Ronnie Corbett, Hamlet and ChatGPT

I have been using ChatGPT a lot, for all sorts of reasons, and I am wholeheartedly amazed by what it can do. I don't have any great technical knowledge and am just a regular user of technology, but to me this new facility is so extraordinary. It is showing us something of where we are heading with Artificial Intelligence.

My initial forays were just for fun, and in that regard, I asked it to rewrite Hamlet's famous soliloquy, that begins "To be, or not to be" in the style of a Ronnie Corbett story or monologue. To those that don't know, Ronnie Corbett is a much loved and missed British comedian, who was well known for telling long stories whilst sat on a comfortable chair. This was a regular feature on his show, The Two Ronnies, and they're funny not only because of the stories themselves, but the way he told them, with lots of incidental, circumlocutious remarks, in a meandering, whimsical fashion quite unlike the normal quick fire, punchline packed presentation of a stand up comedian. 

This is what ChatGPT produced in response to my earnest entreaty :

"Well, let me tell you a little story about a chap I once knew. He was having a bit of a tough time, you see. He was a bit down in the dumps, and he was feeling a bit sorry for himself.

So, he's sitting there, having a bit of a ponder, when he suddenly says to himself, 'To be or not to be...that is the question.'

And I said to him, 'Hold on a minute, old boy, what are you talking about?' And he says, 'Oh, it's just something I heard, about whether it's better to be alive or dead.'

Well, I couldn't help but laugh, I tell you. I mean, what kind of a question is that, eh?

But then he starts going on about the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and the heartache and the thousand natural shocks, and I'm thinking to myself, 'Good heavens, this chap is really taking it all to heart.'

And then he says, 'Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against a sea of troubles.'

Well, I couldn't help but chuckle, I tell you. I mean, what kind of a choice is that, eh? Take arms against a sea of troubles? I don't think so.

So I said to him, 'Listen, old boy, why don't you just have a cup of tea and put your feet up for a bit. I'm sure everything will look better in the morning.'

And you know what, he did just that. And the next day, he was as right as rain.

So, you see, sometimes, it's just a matter of perspective. To be or not to be...well, I think we all know the answer to that one, don't we?"

What I love about this is that ChatGPT hasn't just converted the text into the style of Ronnie Corbett, its spun Hamlet's beautiful exposition on existential angst into a ridiculously British take on the whole concept. Impressively, it isn't just glossing one thing into another, but giving the new creation a new direction, a facetious riposte to the notion of existential angst itself. This silly example of the creative or generative facility the software humorously demonstrates how powerful and subtle AI can be. 

On summarising Proust

by Adam D.A. Manning

The legendary Monty Python's Flying Circus has a famous sketch concerning the All-England Summarize Proust Competition, and summarizing Proust is well recognised as a traditional activity for the literary minded.

My own attempt is as follows;

"Marcel Proust's novel, In Search of Lost Time, is a masterpiece of modernist literature and one of the most influential works of the 20th century. The novel is divided into seven volumes and explores themes of memory, time, love, art, and society.

The novel begins with the narrator, Marcel, reminiscing about his childhood in the French town of Combray. As he recounts his memories, he becomes obsessed with the idea of recapturing the past and sets out on a quest to do so.

Throughout the novel, Marcel reflects on his experiences with different parts of French society and his relationships with his family, friends, and lovers. He also explores the world of art and culture, attending parties and salons where he meets famous writers, artists, and intellectuals.

One of the central themes of the novel is the nature of memory and its relationship to time. Marcel is obsessed with the idea of recapturing the past, but he realizes that memories are often unreliable and that time changes the way we remember things. He also reflects on the fleeting nature of time and how it affects our perceptions of the world.

Another important theme is the nature of love and its relationship to art. Marcel's relationships with his lovers are complex and often fraught with tension, as he struggles to reconcile his desire for them with his own insecurities and fears. He also explores the role of art in shaping our perceptions of the world and the way we experience emotions.

The novel is also a social commentary on French society and its cultural and political values. Marcel observes the changing social dynamics of his time and the impact of the war on French society. He also reflects on the role of class, gender, and sexuality in shaping people's lives and experiences.

Throughout the novel, Proust uses a unique narrative style that combines elements of stream of consciousness, memory, and introspection. His prose is rich and evocative, painting vivid pictures of the people, places, and experiences that shape Marcel's life.

In Search of Lost Time is a deeply introspective and philosophical novel that explores some of the most fundamental questions of human existence. It is a book that has had a profound influence on modern literature and continues to be read and admired by readers around the world."

Of course, in Monty Python, the summariser only has fifteen seconds into which they must summarise À la recherche du temps perdu.  At an average speaking speed of 150 words per minute, this is only forty words, and so my attempt to summarise Proust in such an abbreviated manner is as follows:

"In Search of Lost Time is a seven-volume novel by Marcel Proust that explores themes of memory, time, love, art, and society, and uses a unique narrative style that combines elements of stream of consciousness, memory, and introspection."

Identity, Imagination and Don Quixote

By Adam D.A. Manning

The Ingenious Nobleman Sir Quixote of La Mancha by Miguel de Cervantes (1547 to 1616), or as it is usually called, Don Quixote, has the remarkable distinction of being one of the first works recognised as that defining element of western literature, the novel.  That alone might make it worthy of consideration, but over the four centuries since its first publication, Don Quixote has often been celebrated as one of the best novels ever; that is, it is often regarded as one of the greatest literary works of all time.

Don Quixote is easy to summarise simply.  Alonso Quixano, a middle aged Spanish nobleman, leads a quiet and easy life, until unaccountably becoming obsessed with the world of chivalry from incessantly reading epic tales of heroic knights of former ages. These imaginary legends fill up his thoughts so much, they sunder his grasp on reality and inspire him to become a knight himself. He swears an oath to become Don Quixote, a worthy knight who will champion the causes of justice and honour.  

