#you don't survive the bog if you don't set things on fire occasionally

[blood-orange-juice]

excuse me, some of us live in a bog

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[the-stew-review]

The 13th Warrior

The 13th Warrior, directed by John McTiernan who brought to life Predator, Die Hard, and The Hunt for Red October. Also written by Michael Crichton who wrote such classics as Jurassic Park, West World, and many others, now brings this tale of an Arab ambassador who must join a group of Vikings on a quest to save a village from mysterious cannibalistic attackers. 12 warriors were chosen to go on this quest but the th 13th must be a man "not from the North" thus making him the 13th Warrior.

If this description sounds vague and non descriptive it is not a mistake, this movie does not give much detail leading into the thick of its story. It simply tells you that "this" is going to happen and then it does it without much detail as to why. Even though this hurts the movie initially, it is advised to accept this lack of "why is this happening" early on because there are some good moments in this movie that make it worth watching. With that being said, the action is exciting and it feels like any character could suffer or die at any moment. This is important because later you truly gain this feeling of your back is against this wall and you can only way out is to fight.

However, this movie is such a large contradiction of itself. On one hand this movie has moments where the audience feels invested in the moment and it truly brings you into this strange world with a mysteriousenemy. But that is just it, moments. Everything else around the moments brings it down to incredible mediocrity and sometimes just poor filmmaking.

Antonio Banderas as the 13th Warrior does a phenomenal job. He is truly the highlight of the acting in this movie. On the opposite side it also shows how poor the acting is everywhere else in the movie. Every character in this movie has a moment or part of a scene that they do OK in or even good in but for the majority of this movie the acting is very stagnant. This can must likely be attributed to possible lip dubbing which is noticable at times. The action however is fairly consistent. It doesn't ever feel unbelievable where the protagonist can survive anything and most of the time you can actually tell what is happening, in all of its gory glory. Parts of scenes are at night or in the dark lit only by fire but I never felt that I could not tell what was going on any longer than a second or two.

The ultimate high point that I cannot emphasize enough is the soundtrack composed by Jerry Goldsmith. This lifts the movie far above from sheer mediocrity that it could have fallen down to. When this score is placed over action, horse riding or even small to large victories it just intensifies everything.

Now is probably the most odd and inconsistent part of this movie that must be brought up; the cinematography. This movie goes all over the place with its camera work, at times it looks like a standard crane shot showing some set up to lead into the actors close up and then it goes into some guerilla style hand shot filming. Sometimes these things work and set up a very good shot and emphasize the character or sets the scene with what the characters are about walk into. Other times however the audience will ask themselves why are they focusing on the character's shoulder. It feels as if they couldn't see everything as they were filming or they didn't take the time to try different takes. Luckily most of these issues occur early on but a few persist occasionally throughout the movie.

There were reshoots later after test screenings and re-edits trying to reshape the movie into something profitable but it just feels like too many hands shaping the movie.

The 13th Warrior has a good movie in it somewhere... but it's bogged down by inconsistencies and occasional poor acting. The best parts of this movie are mid way to the end, where the 'story is set up and the action picks up and it jumps from moment to moment between mysterious invaders attacking Vikings and then planning defense and retaliation. All while Antonio Banderas' character watches, learns, and develops through the action. The score by Jerry Goldsmith lifts these moments up well above and truly helps bring the audience along. I would give The 13th Warrior a 2.8 out of 5 stars. Above average but Viking and action enthusiasts would most likely enjoy this more than the average viewer. If you don't watch the movie I still recommend looking up the score by Jerry Goldsmith.

P.S. The movie (besides the first scene) seems to be shot on location and interiors do not look like sets in a studio. This is highlighted with the guerilla style filmmaking showing some of the effort put into actually being in some good locations.

[cela-astral-projection]

Family is family, in church or in prison You get what you get, and you don't get to pick 'em

Origin story. Incredibly loosely based on my actual great grandparents, Paul and Margarita Sweet. 

When Verner Karlsson approached his cousin, Morga, to gain her blessing to depart their tribe, it was one of the most difficult and greatest days of his life. She, of course, berated him, calling him a coward, but there was no malice in it. It was simply her way. Motherhood had softened her, a bit. A few years prior, he might not have gotten away unscathed.

