A Son of the Rock

Grafton, 1992, 414 p.

Sadly not a book about last season’s FA Cup winners nor indeed the building erected in Hyde Park for the Great Exhibition of 1851 (subsequently moved to Sydenham in 1852 before it was destroyed by fire in the 1930s) and after which that football club was named. Neither is the palace built of crystal, nor even glass. Instead, it’s an ice palace, built in the realm of Ice from a seed planted by the demon Regneniel.

Though Cray, son of sorceress Delivev Ormoru of Castle Spinweb, familiar from Eisenstein’s previous book Sorcerer’s Son, is the nominal protagonist of this sequel, it is actually Aliza, Cray’s heart’s desire as revealed in the mirrored web constructed by his friend Feldar Sepwin, around whom it revolves. After many viewings where he saw nothing in the mirror, she first appeared to him as a girl, then over the years grew into a young woman. Only much searching in the realms of Air, Water, Fire and Ice (each realm has its own kind of demon) by Cray’s mother’s demon lover, Gildrum – not a hyperbolic description, Gildrum is literally a demon in this scenario, but that does not necessarily mean he is demonic – finds Aliza’s location in the titular Crystal Palace. It is effectively a prison where she has been placed by her grandfather Everand, a minor sorcerer, to be taught to be a great sorceress by Regneniel whom she believes to be under her control but is really beholden to Everand. This involved Everand removing Aliza’s soul and hiding it somewhere in the palace.

Prior to the book’s opening Cray had freed as many demons as he could from their enslavement to their masters. For a certain kind of sorcerer this made him their enemy. Everand did not need Cary’s interest in Aliza to feel animosity towards him.

Everand is, though, an unsatisfactory antagonist, too one-dimensional and blinkered to be any sort of foil for Cray and his chums.

I only really read this one as I had already read Sorcerer’s Son. I prefer Eisenstein’s stories of Alaric the Minstrel to these ones.

Pedant’s corner:- Nothing to report.

We had meant to visit Arbroath Abbey for some time but did not actually do so till last year. (We had tried the year before but the Abbey was undergoing some restoration work so access was limited and we decided against it.)

William the Lion was the longest reigning king of Scotland before the 1603 Union of the Crowns. He was the first Scottish king to arrange an alliance with France. His epithet ‘the lion’ did not relate to military prowess but rather to his banner the red lion rampant on a yellow background, still the banner of Scottish monarchs though frequently used as a symbol of Scotland itself and often brandished at sporting events.

Domestically his reign saw legal and local government reforms but disputes with English kings and his attempts to regain the Kingdom of Northumbria were not so successful.

William is credited with founding the Abbey at Arbroath, so to find his grave there is not surprising.

Arbirlot‘s Great  War Memorial is in the form of a stained glass window with a cartouche set into the wall of the church (St Ninian’s.)

Also in the graveyard I found  a Commonwealth War Grave and three gravestone mentions of war deaths.

Catherine E Martin, Auxiliary Territorial Service, 20/5/1944, aged 21:-

Munro Park, killed in action in Crete, 2/6/1941, aged 22;-

Joseph Frain Webster, killed in action, Ypres, 30/10/1914:-

Andrew Turpie Butchart, killed in action, France, 29/7/1918, aged 34:-

Polygon, 2023, 187 p.

This is another of Birlinn’s Darkland Tales.

One summer day in 825 AD the red sail of Helgi Cleanshirt’s longship appears on the seas surrounding Iona. Helgi is intent on procuring the bones of Saint Columba for their supposed mystic powers. It turns out only one relic, a finger bone, remains, but Abbot Blathmac has buried it somewhere on the island’s only hill, Dùn Ì, so that none of the brothers can reveal its whereabouts. This, of course, does not end well for the monks and the lay people of the island.

While the rest of the longship’s crew is causing mayhem, the slightly tardy Grimur has come upon the island’s smithy, killed the blacksmith (somewhat luckily,) and been plied with her potent concoction by the meadwife. In his subsequent stupor he is taken for dead by his shipmates and buried.