Setting forth, his old horse Rocinate becomes his mighty steed and later a local farmer, Sancho Panza, becomes his squire.  What follows is an epic, rolling itinerary of often comical adventures and mayhem as Don Quixote pursues his holy quest with a righteous but misguided vigour and passion.  

Alonso Quixano’s perception is entirely subordinated to his self-created character of Don Quixote and the world must fit into this new vision.  An early encounter demonstrating his radical, novel outlook takes place at an undistinguished inn, which Don Quixote takes to be an imposing castle.  The ladies of the night to be found there are, to him, noble ladies of the realm and his visit ends up in a violent struggle, which to him is an honourable battle in which he must take part as a champion of righteousness.  All are baffled by Don Quixote’s extraordinary behaviour, and the other denizens of the inn take him to be a mad man. This is the theme of the piece - the concept of the self-created individual, who acts in accordance with their own vision of reality, regardless of worldly dangers and the bewilderment of those around them.  

Sancho Panza plays a role in balancing both of his master’s characters.  Whereas Alonso Quixano seems like a dry academic obsessed by a world of books and Don Quixote the fanatical, idealistic knight of legend, Sancho Panza is an earthy, practical man who has little time for learning.  Sancho regularly points out the lunacy inherent in Don Quixote’s plans but then carries on with them nevertheless, which much later on seems due to love and loyalty for his friend. Don Quixote acts from a set of virtues based on the code of the knights of former ages; Sancho acts generally out of self-interest.  For all Sancho Panza’s worldliness though, at least compared to his master, he still falls for Don Quixote’s promises of wealth and noble titles.  The glittering lure of the literary legends that have bewitched his master can still enchant even the pragmatic would-be squire when it comes to tales of riches.

It is tempting to a modern reader to think of Don Quixote in terms of role models but the concept involved has a timeless appeal.  We may be familiar with people who are inspired by characters from TV and film such as Captain Kirk, Superman or Doctor Who or more broadly from the culture around us, possibly as an amalgamation of many cultural sources.  The appeal is in the idea of cutting away society’s assigned silhouette for each of us, of not accepting the limitations of the ordinary, mundane life that many feel has been preordained for them, but instead reaching for a fantastic world of feeling and excitement, possibly more real to the individual than reality itself.

Don Quixote seeks to throw off his colourless, entirely uneventful existence for a far more attractive, thrilling life of never ending danger and adventure.  It is important to note that Alonso Quixano should be content - but he is not.  He is not poor or lacking in personal resources.  Yet his heart yearns for much more.  The question that speaks to us is, why let the events and environment around you dictate so much of who you think you are?  Why not set out on your own destiny?  Has the road this far which you have travelled along, conforming in so many ways, taken you to where you wanted, where you hoped or dreamed?  If not, why take one more step along that path but instead set off for a new journey, completely of your own creation.

In Don Quixote, it is literature that provides the answer to these questions. By making the legends come to life, Don Quixote seeks control of every facet of his existence; most importantly his own sense of self, his own character, his very being. To himself, he is never more real then when he takes on the identity of a fictional character, created from his own imagination.  Throughout the pages of Don Quixote, reality is constantly at battle with or overridden by the protagonist’s imaginary world. The reader is left questioning whether there is a real world out there or whether, to some degree, we are constantly acting in accordance with a world that is created out of our imagination. 

An implicit element of Don Quixote’s vision is that the world must now conform to his ideals, no matter what cost, and that he will no longer submit or accede to it on grounds of mere necessity or practicality, for ease or comfort.  Although the act of self-creation is centred on himself as the protagonist of his own life’s play, by extension all the world takes its place within the structure provided by the taking on of his imaginary character.

We often think of the idea of literature affecting or even invading the real world as a postmodern, metafictional idea yet this is the central theme of Don Quixote.  This theme is developed ingeniously and comically in the second part, published around a decade after the first.  In Part two, Cervantes assumes that the reader has read, or is at least familiar with, the first part of the adventures and also a series of fraudulent adventures written about Don Quixote by another author.  Don Quixote, Sancho Panza and other characters accordingly comment on both the original part and these other fake adventures and the reader enjoys the characters discussing literature both biographical (at least in terms of the novel’s characters) and fictional about themselves. 

Literature and story-telling have such powerful roles in our lives, even without realising it, that it is difficult to not think of ourselves as characters in the ongoing play of our lives.  When we recount events that have happened, particularly the important emotional dramas that we undergo, these are often versed in terms of characters and motivations.  Not many of us will undergo a personal conceptualisation as radical and thorough going as Don Quixote, but most of us will have a concept of ourselves and the type of person we think we are or wish we were. 

We use this concept in trying to understand and decide what we think we should do or how to be, in part to have some confidence in ourselves in coping with life. This self-image might range in precision from a rough idea of how we expect we might behave in a social situation all the way to a sophisticated philosophy of what it means to be a human and the nature of ethics or morality. 

Some people are capable of describing what they think of themselves and their character in detail or with a surprising degree of pride or forcefulness, verging on almost the defensive.  If they were to set this out to their friends and family, they may be surprised how little correlation their description might have with those nearest to them.  You may not be Alonso Quixano dreaming up Don Quixote, but your concept of yourself may still be somewhat misplaced or even fictional, at least in comparison to the accounts others may provide, especially in the area of what you would like or wish your character or personality to be and how generally people think of us. 

Some part of our self-image is likely to have an element that derives from our own imagination, drawn in large part from the culture that we observe around us, especially when considering our highest aspirations and ideals for ourselves and the lives we lead.  Don Quixote is merely the most extreme case of how many of us really think of ourselves.