He had always been forthright with Morga, hunting alongside her since they were small. He should have gone to her husband, but he found him utterly useless, and in this instance bucking protocol seemed appropriate.

He often was an ambassador, going on fact-finding missions. He loved the travel. Not so much the bloodshed. He never had the warrior spirit. He loved knowledge and people. He was saddened to leave his family but saw the writing on the wall. There would be much pain to come, and he couldn't take part in it.

Morga embraced him as a brother as he went. He knelt before her son. He didn't particularly like the boy, but he was of Morga, so he had a love for him. "Be good to your mother, boy. You will have no better friend in this life," he warned. Montag stuck his tongue out at him, arms folded across his chest. Verner sighed. That about summed the child up.

"Best of luck, Morga." He said, straightening. "You're going to need it."

He traveled for months, from the Steppe to Vesuvia, and back again. Taking shelter with friendly folk that would have him, or sleeping out in the elements when they could not. He loved freedom. But he was lonely. All his life, he had someone to spar with, to talk to, to rely on.

One day, making his way through the forest that lined the cliffside overlooking the ocean, he was set upon by a mother bear after stumbling upon her cubs. He had been wounded, not mortally, and had the good sense to cower. The bear had buried him in the sandy soil beneath a tree, and he did not emerge until he knew he was safe.  

He stumbled on a fishing village. Exhausted, and bleeding still quite badly.  A clan of people who had once been cliff dwellers, and quite remote. Time, and man, had eroded their solitude. They were quite wary of travelers but still hospitable.

A young woman came to his aide. She had lovely dark hair and terracotta skin, with arresting green eyes. She was quite young, and short, but brawny. She rallied a group, and they brought him into one of their huts to nurse him.

They called her Luhui. It was not her name, she had not yet taken a name, because she had not taken a husband. The word simply meant "Woman."

Some spoke his tongue, though not many, and through patient translation, they found ways to communicate, picking up on each other's language as days melded into weeks, then into months.  

When he told his story, of surviving the Bear, they clapped his shoulders, cheering him. A brave warrior, indeed, to survive a mother bear. His legend grew amongst the people, though he was humble enough to keep the story plain. He had been lucky. Very lucky. But, still, it grew and spread like wildfire. The man who had come back from the grave and bested the bear.

Luhui was with him constantly as he convalesced. She was young. Much younger than he. But she was revered. An accomplished healer, midwife, and mystic. She would have none of this legend nonsense. She would laugh when she heard the story. This man? Back from the dead? Please, that was all her. Sure, he dug himself out, but he'd be moldering if she hadn't got to him.

Her father came to him late one night, when he was nearly recovered, and offered her to him. He refused. Of course, she was lovely, but he wasn't prepared to wed. But, her father was persistent. Together, they would be a force. He came every night for weeks. Eventually, his veneer cracked.

He looked to Luhui, and she shrugged. She didn't see why not. Vern was attractive enough, with his creamy pale skin, light grey eyes and brilliant hair. She liked to hear the stories of his travels, of the things he'd done and seen. It seemed like a practical enough arrangement. He made her laugh. And he was sweet.

They had a simple binding ceremony, and he gave her her name. It was the name of a girl from home he had once fancied. She didn't particularly care for it, sounding so foreign to her ears, but it wasn't hers to question. Hillevi. Between the two of them, it was shortened to Evi. Vern and Evi.

From their union, they were delivered twins. A daughter and son. They forged new traditions, naming the girl at birth. Linnea. Their son, Aric.

Linnea was dark, like her mother, but tawnier, lighter, with freckles dotting her cheeks.  The same green eyes. She had a shock of blonde hair at the front of her head, but the rest of it was dark. She was a pretty child, and sweet. As she grew, she began to attend patients with her mother, training in medicine and midwifery. She kept her head down, consumed with practice and family life.

Aric was every bit his father. Brilliant silver eyes, white-blonde hair. But, he was brawnier. Broad chested, and a good head taller than Verner by the time he was a man. He loved to hunt, and fish. He had no magic, like his mother or sister. But, his smile was enough to set every young woman in town on edge. His laugh was loud, boisterous.