There are thus only three survivors of the raid: Brother Martin, who hid in the latrine pit, that meadwife, Una, who had made herself scarce, and Grimur, who, on wakening, manages to dig himself out of the shallow grave with his knife.

The three then have to make do as best they can. Martin resolves to be the best monk he can be and to complete the illuminated manuscript he had been working on, Grimur to rub along with the other two and to understand the strange religion of the islanders, Una to survive. What livestock remains has to roam the island more or less untended.

When a delegation from the mainland arrives the three are told they cannot be protected and ought to leave but all are unwilling to do so.

Later, an Irish princess, Bronagh, turns up, attempting to escape an unwanted marriage and asking to become an anchoress. Brother Martin complies with her request but finds her presence a sinful distraction. Bronagh soon enough, though, finds the monastic life too irksome. Una and Grimur manage to find solace in each other.

We are, here, in a clash of cultures; between the single-minded focus of the Norse warriors, exploiting the usefulness of their brutality, and the Christianity of the monks, that intense faith manifested in the face of extreme adversity, exemplified by Grimur’s incomprehension of its sheer oddness and Martin’s redoubling of his devotion despite its failure to protect the monks; but also between that Celtic Christianity, its call to utter dedication, and our modern individualistic eyes. Greig conjures it all well. Like all the Darkland Tales so far this is beautifully written, with economically well-drawn and believable characters.

There is still Helgi Cleanshirt’s return to come, the aftermath of which hints that there may have been a miracle occurring on that island in the interim.

(A foreword mentions that Iona has previously been known as I, IO, HII, HIA, IOUA. IOUA was in the 18^th century corrupted to IONA by a typographical error.)

Pedant’s corner:- gulley (gully – used later,) “his prophesy” (the noun is spelled prophecy; prophesy is the verb,) “He wanted …. to dissolve in the enormity of God” (surely Brother Martin would not think of his God as monstrous? ‘He wanted …. to dissolve in the immensity of God’, then,) “Jesus’ head” (Jesus’s head.)

Arbirlot is a village in Angus, about two miles west of Arbroath. We stopped there on a trip north as we had read about the scenic waterfall on the burn there, the Elliot Water:-

The waterfall lies just below the road bridge over the burn:-

We weren’t the only ones there. A couple of people had picked their way across the burn and a family was having a good time by the waterside:-

I made two videos of the waterfall:-

Mick Ralphs, guitarist with Mott the Hoople and Bad Company among others, died last week. He apparently left Mott the Hoople as the songs he was writing were not suited to singer Ian Hunter’s voice.

They found a compatible home with Paul Rodgers, though, when they formed Bad Company along with Simon Kirke and Boz Burrell.

This is a live version of their first hit, which Ralphs wrote.

Bad Company: Can’t Get Enough

Michael Geoffrey (Mick) Ralphs: 31/3/1944 – 23/6/2025. So it goes.

This lies in Blairgowrie town centre, a stone pillar surmounted by a statue of a pelican and with the figure of a soldier with arms reversed at its base:-

Side view:-

Great War names are located on plaques on the pillar’s sides with second World War names on the plinth on which the soldier stands:-

One of the plinth’s sides has an additional plaque for a Korean War death:-

The remaining Great War plaque:-

Hamish Hamilton, 2024, 292 p.

This is the third in Barker’s Troy series. Unlike the first two, which were narrated by Briseis (the former princess of Lyrnessus, a town sacked by the Greeks before they ventured on to its ally Troy, with Briseis being given to Achilles as a prize of war,) this novel’s main narrator is Ritsa, a friend of Briseis, but now a possession of Machaon, physician to Mycenean King Agamemnon, and body-slave (or, as she puts it, catch-fart) to Troy’s Princess, Cassandra, herself Agamemnon’s bed-slave, though they had gone through a form of marriage.