The once well known phrase of tilting at windmills illustrates these ideas.  In a famous scene, Don Quixote takes a set of windmills to be ferocious giants ransacking the land.  Lance in hand, he sets forth to vanquish them, with disastrous results.  An allegory for too much of our own behaviour, this scene speaks to us of wasted energy and action spent on seeking to achieve misguided and possibly unachievable goals which we only pursue for distorted, misplaced ideals or desires that, if we are truly honest, we often do not really possess.

A noteworthy aspect of Don Quixote, especially given the age in which it was written, is the role of religion.  There is no reason to think that Cervantes was anything but a sincere Catholic and throughout the novel Don Quixote regularly professes his faith.  Yet aside from Don Quixote’s imaginary world of enchanters, sorcerers, giants and monsters, nothing supernatural happens in it at all.  Whilst many of the characters profess to be religious, there is little that anyone does that has any particularly religious nature to it, aside from various ceremonial activities.  The fantastic imaginary world of Don Quixote aside, the real world that is depicted is very much Sancho Panza’s world of practical action, pain, suffering and greed. Despite Cervantes’ presumed faith, the reader cannot help noting a certain scepticism, as if religion is no more real than Don Quixote’s world of wizards and dragons.  Don Quixote’s imaginary world does not need the intervention of the genuinely supernatural to sustain it; only his passionate commitment is required.

As a valorous knight, Don Quixote often proclaims his undying yet chaste love for Dulcinea, an imaginary lady he ranks as equivalent to a princess.  Utterly unattainable, his eternally unrequited love is part of the noble code of a knight.  This pure, virginal adoration of a member of the female sex is somewhat at odds with the regular appearance of prostitutes in the text.  Also, many of the stories told in the pages of Don Quixote include the appearance of dazzlingly beautiful young ladies, occasionally nude with only their long hair, Lady Godiva-like, to cover their modesty.  Young handsome men contend for the favours of these beauties, leading to a usually satisfactory conclusion.  Whilst the titular character may restrain himself to an idealised vision of courtly love, that’s certainly not how the rest of the cast behave.  The gently titillating eroticism that flickers every now and then takes us further away from a religious outlook on the world. 

Although by the end, Alonso Quixano gives up on being Don Quixote, the reader cannot help admiring him for his mad quest and extraordinary escapades.  Despite the mayhem and the disasters, he has lost nothing by taking on the role of the brave knight instead of spending more months alone in his library with his dry books. We feel that his experiment has been a success.  The reader has also gained so much from reading his enjoyable, crazy and often funny adventures and is challenged to consider what they too might make of themselves, how they might create their own being purely as an act of the imagination.  

We may not wish to take this to the preposterous extreme of Don Quixote, but there is genuine inspiration to take up symbolic arms and challenge the world with what we believe.  The genius of Cervantes is that his book is often given to children to read as an enjoyable and comical adventure whilst at the same time, other older readers think of it in profound terms as a guide to life, a Bible almost, that they treasure.    

Don Quixote can have even greater resonance in our present age, in which we are often viewed as mere consumers, our only genuinely creative influence being the provision of data about our choices in the goods and services we consume which feed algorithms which provide advertising to us. As our role as personalities degrades to the binary, flat abstractions of the digital world, Don Quixote and his wilful self-creation, of the creation of his own world, shines as a guiding light, intense with his determination and urgency to act. 

Milleniums of Jorth - Hafgurd's Axe

A bonus chapter from Milleniums of Jorth - it is now a thousand years after the Vikings discovered North America, which they call Vinland, and the Rainbow Bridge which connects Earth to Asgard, the home of the gods. Crossing the Rainbow Bridge brought about the Mythification, in which the gods walk the earth, mythical creatures come to life and magic is made real.  The Vikings conquer the new continent and in the centuries that follow come to dominate this new world. So, a thousand years after finding the Rainbow Bridge their empire stretches across the globe and none can challenge them. Why then do some speak of Ragnarök - the end of the world?

Milleniums of Jorth

Hafgurd's Axe

Strength is all.  Styrkason hefted the axe he grasped in his sweat-slippery palms, his tired arms aching with every move.

            “Too slow grizzled one!” roared Hafgurd as he leaped forward, his cheeks red from his exertions. Hafgurd’s blade chopped down but bit only empty air as Strykason slipped his leather-clad leg back out of its swing.

            Strength is all. His huge opponent slowed and bent low, recovering from his failed swing. Strykason’s chance had come at last. He both exulted at the opening his opponent had left him and despaired at the chance of missing it. With a desperate grunt he slung his axe in a sideways arc, arms buckling as the blade found it’s target in Hafgurd’s torso. The leather allowed by the rules of combat took some of the blow’s sting but still Hafgurd screamed in pain, dropped to the ground and cursed as he lay contorted on the arena’s floor.

            “Strength is all”, Strykason panted at the loser, “but there is more to strength than brawny arms and a big belly”. He too now slid to the floor, gasping for breath. Despite some small, bloody wounds he was relatively unhurt, though this never stopped the welling up of an awful nausea in him after a fight. This had been a fight that had gone on for far longer than usual. His forty-three years beginning to demand their toll no doubt.  Hafgurd’s life-force was now pooling red on the cold paving stones of the arena. Three physicians ran past Strykason to attend his enemy and, heeding them only a little, the victor struggled to his feet and limped to the door.

            Two and then three figures appeared in the doorway before him. He recognised one as a scribe in the service of the Royal Journal of Vinlandia, a blonde woman who’s writings were often blade sharp.  The others were unknown to him but seemingly of similar occupation. His heart dropped. He wanted little more now than to find himself on a mead-bench somewhere, slackening his thirst in the company of the other warriors of the Freelanders Guild.

            “Strength is all”, he reminded himself. How often had that pledge of the Guild carried him through conflicts of all kinds? How many times had he used it to bolster his courage to the edge of insanity? Sighing almost inaudibly, he readied himself to face the scribes. The presence of one from the Royal Journal did bring with it the chance of additional honour after all, he comforted himself, as it was an official body receiving the patronage of the King of Vinlandia. People all over the kingdom and even other parts of the Confederacy of Northmen relied on it to keep abreast of events.