When they were grown, the village was visited by a tall woman, draped in furs. Verner startled when a villager came to them in the early morning, throwing open the door of the hut, begging him to come.

Morga.

They sat together, and she told him the story. Montag. Lucio. Illness. Slaughter. He was horrified.

She implored him to come home. He refused. This is why he had left. He couldn't abide by this. 

Then, she asked him for something else, knowing he could not refuse her twice.

To send his children to watch over Montag.

Evi would never truly forgive him, sending her children away. Years they had spent, learning to love one another, gone in an instant.

As to not set Lucio to suspicion, they had their names changed. Their birth names too close to their father's homeland. Aric took the name Aedan, and Linnea, Celeste.

They had been able to manipulate their way into the palace. Aedan, in Lucio's guard, and Celeste under Valdemar's tutelage, working alongside a young, redheaded doctor.

As far as Lucio was aware, he and Aedan got along like a house on fire. 

Of course, he didn't agree with Lucio. The man was repugnant, but Aedan was smart enough to keep his tongue. He was always a step behind, enforcing his demand with as much kindness as he was able to get away with. There was much unpleasantness in his task. But, he felt a brotherhood with this man.

He saw that Montag...Lucio...was not all bad. Just untethered. He needed a friend. He was just difficult to love. He wondered if Lucio recognized their shared blood, but knew he was too absorbed in himself to care that they shared the same eyes. His ignorance was a blessing, in a way. He would laugh at his jokes. Do his bidding. Be his friend. 

Celeste was mostly out of view, absorbed in her studies. She spent a lot of time with the young Doctor, Julian. Avoiding the courtier, who scared her, but lead her teachings. Julian and she would sneak away to the library, hiding in the stacks, huddled together, laughing, dancing. He was smart. And handsome.

Every once in awhile, she would journey into town, browsing the shops.

She tended to spend a lot of time in the Magician's shop, browsing his herbs. He would read her tarot. They would steal away together, walking in the palace gardens, talking long into the night. He would teach her magic, and she was rather good at it. They started a romance that lasted for years. Sweet, young love. 

They would occasionally sneak to the colosseum to see the Magician's companion, when Aedan was on duty, waving them in. Celeste didn't tell Asra that Aedan was her brother, not wanting to give their secret away. Asra found it confusing that this guard, so close to Lucio, was so compassionate.

The big man's name was Muriel. They would bring him food, and sometimes they would just sit with him in the dark catacombs. He was painfully shy and so very angry. Asra told her that he had always been scared and shy. They knew each other for many years. Under Lucio's control, he was made to do horrific things. Muriel was gorgeous. Even with hot, fresh scars marring his body. They didn't talk about what he was forced to do. Asra loved him so, and so she did too.

She would sit with him alone, some nights, her back against the bars of his cage. She would reach out to him, and sometimes he would allow her to hold his hand. Once, he let her kiss him. It was short and sweet. When she emerged from the catacombs, flushed, Aedan laughed. "Minx."

For Aedan's part, he was not entirely lonely. Lucio was nothing, if not generous. He was presented with women constantly. Gifts. Something Aedan was uncomfortable with. The women were kind, and he would be preformative with them, pulling them into his chambers and plying them with coin for their acting skills. He didn't need Lucio's presents. He had a few servant girls that were his constant companions. He didn't like to get bogged down in the details of relationships, but he would send flowers to the kitchen regularly and took no small pleasure in listening to the keening and cooing.

He would often drink with Lucio, letting him regale him with tales. They were gory, hideous tales. Most of it utter fantasy. Lucio was good but not nearly as good as he proclaimed to be. 

Sometimes, he would sneak a wink at the Countess, letting her know that he wasn't quite buying it. She was a hard woman like his mother had been. Practical to a fault. Elegant. But, she would smile when they shared a mocking glance, or a laugh when they retreated from his chambers.

When word came that illness had struck their village, it was Celeste that had to tell Aedan that their parents were gone. And that it wasn't safe to return home to bury them. It wasn't even safe for them to grieve together.

As the plague descended upon Vesuvia, an even closer eye was required on Lucio. When Lucio became ill, Aedan refused to leave his side. But, Lucio lingered. 

