet sip siri siris sirra sirred sirs sirup sis sit six skat skeer skees skeets sken skeps skier skio skips sklim skool skran skrans skrik skua slab slaes slag slaid slam slap sled slee sleek sleep sleeps sleer sleet sleets slim slipup slit slive slived sloid sloom sloop sloops sloot sloots slop slug smart smees smew smir smits smoor smoot smug smur smut smuts snab snag snap snaps snark snarks snaw snawed snaws sneb sned sneed sneer snib snig snip sniper snips snirt snit snivel snod snoep snog snool snoop snoops snoot snores snort snot snow snub snug so sob soba soc soccer sod soda sodas sog soger soh soho sokahs sokes sol solah soled solon solos som some son sonnet sool soom soop sop soras sorb sore sored sorter sos sotol sow soy spacer spaer spag spam span spank spans spar spard spart sparts spas spat spats spaw spaws spay spaz spec speed speel speels spek speks spets spider spik spiks spim spin spins spirt spirts spit spod spool spools spoom spoon spoons spoor spoots sports spot spots sprat sprits sprod sprog spud spug sris stab stag stang stap staps star stared start stat state stats staw staws steed steek steeks steel steels steem stellas stem stemme sten stenned step steps stet stets stew stewer stime stimed stims stink stinker stir stirps stob stonk stonker stool stools stoop stoops stoor stop stoped stoper stops stot stots stoved stow stows strad strap straps straw strep stressed stria strig strips strop strops strow struts stub stum stums stun stunk sturts sub subah suber succus sued sulu sulus sum sumac sun sung sup suras sus susus swad swam swang swans swap swaps sward swat swats sway swey swob swone swop sword swot swots syed syes syn ta tab tae tael taes tag tak taki taks talc tallat tam tan tang tanna tao tap taps tar tared tarok tarp tarps tart tas taser tat tate tats tav taw taws te teed teek teel teels teem teemer tef teg tel telfer ten tenet tenner tennes tennis tennos tenon terces terf terra terret tes tet tets tew ti tiar tic tid tide tig til tiler tils time timed timer tin tink tinker tins tip tips tirrit tis tit toc tocs tod tog tom ton tonk tonker tons too tool tools toom tooms toons toot top toped toper tops tor torot tort tot tots tow tows trad trail tram trams trap traped traps trat trats tressed trew trig trins trips trod trons troop trop troped trot trow tsar tub tuba tubed tuber tug tum tums tun tup tut two ug ulu ulus um umu un urb utu vas vat vav vid vug wad wan wang wans wap waps war warb ward warder warts was wat wats waw way wed wem wems wen wena wert wet wets wey wo wok wolf wolfer won wonk wons wop word wort worts wos wot wots wow xis ya yad yag yah yahs yak yam yap yaps yar yard yaw yaws yay yebo yeh yerd yes yeses yew yews yo yob yod yom yon yos yrneh yug yup zaps zas zel ziz zuz zzz

It is interesting to note that some levidromes are also palindromes. I wonder whether we need a new word to describe this phenomenon also?  Furthermore, there is no word in English for "a word that you make up in order to make another word make sense". I suggest: "emordivel" ?

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[shaneufhawaii2019]

Sunntig 04.08.2019

Wa hett denn de hüttig Tag brocht? Zmörgele am Strand, schwitze schwitze schwitze bim Feriehuusputze und denn am Obed en Sunneuntergang mit Kafi. d Shane isch glücklich! Aaaaaber halt do isch jo no was gsi... Und zwor bini am Bädele gsi mit ennere Taucherbrille. Bi üs am Strand gsehsch aber gar nünt well alles voller Sand isch wo die ganz Zit im Wasser umewirblet. I het also meh mit zuene Auge gseh als mit de Brille :D Ufjedefall bini gad so am zrugg schwimme richtig Strand. I Gedanke ganz bide Schildkrot-Gschicht usem Buech, Das Café am Rande der Welt (für alli wo die Gschicht kenned) Woni ufzmol öppis a mine Händ gspür. En Stei. Hä wart mol Stei beweged sich doch nöd... Min Chopf isch denn aber schnell wienes Bisiwetter wieder unterwasser gsi und mini Auge hend tatsächlich zwüsched dem ganze ufgwirblete Sand e SCHILDKROT entdeckt!!! Eifach so! Vor mim Schnörli schwimmt seeleruhig so da majestätische Tier dure, als wür nebed ihre nöd gad es chlises komischs Menschli fascht vertrinke wells vor Freud s muul speerangelwiit ufgrisse het. I bi absolut fasziniert gsi und ha mi denn eifach a ihrem Panzer für drü Sekunde möse hebe und mitzüche loh. Woni denn usem Wasser gsprunge bi zu de andere Workies (also die zwei Fraue) und scho fascht brüllend vor Freud verzellt han wa mir gad passiert isch, hends nume gseit: Also Shane, wennd chli zvill Geld hesch, denn dörfsches gern üs geh. De letscht wo verwütscht worde isch wiener e Schildkrot aglanged het, het e Strof vo 1500.- möse zalle... 