            “Congratulations to you Vigfus Styrkason”, the gold-haired woman proclaimed at him, her voice flat and formal.  “You have bested Hafgurd, the greatest warrior of Danirgald.  How do you feel on winning against a man who once slew three Anglish earl’s in a single, royal tournament?” 

            “He was a worthy adversary and the honour of my victory is only increased by his skill and wide repute”, Strykason answered, equally formally.  “But I was surprised by his style. Those from Danirgald or Angland for that matter normally fight with more guile.  Hafgurd just wanted to bash me into the flag stones. Odin’s grace, may the All-Father be honoured, and my horde of war-lore proved rich enough to buy his defeat.”

            “Vigfus,” one of the two male scribes interrupted, “you were once a warrior in the King’s army.  But now you’re a poorly fed mercenary on the border with the Aztecan Empire, spending your time looking for demons and avoiding capture for sacrifice.  Are you looking for your old job back?”, he asked, his bald head seemingly glowing in the orange illumination from the torches lighting the passage leading away from the arena’s floor.

            “Though I remember my time in service to King Wilgrim with pride and fondness, my duties now are still fulfilling and challenging. I have many friends amongst the Apache and Pima Skraeling nations. I’m looking forward to returning there after I received my award.”  His years in the King’s service had also taught him something of the diplomat’s skills as well as finessing him as a warrior, but all the same he could feel the bile rising at the taste of this questioning. Or perhaps he still felt sick from the fight.

            “Yes, but what about the ceremonial armour, the portraits, the flights in the wyvern cavalry? Surely desert life can’t live up to that?”

            “There are other things that a man may seek as reward for his life-battle.  Now, I must retire so I am ready to speak at the King’s ceremony of champions.”  Strykason marched away, his face grim, glad that for once he had been able to avoid any questions about elven mistresses or walking the silver pathway to Trollheim.

            Some hours later, the ceremony completed, Strykason sat in a tavern, brooding.  King Wilgrim, whom Strykason had met only once before, was a good man. He had a fine head of silver hair, a face as beautiful as Baldr, most beloved of all the gods, and he wore his exquisite golden chain mail armour like a second skin.  Vinlandia had indeed been blessed by the All-Father with such a great ruler.  The King had presented Strykason with his award, a miniature silver version of the iron hammer wielded by Thor the thundergod. It had been whispered beforehand that Thor himself would be present at the ceremony, but apparently the storm god had learned of an avalanche in the homeland of Norsica and had flown there to help.

            But it was not the absence of the Thundergod at his moment of new victory that saddened the veteran.  Though he would never, ever recount this to another, the champion secretly thought that some of the mortal men he had met and fought alongside were more worthy warriors than Thor.  He could barely think this to himself, as heretical as it was.  Only once had Strykason seen the god in combat and that was during the third Skraeling War a dozen years previously.  Then, to him, it had seemed Thor was given to moments of hesitation and self-doubt, something unworthy in a deity said to have battled all manner of giants and trolls in his youth before the Mythification that had bought Midgard and Asgard together.

            Nevertheless, a gloom did indeed seem cast over Strykason, it’s dark cloak spread around him whichever way he turned. The scribe’s earlier words came back to him, an old sore that had never healed completely.  It was true that the border with the Aztecan Empire was now uneventful.  When he had first arrived, the Aztecan warriors atop their flying demons were a common sighting. Now they were a rarity.  The worshippers of Heimdall, the secret, Royal cult who were said to see and hear all things, had reported to the King that the Aztecans were now at war with their southern enemy and paid little heed to events to the north.

            Likewise, relations with the Skraeling nations had become peaceful. The worst of the hatred between their people and the Northmen had been burnt out by the barbarity of the three Skraeling Wars. The first had been fought over eight hundred years ago, a century and a half after the discovery of Vinlandia and the Mythification which had allowed the gods to rule on earth as they did in heaven.  This war was due to the Northemen’s penetration into the traditional Skraeling lands on the west side of Vinlandia and had dealt the natives a bloody defeat. 

            The second was fought almost exactly five hundred years later and this time was started deliberately by the Northmen, led in devastating fashion by Thor.  In those times, shortly after his rebirth on Jorth, Thor had loved the carnage and spectacle of war like a baby loves his mother.  It finished almost as soon as it had started and it too was a humiliation of the Skraelings. 

            A score of years ago came the last war.  This was a more protracted conflict with long periods of inactivity. It had lead to a stalemate.  The Skraelings for the first time had relied on much magical weaponry.  Not only did their shamans cast spells to embolden the braves and sharpen their arrows but also ghostly bears and phantom wolves struck down many Northmen warriors.  It had been thought that the Aztecan Empire had assisted them with their sophisticated sorcerous arts.  Eventually, after nearly a decade of intermittent bloodshed, a peace was made and now many Northmen and Skraelings thought of themselves as brothers.

            Lost in this haze of historical speculation, Strykason paid no attention as a female figure sat at a stool two yards from him. Why then, he pondered, was he downcast, like a warrior who wins the battle only to find he has lost his war-bretheren in the struggle? But he knew the answer. It was his wyrd, the inevitable sense of foreboding and doom that all mortal men felt as a chill breath on their souls.  A man could fight and win all his life but one day the end would come all the same.

            Death to a warrior meant his spirit would be taken to Valhalla across the Rainbow Bridge, there to feast all night and fight all day in the company of the gods. Yet even the gods were prisoners to the Fates and their own wyrd. One day the end would come to even them.  He gazed into the remaining inch of ale at the bottom of his glass that he was just about to finish. There was end to all things.

            “Is this a private wake or can I join in too”, a woman’s voice asked beside him, straining to sound humorous. Turning, he recognised the Royal Journal’s scribe again.