Aedan, strong as he was, succumbed to the illness quickly. Two days. The palace mourned his loss. Such a big, kind man, just gone. 

Celeste ran from the castle to Asra. There were dead in the streets. She pounded on the shop door, and when it opened, she fell into his arms, screaming, sobs tearing out of her chest like razor blades. Her brother was dead. She couldn't even tell him. He assumed it was the plague that troubled her so. 

He led her to the bedroom. He had already packed for them. Muriel had been released into the forest when there was no more to attend the battles in the coliseum, Lucio too weak to come into the city. They would collect Muriel and run. He had a plan. They could be safe. 

She tore away from him, panicked. She couldn't abandon her work. There had to be a cure. She had already lost her entire family. She couldn't fail anyone else. Her Aric had been working to keep Montag safe for so many years. She couldn't let him die. She hated him, but it was what she had been forced from her home to do. She couldn't abandon it, not now. Montag was all the family she had left in the world, tenuous as their relationship was. 

She and Asra fought viciously. When the fight was gone out of him, he pleaded. When that didn't work, they simply wept until they couldn't cry anymore, clinging each other until morning came.

Her eyes were so raw and bloodshot, that she hardly noticed that the red of plague had started to creep in.

Days later, Celeste was dead.

[alchemisland]

The Moors Mutt IV: Old Stone

Lar had set plates of milk and egg on the exterior ledge in tribute to the fae folk said to inhabit the ancient mounds. Ah, how rugged tradition. Despite innumerable era-defining events happening daily across the world, for the village of Sperrin it was just another day when the sun rose and, with luck, set again in the evening. They hadn't time for dullards in tailed suits dictating tastes, but they had still team to tend the interspecies relations their ancestors cherished. By all accounts I have heard, to spurn the giving of tributes and gifts incurs great penalty from these entities, with many a workman rising with thorns in his bed after rooting out on the old Hawthorns, which are so revered entire networks and key routeways, which I say should serve to modernise this place a bit, are diverted from their course to leave the old fairy trees in peace. Even now I puzzle at this strange practice, at the contrast between past and present evident in all things once you leave the big cities. The fae, I have since learned, are a race of otherworldy beings driven beneath the furrows as the plague of mankind spread; its boils gaping swordwounds, its pus the belch of industry, and always fatal. Thackeray's 'Sketchbook 1842' spake thusly on the practice; "Crude as their barn religion seems to the imperial beholder, there is yet intricacy in this practices and archaic wisdom therein. If a faith's claim to true institutional status is the number of adherents, there are more worshippers in these bog towns, who bear saints names, than ever had Patrick driven toward the tide." Thackeray made no mention of an egg dish though.

A scarred moggy had the scent hot on his nostrils, thought he what fine folks we to leave a sup for me. I watched him furtively take the decking and slink toward the dish. First he tapped the rim to glean what consequence he might incur, but seeing the clear craned and began to lap its contents delightedly, soaking its whiskers. Fergus thundered out the door, beelining towards the cat which he had spied through the window. He lifted a knee with all grace of rusted Talos and swung the appendage toward the hissing feline. Bold, but not careless, the moggy bailed, zipping from sight before Fergus' hobnail hit. I supposed it a tad overreactive, but when one considers the fae as a true belief system, that cat was essentially gobbling up our good faith, and I thought with another opportunity I'd have done the same.

Lar seemed smaller inside. The barframe served to deemphasize his ample stature, a kingly six foot one stood stock straight; more kingdom keep than tavern keep, and a fur mantle he wore most Heraclean. He took great stomping strides, as in a childhood tale my mother fireside imparted of a giant who wore seven league boots. His ever-bailed fists hung like cudgels by his side, two loyal hounds never stumped for purpose. In his great shadow, one felt a gratitude for civilisation; a concept voluntary for men like Lar. Every second a short man, like me, spent not being torn limb from limb by a man like him was a second lived by his decree.