Drum, falls irgendwer Froge het zu: wie wird mo schnell sis Geld los oder how to schnell bankrott sii: eifach nume d Shane froge. Sie stot immer mit 12 Stund zitverschiebig zu verfüegig :D

[obscureoldscotspoems]

Epistle tae Davie

Dear Davie Lad                    It gies me pleesure Noo in this evenin' oor o' leesure, Tae write tae ye this Lallans jingle, As I sit bi a cheery ingle. Nae doot ye'll think this puny verse, That winna roose the universe, Nor gar great pundits an' their minions, Tae overhaul erstwhile opinions. O' wha in Lallans poetry, 'S maist fit wi' Burns tae bear the gree, Let's leave it 'til "Sir John de Graeme", Tae win me literary fame. As poetry its somewhit better, Than the lame verse intil this letter, But let that pass, it winna maitter.

I see that Scotia's heath ye've quitted, An' tae the Soothlan' ye hae flitted, Some gate aboot the Howe o' Lincoln, - Faur cry frae Glesca' Toon, I'm thinkin'. Ma rhymes may better serve nor prose, Tae mind ye on "The Land o' Brose", O' whilk a wheen droll tales are tauld, Whaurin Truth's aft gey sairly mauled. Haud on, Dave, till I limn a scene, Will aiblins shaw ye whit I mean, Come, jine me on a Caledonian tour, I hope your pleesure in it turns na sour.

O Scotia, land o lochs an' bens, Crags, peat hags an' stags in glens, An' Heilan' stots at the lochan's edges, Slorpin' the mists amang the sedges, O Scotia, land o' the bonnie glens, Whaur shilpit loons frae "single ends", Thrang in droves wi' their keelie molls, Tae seek refreshment for their sauls. Bravin' the vagaries o' the weather, Traikin' your hills o' purple heather. See them "foot it out together Be it fair or stormy weather." - O leeze me on yon hiker billies, Wi' their tartan socks an' ukeleles, On whilk they twang hill-billy tunes, O leeze me on yon hiker loons! -

O Scotia, hame o' Burns an' Barrie, "Bonny Mary" an' "Annie Laurie", "Scots wha hae" an' Scots wha hinnae, Donald Dhu an' Donald Dinnie; The hame o' aa' that's great an' true, As ony Scotsman will alloo. O Scotia, land o' sma' kailyairds, Prood clan chiefs an' bunnet lairds, Land o' the pipes, an' hame o' the tartan, An' weather keen's the claw o' partan, Tae freeze the knees o' sturdiest Spartan. No that the weather irks true Scots, Wha eidently sup their parritch oats.

O Scotia, caa the clansmen frae their hames, The tourists maun hae Hielan' Games, Caa frae the clachans, crofts an' castles, The chiefs, their senechies an' dunniewassals The pipers, drummers, bards an' ghillies Yon's the braw sichts for tourist billies - The kilted hurdies an' kirtled shuthers The bunnets bristlin' wi' blackcocks' feathers - It's no the tourist ilka day Can boast they've seen sic fine array Sae let them hae their Hielan' Games For they hae traipsied frae their hames In carefu' search o' local colour; Then dinna vex. They've rowth o' siller Their gowd'll steek the dollar gap Oor games pit us upon the cultural map Bayreuth an' Stratford could scarce be on a par Wi' the annual glories o' Royal Braemar.

(There's a "Road to the Isles" an' "A Window in Thrums" But we'll ne'er let a wheest o' the acres o' slums For there are some things are better unsaid Since we maunna imperil the great tourist trade).

Tourists hae come faur frae their hames Sae let them see the Hielan' Games.

Let lassies jinglin' wi' medallions Dance an' prance wi' rare agility While stalwart men as strang as stallions         Perform according tae abeelity Let athletes wechts an' hammers hurl Let kiltie dancers boo an' birl Let pipers gie the bags a dirl O let the martial music skirl

(Oh, the brave music of a distant drum An' distant pipes soun' sweeter still, think some).

Let pipers gie the bags a dirl An' let the brave, braw music skirl                For guidness kens Tourists will threep wi' satisfaction They've seen an' heard the clans in action                Amang their native glens.