            “Please sit and talk. I’d love the company”. The earnestness of his reply surprised Strykason.  He felt as if the combination of her golden beauty and sparkling happiness would blind him in the darkness of the deep well in which he sat.

            “Well, that’s a different tale from this afternoon”, she mused, ordering a glass of mead for herself.  They talked pleasantly but politely about the fight with Hafgurd, the ceremony and the King. Strykason, supping easily on the ale the scribe bought, felt he was being softened up for something, a poor swordsman being toyed with by a master, but he was enjoying the first feminine companionship for months and did not care.

            “So what do your duties at the Royal Journal keep you busy with?” he enquired, trying to turn back the conversation to her, hoping this would throw her off whatever it was she sought. Her easy, casual manner of speech told him that she did not spend as much time in temple as she should.

            “A really disturbing story as it happens.  Men and women up and down the eastern coast, being killed.  And not just your normal local murders or Freyadarg mayhem after the mead-shop shuts either.”  Her story-telling seemed to catch him in her web.   “Their minds or their souls, being eaten from inside out.  Like a worm eating an apple from the core outwards.  They look as healthy as you or I on the outside, but inside? Well, it, whatever it is, turns normal folk into slavering, crazy berserkers. And it’s only getting worse.” 

Lyanna and the Palace of the Moon Elves

Lyanna and the Palace of the Moon Elves

A fairy tale to be read out loud

by Adam Manning

Many hundreds of years ago in a far away land there lived a girl called Lyanna. She worked for the Sultan who ruled that land. He was very rich but had a temper as bad as a troll with a splinter stuck in its eye. Lyanna was a good girl and a friend to all. One day a man that had the body of a giant scorpion came to the tower's door, asking if they had any soup to spare. The guard at the gate was ready to slice off the poor beast's tail with his scimitar but instead Lyanna befriended him and gave him not only soup but bread as well. This was the first time that Lyanna liked someone everyone else thought of as an enemy.

        As Lyanna grew into a young woman, she showed this affection for others who were looked on as strange by less kindly folk. Although she stayed in the confines of the tower, her spirit often felt as though it soared into the air like a hawk or spread out across the land like blossom from an apple tree. She was kept there by the lazy Sultan because he had seen Lyanna's growing beauty and wanted to marry her soon. Though Lyanna was like a prisoner, she still felt free.

        This feeling shone from Lyanna as if she were one of those glowing crystals that you can find in caves. So great was it that others could feel it too: not the people living in her own land (who were a mean lot in those days) but some magical people living far away. These were the moon elves. They lived far above the air in a place no-one knew about, because it was hidden by a fold in the sky. They lived on the Moon, which we can see now at night or sometimes in the day but couldn't be seen at all then. They also had seen her being friendly to everyone, including the goat men who had travelled a long way to meet her, and they wondered if she might be their friend too. As no-one from the world had ever been to the Moon, they had to help her.

        So they sent a flying carriage to collect her. It landed at night-time beside the tower when only Lyanna was still awake, working hard as usual, scrubbing the ramp that lead to the gate. When she saw the carriage she was scared. It was pulled by a team of five giant snails, each with two heads. The carriage itself was like a huge silver egg, encrusted with rubies. Then the driver came over to Lyanna. He had a pumpkin where normal people have a head and black, shiny fur where normal people have skin. Lyanna stood trembling as the pumpkin-man reached behind himself to get something.

        Right beside Lyanna was the alarm bell she could have rung to fetch the guard. They would have captured the driver for sure and put him in jail but instead Lyanna decided to trust him. Eventually he produced a silver box and opened it. Inside was a red, mushy lump. The driver told Liana to eat some and she did. It was sweet and very good.

        Then the driver beckoned Lyanna to get into the carriage, whose door he had just opened. This was the first time anyone had been kind to Lyanna and she agreed. With that the driver commanded the snails to fly off and they did so, spreading wings that looked like those of a dragon. They soared into the air and soon left the tower far below.

        As they flew up they first passed some thin children with spears in their hands and fairy wings on their back. These children warned them not to go any further. At this, Lyanna was frightened again. The driver ignored them and they flew up even higher. Soon the Winds blew up and flew alongside the carriage. One of them laughed threateningly at Lyanna and the others rocked the carriage from side to side until the driver fell off and plummeted to the earth. No-one saw him again. Now Lyanna was both scared and angry, for she had quite liked the pumpkin-man.

        Eventually the Winds got bored with playing with the carriage and just let it fly on aimlessly, pulled by the giant snails. They kept near it though and now Lyanna could see how they played amongst themselves. They were very rough, hitting each other and wrestling all the time. Often they hurt one another and although some of the time they had quite a lot of fun, they also just made themselves angry a lot of the other time. Lyanna did not like this and decided to teach them a new game. This was the game of "It" where someone is it and has to catch all the others. The Winds thought this was the best game they had ever played and enjoyed it a lot. Now they didn't have to hurt each other to have fun. One of them, the North Wind, even let Lyanna climb on his back for a while and when they were together they were always the winners; the fastest and most cunning. The North Wind now laughed for fun and not so as to scare people.

        When they had finished playing, the Winds started to feel sorry for having tipped the driver off of the carriage. They wanted to help her and asked Lyanna where she was going. She said she did not know. The East Wind (the wisest) knew that only the moon elves used dragon-snails to pull carriages and said Lyanna must be going to the  Moon. Then the South Wind (the bravest) said they should take her there. The North Wind agreed and they all pushed the carriage upwards. After a while they reached the fold in the sky. The West Wind (the strongest) realized the fold was actually part of a huge, ancient net. He blew right up to it and, using all of his muscles, tore a hole straight through it.