I swanned to his side, eager for revelation, suddenly taken by the spirit of adventure. Not quite the long walk to the docks before an age on the high seas, for indeed the only thing Sperrin had to resemble the rippling sails of farbound triremes were the sad slanted fabric roofs in the central square still hanging from the Christmas Market, but it was no less a proud moment and a little death; the death of office and oath, of duty, of tedium; for that day I was no longer a swaddled urbanite, good only for council meetings and book reviews, I was reborn in renown; I set off toward the unknown with all the zeal of a whorebound sailor, as of old heroes had.

'Lar, a moment if I could. In the house yesterday I found a bill of sale for an old church somewhere in the demesne. Do you know it?' I asked.

'Know it? Took my first communion there. As did he.' Lar nodded toward Fergus who jostled delightedly, pulling the second of three bags across his vast flank. 'Everyone did. Before she got her toxic claws in.'

'You're joking? I didn't think to ask last night, I thought you wouldn't be interested. This is most fortuitous. Oh, lash me for assuming. What age were you when it closed?'

'After first Communion.' Lar said, concealing his question.

'I'm not Roman Catholic. Happy? My father was a man of intense private faith. Very distrustful of institutions. He encouraged us, and others, to think for ourselves, not to puzzle overmuch the mysteries of man's making.'

'That explains a lot.' said Lar, papist to the root.

'I'm no heathen.' I exhaled my irriation. 'I know my bible well as any bishop; better even. My father wanted to join the priesthood, alas it was not to be. A noble ambition, even unfulfilled. Does that satisfy your piety?'

'What stopped him?' said Lar, unsatisfied. I saw glinting around his neck a pendant freshly clad, its chain lightly linked, an effigy of holy Saint Anthony sun-crowned acentre against a gold rondure.

I shrugged my shoulders. 'Insitutions? He didn't talk about it. So enlighten me if you will; what age is Communion? Twelve - or is that Consternation?'

'It's Confirmation.' Lar spat through gritted teeth. 'Communion is the unleavened bread. Usually the ceremony takes place when the child is seven or eight.'

'Right. And Lady Sizemore, you would not deny she was a woman of means?'

Lar scoffed, loosening phlegm. 'I would not.'

'I had presumed so. Her estate is vast, her house lavish, its contents irreplaceable, its memories priceless, but she was not ostentatious in herself. Lar, I know we're out for the beast and don't worry, I still intend keeping up with the thing, but my heart is really set on figuring this church business. See, I have had cause to see her financial records, public and private. Aside from maintenance costs and the occasional queenly feast, she seemed positively a pincher of pennys, a scrimper.' When our eyes met Lar squinted suspiciously, waiting for more. 'I mean to say Lady Sizemore seemed modest despite her earnings, yet enormous costs were incurred purchasing the church and moving the cairn. I want to know why it's so special.'

'You'll soon find out. Where do you think we're going?'

'Truly? An angel. Art thou an angel? Thou art, truly. Who else so cherubim in cheek and lobe!' I nearly clicked my heels. 'How serendipitous I should inquire. Let me ask another question; what's there now?' We had slowed, each of us, in anticipation of local colour. If trips to the outdoors had purpose, twas this, tramping blind and giving life to what has passed, and perhaps in gratitude, if a higher place exists than this, the dead will bid us good fortune.

'Nothing much anymore. There's been a church on that ground since before any Bishop in Rome ever lied. The first Christians arrived, little more than farmers, armed with twisted staves. Stone by stone they built a temple for their desert god, refuse from the cold of the islands. The Gods of ancient Albion were not of the sun, blithe were they to effulgence. Came they from beneath the clod. Slithered out from eel bores and swam the narrow estuaries like boneless longships. Worshippers twisted as their idols took every chance to spurn the advances of the interlopers, but such savagery cannot be upheld. Hate is not enough. Hate is the infernal speed, the thud of knuckles, the thunder at the antler crash of rutting stags, but it is a fickle thing, a false security, sapping and parasitic. By generations, these savage men became curious. They had killed so many, sundered their doings and mocked their skygod, yet still the missionaries adhered his tenets. Perhaps, they thought, this God is some powerful thing. And with that, the spell of the old ways was broken. Already as the tribesmen made their first ginger steps up the slopes, the slopes we ourselves will ascend, the suckered whips and shadowed protrusions of the old ones retracted to the otherworld, down into the deep dells and dark delvings and the dwindling darks of earth. Came they curious and unarmed, bid the missionaries impart this wisdom worth dying for. This site was not alone chosen for its useful vantage and strategic defensive position. The arriving zealots had observed natives worshipping standing stones, more ancient than the predeluvian cultures of hyborea and Tartaria. Such megaliths were known to hold great arcane power. The priests need only convince the tribes that power was theirs, a demonstration of their gospels infallibility, done easily within a generation. Priests controlled education, taste, oversaw cultural changes, discarded blasphemous and mysterious rites. Soon the brood knew nothing of the traditions held by their forebears. An epoch of strife began.'