Cassandra is famed for her gift of prophecy; a gift bestowed on her by the God Apollo, whose priestess she was, but also cursed by him never to be believed since she refused his advances.

Ritsa’s tale is narrated in first person past tense but some chapters of the book are in the third person present tense from the viewpoints either of Cassandra or of Agamemnon’s wife Clytemnestra. This is useful authorially as of course Ritsa cannot have access to scenes where she is not present.

The book’s title is, of course, ironic. The home they journey to was never that of the Trojan women; only of the Greeks who took them captive. It is also slightly inappropriate in that the sea voyage to Mycenae is over before the book is even halfway through – though less so in the sense that by the novel’s end Cassandra’s journey home is utterly complete.

Some of the prose and dialogue is in a modern register which might jar with the ambience of myth which Barker is dealing with. But in looking at these events/stories with a modern eye (Barker’s controlled indignation, even rage, at the treatment of women in these tales, while not getting in the way of the story she tells, is never far away) an up-to-date treatment is absolutely appropriate. There is also some inter-sexual politics at play when Ritsa notes that, “She” (Cassandra) “was speaking in a Daddy’s-little-girl voice, the kind that some men find mysteriously attractive and makes every woman within earshot want to slap you.”

Ritsa bitterly contemplates Cassandra’s question about a description of the ship’s figurehead Medusa (another misrepresented woman?) as a monster, “Who decides who the monster is?” and Machaon’s reply, “The winner.”

Medusa did not win, and neither has Ritsa, whose monsters lie in front of her: the Greeks who have the temerity to call Trojans barbarian, while themselves being the purveyors of savagery. Only the Medusa’s captain, Andreas, treats her as worthy of respect. (Or is that only because he has always fancied her?)

Agamemnon is prime monster, even if he is haunted by visions of his daughter Iphigenia, sacrificed to the gods to secure fair winds for the voyage to Troy. (His palace in Mycenae is also haunted: by the hand and foot prints of his cousins, killed by his father, Atreus, and their bodies fed by him to theirs, Thyestes, with their feet and hands shown to Thyestes to prove he had eaten them. Greek myth is a horrifically bloody edifice.)

But the heart of this story doesn’t lie with either Cassandra or Ritsa; nor Agamemnon. This is Clytemnestra’s time of reckoning. Ten years ruling in Agamemnon’s stead – and ruling well – only to be ignored the moment he returns; ten years worshipping her dead daughter, erecting a temple in her honour which no-one arriving by sea could avoid seeing; ten years devising a calculated, elaborate revenge for Iphigenia’s death. A dish served cold, with relish.

But every action has its conseqences. Revenge begets revenge. Clytemnestra’s remaining children, Electra and Orestes, will be sure to avenge their father.

Not that Ritsa will be around to see that. Barker instead contrives a more hopeful fate for her.

Pedant’s corner:- Three sentences of Ritsa’s narration are for some reason given in the present tense. “Achilles’ child” (Achilles’s; most names ending in s were given only s’ rather than s’s when possessives, Aegisthus’, Andreas’, Orestes’, Iras’, Briseis’, etc,) “more like, a bowl of barley porridge” (doesn’t need that comma,) “that some men find mysteriously attractive” (ought to be ‘that some men mysteriously find attractive’,) had never showed” (had never shown.) “The guard come toward us” (The guard came towards us.)

From Alyth we started driving back south homewards. The route took us through Blairgowrie which is so adjoined with the neigbouring Rattray they go under the one banner.

The River Ericht runs through the two towns and seems to be the border between them according to the caption on the photo here.

The north side of the river has a weir:-

Looking south from the bridge:-

There seems too to be a fish ladder under the bridge:-

Yes, they come thick and fast. This one will be for ParSec 15.

It’s The History of the World by Simon Morden. I can’t find a cover for it at the moment, though.

Amazingly it’s actually Science Fiction. Sometimes recently  it has seemed as if the publishing of SF had dried up.