Through this they could see the Moon and the Winds landed the carriage on it. The Winds told Lyanna that they weren't really allowed to be there and had to go. She thanked them for their help and promised to always teach them new games and tricks, a promise she keeps to this day. After they had gone, Lyanna was alone until a monster with a man's body and an octopus for a head approached her. He bent down and Lyanna patted him on the head. Then he gave her a piggy-back across the valleys and mountains of the Moon. He carried her like this all the way to the palace of the moon elves.

        This was no ordinary palace. It's walls were black and shiny, reflecting the light of the stars. It's roof was made of silver and would have covered all of her city with room to spare. As she watched, she saw that the palace moved slowly across the plain of red dust. It was as if it slithered along as a slug does. The octopus-headed man deposited her at the gate and she had to run to keep up with the door as the palace moved on. She managed to fling it open and jumped inside.

        All was darkness and gloom until she came to the innermost chamber, where the Council of Moon Elves were. They were each short and thin, with crimson skin. Their eyes were large, round and stared lifelessly at her as she walked in. She did not like this place: the air seemed to hum with weird magical energy. Though they did not stop her from wandering where she would within the palace, the moon elves placed invisible barriers on the doors, preventing her from leaving. Eventually she returned to the chamber where the elder moon elves had remained, waiting expectantly.

She felt the emptiness within them and in the palace. It seemed as if nothing had changed there since the start of time. And although the moon elves had given her nothing but indifference, had offered her no meal but silence and had made her nothing but lonely, she sought to return to them all that she could. With that she reached inside herself and released all the beauty within her in a long, melodious song. It was as if she turned herself inside out, revealing her true nature. Shortly, several of the moon elves started blinking. Then one hummed uncertainly, then another whistled and finally two burst into song as well; a chirping accompaniment to Lyanna. Soon all within the chamber were doing something, whether it was merely twitching their pointed ears in time to the music, stamping their feet or laughing and cheering. Some even conjured bizarre instruments to play with out of the air, such as long, twisted horns and fiddles with only one string yet three bows. Where gloom had reigned before, now glee filled every nook, crevice and crack in the chamber as it was flooded with Lyanna's song.

She did not stop there. As the moon elves played and sang, she began to dance. Sometimes her dancing was slow and gentle, like a mother rocking her child to sleep. Other times it was fast and wild as if she was possessed by a banshee. Always it suggested the circle of life and death with twists and falls. Another miracle happened then: the chamber lit up with a brilliant light and along all the walls and ceilings of the palace, works of art grew from the red rock. On some walls, a painting of a beautiful creature appeared. In the middle of the chamber, an enormous statue of an antelope standing triumphantly on a mountain-top grew out of the ground. The whole palace changed in this way as if it were a living thing as Lyanna danced around it, followed by the beaming moon elves.

After all this was done, the moon elves gave her a meal of the same red mushy stuff the pumpkin-man had given her before. They realized she wanted to go back to her world, but they now loved her too much to be able to let her go. Once again Lyanna was almost like a prisoner but again she always felt her spirit reach beyond the confines of her pleasant prison.

For many years Lyanna was kept like this and she became a full-grown woman. Over that time she had begun to love her new home, with its groves of crystal- flowers and zoos of quartz animals. Her years there had also changed her; her hair had changed from being blonde to a sparkling ruby red. Her eyes now shone redly too. In a way she now felt as if she were of two worlds, but her longing to see the earth never quite left her. She was sad some of the time.

Those on the earth wanted to see her too. The strangers she had befriended all missed her and wanted her back so she could cast her friendship magic on them again. They had told their friends about her and they had told their friends, and so on until her legend had spread throughout the whole of the land. As she was no longer there to teach them about peace and love, many wars had started and much hate and anger was abroad in the land. Even the Sultan missed her, not only because he wanted to marry her but also because he had been used to her happy smiles and hard work around his tower. With all this sadness, finally even the earth herself wanted Lyanna back. So the earth looked up and found the direction Lyanna had sent her spirit when it had soared up through the air and beyond the sky. The earth collected up all the spirits of those who wanted to see Lyanna again into a long rope and threw it up until it tied onto the net that was the fold in the sky behind which the Moon hid.

Then something amazing happened. The earth, using the rope as a guide, threw part of herself up into the air, making a bridge. Upwards the earth thrust her bridge until it got to the net that is the fold in the sky. Where the rope had tied itself onto the net, the bridge smashed straight through, tearing the net to pieces. With the fold in the sky gone, the Moon was now visible to everyone on the world below for the first time. Then the earth-bridge crashed into the palace of the moon elves, right near Lyanna's bedroom. She came out to see what had happened and was astonished to see the huge bridge spanning the great gap between the Moon and the earth below. It was lined on either side by all her friends: goat men, pumpkin-men, octopus-heads, humans, green elves, dwarves and many others. The moon elves said they were sorry they had not been strong enough to overcome their love for her to let her go as she had wanted. Lyanna forgave them and then set off down the bridge to the earth.

On the way down, some Winds from a tribe different from the one Lyanna had met sought to destroy the bridge. But the North Wind and his tribe blew in to protect her and fought these other Winds. Their fierce battle merely added to the spectacle of her descent.

Once on the earth again, it seemed as if she were young once more: for every seven years that had passed on the Moon, only one had passed on the earth. The powers she had gained on the Moon were still strong though and her friendship magic spread throughout all the countries of the world. Where the earth-bridge had been torn from the ground, there was now a huge crater. On it's rim Lyanna created a great city with walls as tall as mountains and inside  you can find anything you desire. That city is the city we live in today. Lyanna became a wise Queen and all who loved her knew true happiness.

The Moral of the Story: Always return Hate with Love, for one day an enemy may become a friend.

The Golden Peacock of Cheldari

 The Golden Peacock of Cheldari

A fairy tale to be read out loud

by Adam Manning 

 

Lyanna and her cat Ribbles had, at long last, escaped from the townhouse that belonged to her uncle, the notoriously mean cobbler, Master Firebeard.  Her bad uncle was always thinking of things for Lyanna to do round the house, such as sweep up the cobwebs in his workshop, or sort out big sacks of shoes into matching pairs. She was never allowed to play with the other children, but today her uncle had decided he had been too hard on her in the past and let her go out into the town on the condition that she promised to be back by sunset.