'Ah. So the priests came, withstood the assault and incorporated existing idols into their own pantheon? How cunning, deceitful and a tragedy I should say too.'

'All-seeing though their God was, people will always do as they please. The old ways survive unchanged, even to this day the older townsfolk meet for the mysteries. When Fergus and I were bairns enormous crowds travelled from far afield to celebrate the imbolc, until she rooted out the cairn and left the church to rack and ruin. It shouldn't have been allowed.' Lar nodded, the ire of its sundering still upon him fresh, running like new fire in his veins and I saw with each clumping step he drove the point of his boot into the soft ground, like a knight's lance in a fallen pikeman's back, spending his annoyance in this manner.

When I saw his shoulders raise with tension lifted and gait restored, I probed further. 'Do you know the priest?'

'Er - yes. Tarbuck I think his name was.'

'What about Talbot - as in Talbot Church?'

Lar raised a suspicious brow, like a furtive otter arching from the swell, they were thin, brown and sleek, I'd say manicured if I didn't know him better, but I suppose I did not know him well at all. His mouth began to turn and I watched him, trying to clear my mind in anticipation of inquest. At last he spoke most considered, rising to be heard over Fergus' hyucking. 'Yes I suppose that sounds right. Talbot. Couldn't tell you more. Why are you asking if you already know? If I didn't know better, I'd say you're withholding information, partner.'

'You wouldn't believe me if I told you.' What could I tell him? That I had seen a faceless priest with mucky vestments out for a midnight walk? Where did I see him? Funny you should ask, in bed. In bed? Well, yes. I was in bed, but my mind was to the church called be the peal of silent bells. No, it was best to withhold until I knew more, and still all this time there was the beast, presumably furious at having been picked second.

I was met with silence. More space came between us. Knowing Lar and Fergus would soon disappear from sight, I was forced to shout over the wind, 'Why did she move the Cairn?'

Lar shrugged again. True to his word, he could not tell more than that. 'Winter.'

I had thought much since waking from the dream, about the church and lady Sizemore, about the familiar priest and the sympathetic plight implied in his step and dimmed blue eyes. I had forgotten much of the dream's stark imagery. Only this impression of the man burying his secrets and his spade daubed in clay remained. I found most curious the cairn's relocation. Lar had not seemed confident imparting the reason for its transfer, that Lady Sizemore was told the house wouldn't stand another winter despite having done so two hundred years; to me, that seemed a spurious motive and something worth inquiry.

Dawnflame pulsed in seductive ruby, splintering to a prism that dazzled in its royal array, from bold scarlet to princely vermilion, and in that sanguine bank we found hopeful portent. Other larks stirred from roadside redoubts to wave passage. Husbandmen mostly, any whose labours were bound to the rueful star's whim. Breaking from the road we made for pasture, cutting due Northwest across the plain. Dawn's jewels, stars of morning which are night's silver sisters, sundered underfoot, brittle things past season returning to aether.

Lar and Fergus scouted ahead, rudely parading superior vigour. They whispered among themselves. Fifty years old the pair of them, they still moved like Herne the hunter through all terrains. Fergus gave credence to the theory empty vessels howl loudest, guffawing at every ribaldry Lar conjured from the sewer he called a brain. With spare breath I might have cursed them, but my fury came a decliate whisper, peeling like nighttime bells; loudly and to no one. I wished barren the bellies of the sows that held them.

Ego as engine, for a furious mile I kept pace, propelled solely by a need for petty victory. Predictably, for those bones had long been cast, I quickly slowed back to a sad trudge, slower than my previous languid pace.