Here endeth noo this Caledonian pageant, A droller clanjamphrie was ne'er imajin't Tho' I've set oot ma views in pure pastiche T'was gude tae let ma feelin's aff the leash.

Ma letter stertit wi' an even chimean O ane line wi' the neist ane rhyman But noo, ye'll see, in the hindmaist stanza Ma rhyme scheme coorts extravaganza As on the Sabbath ilk kirk bell            Rings its ain chime An' wi' its neebour disna mell            Sae wi' ma rhyme The gate ma Muse gangs, maun dae me Albeit it leads ma prosody ajee But no for peevish murnins did I invoke the Muse Sae Davie lad, pu' in your chair an' hear ma views

The doors are snecked, the windaes steekit The fire alowe, the hoose weel beekit An there, his languid length oot-streekit                    Upon the mat Wi' een whiles shut, an whiles hauf-keekit                    Behold oor cat! Blinkin' an' govean at the gleeds Wi' een as green as emerald beads The name is Angus, masculine gender His favourite neuk beside the fender Ilk nicht he diligently hugs He purrs whane'er ye scart his lugs Mair nor the cat within the hoose This nicht is feelin' unco croose.

Aa day I've tholed the elemental fury Sae noo it's gran' fornent the fire tae coorie The lang darg on the hill's complete An' I hae ate my evenin' meat - Nae Benmore cheat-the-belly stuff But halesome food an aye enough Weel-cuiked an' served in a mair gracious way Nor macaroni in a creeshy tray E'en Daisy Watson wad alloo It maun be "chacun à son goût" Sae I hae tauld ma guidwife Joanie That "mon goût n'est pas macaroni" An noo I dine as weel's I may Wha toil tae win a pund a day.

Davie ye'll see frae oor address We bidena faur frae Inverness - I'll tell ye o' that toun again Quhilk to considder is ane pane -

Kiltarlity's oor pairish Foxhole's the nearest schule Battan's the place we live at Heich upon a hill.

The locals arena boorish Tho' some in mainner cool As if no to be a Lovat Was tae mark ye for a fool

In Beaufort Castle's pomp The Lovat Frasers bide Their lives a shinean lamp Tae aa the kintrae-side.

(Davie, ye'll think me sair At the Hielanders' expense But why the unco steer Their inordinate reverence

For whit's gane by lang syne? Why their deid forbears mimic? Here's Caledonia's sin - The cult of the patronymic!).

An' here for ye's anither fact Ma Muse owre easily's side-tracked I promised ye I'd gie ye news, Instead ye've heard me gab ma views On the Hielan scene as I construe it Tho' maybe no as the tourists view it This point I've dinged as wi' a hammer - There's mair tae Scotland nor glib glamour Sae noo "retrones à nos moutons" An tak' up the burden o' my story I was aboot tae introduce Ye tae the environs o' ma hoose Sax hunnert feet abune sea level An' bluffert lik' the verra devil In winter bi the angry gale That brings in turn, snaw, rain an hail The Battan wudes hae aa been felled Leavan the hillsides cauld an' beld O timmer bare but wi' stumps a-bristle Thro' whilk the wind wi' eerie whistle Comes pouncean, bouncean frae the wast Tae skelp an skite us wi' his blast Till simmer comes we hae nae help But thole snell Boreas's skelp Bidean in hope o' better times An' dreamin' oor dreams o' warmer climes

A curse upon the bard did sing A garden is a lovesome thing Him wad I shaw ma so-caad garden An' speir gin he'd no beg ma pardon Oor forrit prospect, I'll confess Is nocht but sterile wilderness A "waste land", "a blasted heath" O' ling abune an' rock beneath An' yet anither weed's nae lackan - It's Scotia's curse, the creepin' bracken This birn o' stanes an' scanty soil Hauds oot the promise o' sair toil I've no as yet e'er had the hert Tae tak' a spade an' mak a stert "A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot" When I see mine a lump comes in ma throat And a tear I canna hide What guid's a gairden in this bleak kintrae-side?