The cobbled streets of the town were wide and long and soon the pair got totally lost, though Ribbles was not worried.  “Never mind”, he said. “If we keep going, we are always where we are, wherever we go”, he said, for he was a wise as well as brave ginger cat and had read many ancient scrolls on philosophy.  They had lots of fun looking round about and soon came to the part of the town where the temples to the ten thousand gods were. They passed many strange priests, wizards and nuns.  Some were clad in purple sheets from head to toe, looking as if they were in bed asleep even while they walked up and down. Others wore tall caps that made their heads look as if they scratched the sky and tickled the clouds.

On the next street corner, they found a statute of a gold peacock which caught the eye. It was about half as tall as a man. Ribbles, in particular, liked it for it was almost (though not quite) the same colour as his fur and he went up and rubbed it with his face. At once a fat genie popped into existence and floated over to them with a beaming grin on his face. “Hello!” he enthused. “My name is Cheldari. I am the genie of the golden peacock”. His fat fingers fidgeted as he spoke. “I am able to grant three wishes to whoever should call on me.”

Lyanna thought at first that Ribbles should have the wishes. It was he after all who had made the genie appear. But it soon became clear that there was nothing that Ribbles wished for and so Lyanna quickly decided to make a wish instead.  “I wish for, umm, a beautiful red silk jacket.”

“Ah ha”, the genie chuckled, “that is easy.” And with that a gorgeous scarlet jacket appeared around Lyanna, replacing the previous dull brown coat she had worn.  “And the next wish?”, the genie asked, bobbing up and down in the air.  Lyanna looked at her beloved ginger cat.

            “I wish for a black velvet collar studded with diamonds for Ribbles.” With a wave of his chubby hand, the genie made a collar studded with diamonds for her cat.  Although Ribbles had said he didn’t want anything, he couldn’t quite contain his pleasure in receiving this present and looked as though he was the smartest cat in town.

            “And now your last wish?” the genie asked.  This time Lyanna thought long and hard. She wanted it to be a really good wish as it was going to be her last. Finally she looked at the golden peacock.

            “I wish that the golden peacock could carry me and Ribbles on its back and fly off into the sky.” The genie looked a little dismayed and Lyanna wondered if she had wished for something that was a little too hard.  But the genie waved his arms, said some magical words and the peacock began to grow in size.  It soon became as tall as a house and stooped down for Lyanna and Ribbles to climb on its back. Then it shook its wings and swooped up into the air just as some soldiers with swords drawn ran up to see what was going on.  The peacock took off and was soon soaring along at about the height of two trees above the town.

Lyanna was enthralled and sat at the base of the peacock’s neck, lounging on its golden feathers. Even Ribbles was mildly impressed and he walked casually down to the head and sat on top, looking out. It seemed as though he was guiding its flight. Soon they had left the town far behind and flew over mile upon mile of countryside.  They soared over the seashore where a fishing village stood and saw a gigantic lobster bigger than the village trying to eat the villagers! Two men, one with a giant axe and the other with a sword, were trying to see it off. They swept on and came to a jungle. Three large tigers stood in a clearing and as they flew over, Ribbles spat angrily at them safe in the knowledge that they couldn’t get him.

On and on they flew for many hours. Soon the world became a cold, snowy place and Lyanna wondered when it was going to land. She was hungry and wanted to go home. She even missed her uncle.  She beseeched the golden peacock to go down and stop, implored it go back and shouted at it too listen to her.  But it carried on regardless. Ribbles rubbed the golden peacock again as he had before in the street and again the genie appeared.  “What is it now?” the genie asked, somewhat less amiable than it had been.

            “Make it stop”, Lyanna pleaded.

            “That wasn’t part of your wish”, answered the genie smartly.  “You asked me to make it fly and make it carry you. There was nothing said about making it stop”.

            “You must be able to do something”, Lyanna begged, tears in her eyes.

            “No, I’m sorry. I’m bound by the promise that I made to you to grant your wishes. Goodbye.” And with that he disappeared with a popping sound. The golden peacock flew on and it had already become night.  Lyanna was very cold and wrapped the red jacket around her more tightly to keep warm.

            In the town, Bad Uncle Master Firebeard wondered where his niece had got to. Despite all his meanness, he loved Lyanna and was very worried about her. Lyanna wasn’t to know, but her uncle was secretly a feared sorcerer, one of the most powerful magicians in the country who only pretended to be a cobbler.  He looked into his magical shoe-chest that always answered his questions. “Where is my niece?” he asked and the chest showed him. He was amazed by what he saw. But he still knew what to do. He cast a spell and magically tied a thousand shoe-laces together to make a long lasso. Climbing out onto his roof in the middle of the night when everyone else was tucked up in bed, he twirled the lasso round his head.  Longer and longer the shoe-laces became until up in the sky it whirled round half of all the world. It finally caught the golden peacock around its neck.

Bad Uncle Master Firebeard pulled and pulled and with a mighty tug, which loosened one or two of the tiles on his roof, he pulled the golden peacock in. Finally it landed on top of his roof, loosening more roof tiles. Lyanna and Ribbles hopped off the golden peacock. Lyanna was overjoyed to be home and hugged her uncle. Her uncle was happy to see her as well and even gave her a little smile and a pat on the head. Ribbles ran into the house to see if anybody had left him anything to eat in his bowl.

            “That genie was the genie of big promises”, her uncle explained, “and I think there is a lesson for you in that.” They went in and everyone was much the wiser for what had happened, apart of course from Ribbles. The golden peacock took off and can be seen to this day flying about. He became their friend and still lays them a golden egg the size of a pig every night there is a full moon.