Themselves ramblers taking long walks for leisure, Lar and Fergus waited at each fence feigning to check their watches, teasing with so many rests between arrivals a man might never tire. Gladly I obliged, quipping Aesop's lessons were lost to them. What else had I but meek agreement. Nod and smile, chaste to make a Roman wife blush, icily injecting scorn where possible unnoticed.

At length the naked path yielded to thick woodland more typical of the region. We pushed through the system of unbowed oaks, which cast snake haired shadows where light could penetrate. Further the branches enclosed to a dome, stealing our brave shadows. Little rest we took in the maze's darkest sectors. Badger, fox and mole strode brazen, unfamiliar and unafraid. At the helm, Lar thought himself Alexander in Hanyson, immortal thirst his guiding star. I remembered how ended that tale.

How hard it seemed rising after only a moment stilled. How quickly a hard-earned graceful step replaced by rhythmless clomping. It was not until several minutes treading passed that semblance of form returned, and soon after, the next reluctant stop, the mossy bank where last we halted still visible shortly behind.

For a time there was sun. Golden fire, faint and pale beyond a tattered veil. The aperture seized before our eyes until only A crescent of light remained, the golden torc of Ulaid.

This terse land existed long before man's dominion and would reign unchanged in the wake of our expiry. Here she gave no quarter. Gaia dressed for war in all her plate. All twisted briar and stinging barbs, long tunnels of night giving to treacherous muddy groves where a man might be taken by the bog and the old things therein.

'Where in jezebel's saucehole are we?" I planted myself. Thought I of Ephialtes leading Persians through the pass, cursed by the gods to wear his inner treachery outwardly.

Fergus deferred to Lar's judgement. Solomon-like, Lar waved our wagons halted. He tossed the empty skins to Fergus. 'Fill these' he said, miming drinking.

While the Giant fetched pales Lar prodded the scant briar. 'Say Lar.' He bid me sit upon a raised bank.

'You look like shit.'

'Not so bad yourself' I wheezed. 'Truly do we have to go so fast? Is it so far we can't mosey, even just for a mile? I've done walking but this is hoplite stuff.'

'Deal.' Lar wanted to sit but he didn't. He stood, knees taxed, breath compromised, but he stood. Nothing to prove and still at attention. One could not deny his character.

We watched Fergus' return, arms extended like some horror out of Jotunheim. Wet cloth clung to his forearms like setting plaster, arousing suspicions he had endured some minor aquatic tragedy. My dry mouth prevented inquiry. I snatched the skin and quaffed generously, muttering thanks. Quite unsympathetically, I had to force myself not to ask 'Water we going to do now?' or comment that it was growing colder the further we went up, in fact 'ri-very cold.'

I produced a flask. Cursed with muteness, Fergus could not explain what manner of calamity had befallen him. Louder his teeth clacked. A mirror pool formed about his feet, spreading wider until he stood aft a glass plinth. I offered a lash. The whiskey shot fire through his veins. His eyes bulged as the water of life reignited the dampened kindling of his passions.

Lar, hitherto predisposed with watering of a different sort, emerged fastening his trousers and immediately noted something awry. He lifted his chin an inch, gave us the once over and bounded towards Fergus. He took a clump of wet tweed and squeezed until it wept through his clenched fist. 'Christ. What happened?'

Lar claimed little of Fergus remained. A friendly shade of what once he was. He assured me what others perceived as emotion was mere instinct. Nerves and twitches, mimicked gestures. Still I swore he had recognised his own foolishness at having fallen into the stream. How shyly he stared to his feet, if only for one moment of divine clarity.

Lar was concerned about Fergus' garments. Wet clothes would spell disaster for the burgeoning expedition. I offered my scarf. Lar followed suit. Like a freed condemned, he slipped the coarse rag from around his own neck. Flattened parallel, they formed a hugging shawl around his sodden shoulders. Gently, by degrees, we warmed Fergus. He took another swig from the flask. In his gargantuan hands, fingers like rolling pins splayed across its scratched surface, the flask appeared little more than a doll's trinket.