Did I say bleak? That's hardly true; Ae thing we hae's a glorious view I wad neglect the poet's duty Gin I peyed nae tribute tae its beauty Northward an' faur intil the wast Great rugged hills lie ranged an' massed Raw on raw o' serried peaks That hae been wreathed in snaw for weeks While tae the east, closer at hand There lies a strath o gude fairm-land Noo Dave, afore I end ma sang A word o' the chiels we bide amang They till the yird, an' tint their flocks The same as ither kintrae folks - We're aa the self-same britherhood Aa bairnies o' Jock Tamson's brood Whither we hail frae oot the Lallands Or claim oorsels as Hielan' callants Tho' here there are, as aawhere else The few wha preen an' pride themsels An ettle tae heeze up a steer Because they've hained a puckle gear - There's mair wi' siller can be coft Than graith tae plenish fairm or croft - Their parks are snodly ploo'd an' harrow'd But the lanskip o' their minds is arid Belyve I hae come tae expect Nae kindred speerit o' intellect Whan we hae said "It's cold to-day" There's little else for us tae say Whan we've agreed 'tis stormy weather We'se be tongue-tacket baith thegither Whan we've remarked his neeps are frostit Oor common store o' talk's exhausted I kenna the respective merits O' takin' game wi' snares or ferrits Nor wha's held in the maist esteem Intil the local shinty team - As yet I've had nae time tae gove at Newtonmore, Strathglass or Lovat -

I see that, Davie, at your place Ye're in a similar sad case Talk o' cabbages an' trees Hae no the interest aye tae please; Wi kail an' conifers replete The mind sune greins for ither meat Sae Dave, ma fier, I hope that this'll Draw frae ye a lang epistle In while ye'll treat me tae your views news Forbye your much-respectit views I wad gie much tae hae ye back That we micht hae an auld-time crack

At New Year, Joan an' I gaed doon Tae veesit Perth an' Fankertoun Renew the ties o' flesh an' bane An' see the weel-kent spots again T'wad fill a page or twaa wi' rhyme Tae tell ye hoo we spent the time Suffice it then for me tae say On Hogmanay we were right gay I maun allow I felt gey cheerie Tho' dinna think I was camsteerie Juist ae nicht i' the lee-lang year I frae the straucht an' nerra veer An' wi' ma freens I mak' carousal An' tae a dram gie nae refusal Baith Rabbie Burns an' auld Khayyam Advise us tae tak aff oor dram An autram dram is nae abhorrent That has sic worthy poets' warrant Sae ilk New Year I rise up on ma hams An' gie ma freens a stave o' "Nicky Tams" An auld sang yon, but fresh as salad Ye canna beat a gude-gaun bothy ballad Wi' the tang o' the yird in't an' a braw tune forbye I like tae sing it when I'm feelin' spry

The evenin's still are lang an' mirk An whan I staucher hame frae wark An' whan I've had ma evenin' meal There's naethin' that I loe sae weel As tae draw intil the ingle-neuk Tae pree the pleasure o' some beuk Whiles it be prose, but maistly verse Yeats or Burns or auld Dunbars Tho' Burns is richtly weel-respeckit The auld grey horse is sair neglickit "Gret reuth it wer that so suld be" Whan he in technique bears the gree Owre Burns an' Henryson an' the lave At turnin' oot a polished stave Burns may command the human heart Dunbar commands the greater art.

Ma ain idea o' Paradise Rigged oot anew in earthly guise Is tae lie back in an easy chair Whan "Poetry Scotland" taks the air Let ne'er a soun' i' the hoose be heard That I micht savour ilka word That smools sae sauve frae the siller tongue O yon beardid bardie, Douglas Joung (sic) In readin' verse there's ane wey o' it An yon lad kens it. He's a poet O I abhor lik' vilest pooshion Practitioners o' elocution They set me rantin' in a rage They mind me o' some village stage Whaur maids an' matrons simper thru' Their pairty piece, syne tak a boo This is caad, "Giving recitations" Sic antics pit me oot o' patience Tae talk gin their mous were stapped wi' bools An' think they're speakin' verse, the fools "But they're only doing their best, poor dears" Then lat them dae it for ithers ears!

Dootless ma freen, ye're boond tae think The maist o' this mere crambo clink An gin ye dae ye're no tae blame For I wad be the last tae claim That this, ma poem, had muckle worth Yet we'll no froon upon its birth For I maun threep juist aince again T'was written you tae entertain I its makar downa be blate Tae thank the lass wha helped me oot The lass I'm meanin, ye'll jalouse Tae be ma puir, lang-sufferin' Muse She stertit oot fu' braw an' jimp But noo puir lass, she's got a limp We'll mak' an end ere it gets worse An' is refleckit in oor verse Sae frae the Muse, ma wife an' me Tae Margaret, wee Jane an' ye We send ye greetin's an' gude weel An' hope that ye're aye bidean weel That Fortune ne'er does ye a shavie S' ma wish for ye, ma gude freen Davie.

                          Robert Thomson,                                     Kiltarlity,                                         Beauly,                                             Inverness-shire.

Written in the early 1950s. Bob Thomson was my grandfather, and I knew him as Papa Bob. He served in the Royal Navy during World War II, and after the war he joined the Forestry Commission, and had a long career living in various places in the Highlands. He had a keen interest in poetry and prose, and in photography. He died in 1991.