Milleniums of Jorth - Chapter Three ...

A story set a thousand years ago, in which Viking explorers discover North America (or Vinland) and in doing so, find Bifrost, the legendary bridge to Asgard!  Read Chapter 2 first! 

Milleniums of Jorth

by Adam Manning

 Chapter 2

Bridge of Death

The three Kristians, Kalf, Ivar and Gunnar, turned away from their Captain, their features screwed up with dismay. “You cannot worship the old gods, Captain. They are sent by the Devil himself”, Kalf begged his old friend.

            “No. For the first time I see with eyes that shine like the full moon on a cloudless night”, Leif retorted, growing angry at their continual questioning. Kalf turned, hands on his enormous hips, to look back down the hillock to the forest floor below.

            “Brothers, come, let’s go back to the boat. Let’s not hear anymore of this madness”, he muttered to the two nearest him.

            “If any leave they will not be part of whatever adventures we have”, Leif sneered at him.  “Go now, and you will not be any part of our tales”.  He poked the ground emphatically with the point of his sword as he spoke.

            With only the odd backward glance, the three Kristians left their fellows and were soon outside the illumination provided by the Rainbow Bridge.  Apart from Leif and Bragi, the others looked on, unsure whether to follow or stay.  Leif caught their mood and sought to purge them of their doubts.

            “You others, know my thoughts. It is Odin who tests us. It is as the old legends. Heimdall there guards Bifrosts, loyally blocking those who are unworthy from setting foot on the bridge to Asgard. But I know that Odin is with us for I have seen him.”  At this Leif looked to the trees. He caught a glimpse of the large black bird he had seen before, but as he turned to look closer it suddenly took flight.

            “If we are to reach Asgard we must placate Heimdall in some way, or steer round him as if he were a cliff that split the sea between our ship and the home port.” Above, the clouds had thickened to become a blanket of grey. The day had grown darker as evening approached.

            “I have heard that giving the life of some beast is one way to please the gods”, Bragi noted brightly. “Perhaps the goat on the ship will do”.  Some of the crew grumbled about this as they had precious few provisions left after their sea trek.

            “A good start”, Leif grinned.  While the others waited, some of their numbers went back to the vessel and snatched the goat from the hands of the Kristians resting there. It began to rain and those that remained on the hillock watched as the dark-skinned old man raised his hands towards heaven, seeming to beckon the drops to the waiting earth below.  Where the rain seemed to fall through the Rainbow Bridge, a sparkling silver radiance reflected on their surroundings. The native priest’s face shown with this glow, giving him a shining, almost divine glow.

            The goat, which had been with them since they left Greenland, was slaughtered noisily.  The weather cleared and by midnight, those parts of the goat that were to be eaten had been cooked over a small open fire and then eaten by the men, glad to have some nourishment.  The stranger had been given some too by leaving it near him. This he had eagerly taken once the Norsemen had retreated.  After greedily gobbling it down, he beamed back at the newcomers with a grateful grin.

            “Heimdall is pleased with our gift”, Leif said, “but let us see what wisdom Odin has to offer.”

            “Captain, it is late. Even the gods are known to sleep”, protested one of the sailors.

            “Svein, we’re on the verge of glory and you talk of sleep?” scathed Bragi.

            “Let the weak take to their beds”, Leif said, “whilst those who feel touched by greatness search on.”

            With little further comment, two of the half a dozen warriors on the hillock wrapped themselves in their cloaks and were soon snoring where they lay. The others held council on what to do next. Gunnar reached for a pouch he kept tied to his belt.

            “Here Captain, this maybe what you need.” He held out the pouch and undid the leather strap. When opened it gave off a musty smell. Gunnar came from a clan that had, in pagan times, boasted of many berserkers and warriors. “It is a potion for making woad.”

            “That might be the very key to unlock the gates of heaven”, Leif said with a smile, snatching the pouch and its contents away.

            For the rest of the night, the men brewed the woad.  Just before dawn, Bragi, weary for lack of rest, lay on the hillock to sleep a while. As the sun began its morning climb, the strange chemical was ready and the three warriors still awake daubed themselves in it. Leif was first and covered himself in it. Bjorn and Thorfinn had only enough for their faces, arms and legs. When this was completed, Gunnar held the residue of the goats innards above his head in a clay bowl. The others slowly recanted old chants they had heard their grandfathers use. The spirits of the old gods moved amongst them and, slowly at first, their faces took on new, weird looks. Long dead invocations were heard again and Leif paced around Gunnar expectantly, appearing to wish that Odin himself would step forth and make his biding known to them.

            The mystic ringing tone heard earlier had long since abated and the chanting woke Bragi. He stretched, rubbed his eyes and regarded his brother with incredulous eyes.  Fear shot through him.  Up to that point, he had thought of these events as another manly adventure for him and his brother to share. He could grow in stature in the eyes of his much older brother, who was the leader of their family. But this new guise was disturbing in its strangeness and intensity.  He said nothing though despite his scepticism.

            Bragi thought their ritual was to call on the gods to reveal the future.  The goat’s guts were thrown down so that signs and omens could foretell their fate.  Fresh doubts gnawed at Bragi over these proceedings.  These practices were just old-fashioned superstition.  A younger man, Bragi had not had the same taste of the pagan faith the others had in years gone by.  The invocations became louder until they neared the moment when Gunnar would cast the entrails on the ground.

            Leif suddenly stopped the curious stepping and hopping dance that had seemed to control him as if possessed. Taken aback, Bjorn stopped too and Gunnar looked down from gazing up at the bowl. Leif jumped towards Gunnar and snatched the bowl from him. “I alone must seek this from Odin”, he screamed hoarsely at the others on the hillock and jumped down to the forest floor, disappearing from sight in the still dark dawn.  The others gazed in disbelief after their Captain, unsure of his motives and unable to guess what might happen next.