Upon imbibing the second drop, revelling its minor anaesthetic quality, his cheeks flashed pink, rouge to blush a whore. When great cities crumbled and ancient wisdoms were lost, when mankind regressed to a baser form, bestial and philistine, beloved of ignorance, the denizens of ancient Ireland had brewed this potent potable, and on its warmth resisted the great debasement. Fire exhumed ice in his veins. The fire of life; the fire of the elixir I had given him, which of old the anointed ones consumed seeking arcane knowledge, devolving their mind to its primal state, therein discovering secrets lost to time.

Ahead the vanguard, Lar spied him first. A shambling form moving quick through the trees. With a limp wave he halted us. Behind we mimed his stoop. On haunches he held the order with a trembling hand, for which we never blamed him. Everyone had reached the same conclusion; the beast was upon us. We had wished without proper consideration. Now our twisted desire was made flesh. From the underworld the beast reeking of acrid smoke had clawed, toxic miasma from the foundries of hell in heady tendrils about its paws.

Gradually the amorphous form revealed contours most corporeal; those of an older man, sweeping towards us at a markedly unsupernatural pace. He moved furtively, shoulders raised to his ears protectively, eyes deep set and impatient. Closer he came until he stood before us on the crest of a mossy embankment. He stood still for address, unsure if we were brigands, bounty hunters or worse. He cast a long glance over each of us in turn, tracing our brows, testing the mettle behind our eyes, down the chest to the navel, to our stained feet and upward again. He shoved a letter into his pocket and I saw on his ringfinger he wore an enormous golden signet, though I could not discern any detail in the dimness.

With his green gillet stained polkadot and wild sideburns adjoining beard and hair, he appeared more victorian eccentric than hiker. I soon learned that his name was Dalliard, a local with roots deeper than those from which his wiry gruaig sprang, a mad albino nest atop his wisened head. He spoke with a thick lilt, a strange medley of gaelic and slang, almost saxon sounding if I didn't know the name Dalliard wasn't Northon. He was assuredly a kill-your-son-and-live-with-your-wife-in silence-for-twenty-years-over-the-lend-of-a-spade type.

Beneath his snowy bristles lay zit red cheeks. I imagined his mouth when it moved as a bubbling postule, his tongue glorious pus emerging like a curious worm's head. As he elbowed past I caught his eye, or rather disturbed him rudely staring. Next I wondered whether the creases on his brow were newly formed, ever present or mere projections of my exhausted, possibly delirious state. No, unmistakably this Dalliard recognised me. Something he saw worried him. Probably some pervert up to no good in the old churchyard, worried we would stumble upon his vile derelictions. Perhaps some looter of antiquities, wondering if I'm here for the same. All this passed in a moment, soon he was long passed and speaking overshoulder.

'Up ahead' he panted, mopping his brow with an overworked handkerchief, 'it levels out. Push on. No more'n a mile. If the kirkyard is left, you've got it. If it steepens again, ye've strayed.'

'The light fades quick. Careful on your way. Don't dally.' Lar called after sardonically.

Emboldened by closeness we came on fast to devour the remaining track, leaping from ledge to mossy shelf with educated precision like trained fleas. How quickly one became accustomed to difficulty; it was not hard to see how we proliferated across every inch of the globe, until even the secret and sacred places of the world were sullied by our refuse; their tranquility strangled by our inanities. Without fire to christen me, mine had been a baptism by stone. Keeping in pace, I turned to Lar and Fergus. 'Know that Dalliard chap well, do you?'

'We don't send cards at Christmas. Lives on the other side of the valley. Different schools, different everything, same parish. Posh eccentric sort. Had some affiliations with the good lady. Why? I'm sure he'd love to take a lovely lass like you for a stew any evening of the year.' Lar bellowed.

'No, it's nothing. Curious

is all. Seemed a bit sketchy to me. Is he all there?'

'Oh yes, quite. Seemed sensible the few times we chanced to meet. Put it from your mind. We're almost there. I've thought of a question all of my own, fancy that, what's your name?'

'Aha.' I smiled. 'I thought you'd never ask.'

'Thought you'd never tell.' Lar smiled, for once unteasingly.

'It's Bastable.' I answered with surprising pride.

'What Bastable?' Lar asked.

'Mr. Bastable will suffice, thank you.'