Poor Richard Says

Poor Richard tells that the Burgomaster and Aldermen of a small town west of Chicago one day were meeting in council to discuss the draining of the local swamp, when a stranger appeared in their hall and offered to drain it for them.  He was long of face and limb and would not identify himself, however he was pressed, other than to say that he was the Heron King, which the Burgomaster and Aldermen found strange, as he was dressed in rags.

“What price will you ask of us for this feat of engineering?” the Burgomaster asked the Heron King.

“A very modest price, indeed,” the Heron King replied.  “I only ask your permission to dry out your land, and then I will do it, not for any reward from you, but for the amusement of seeing how you enjoy my gift.  And I will accomplish no feat of engineering, for I am not an engineer, nor do I employ any.  I shall dry out your land by magic.”

“Very well,” laughed the Burgomaster and all the Aldermen. “You have our permission to dry out our land.”  The Heron King bowed and disappeared.  The council then had a good laugh and they all went home and told their wives and children that night about the mad beggar who had promised to dry up their swamp.  The wives and children all laughed, too, and then they all went to bed.

In the morning they awoke to find that not only had their swamp been drained, but the moisture had been parched out of all the land for twenty miles around the town.  The wells had dried up, the plants had died and the arable fields had been reduced to fine dust. 

The Heron King, still dressed in rags, stood in the town square, and the town gathered around him.  First the townspeople objected to what he had done, then they yelled in anger, and finally they pleaded, abasing themselves on the ground and weeping, for him to restore their land to what it had been.

The Heron King listened to it all silently, a curious smile on his lips, and when every last person of the town had dried his throat begging and reddened his eyes weeping, and the whole crowd had fallen silent again, he finally spoke.

“Thank you,” he said, “for the amusement.”  And then he was gone.

Poor Richard says: Be very careful what you wish for, and beware consequences that you do not intend.

*   *   *

The foregoing is another chapter heading from Witchy Eye.  I wanted something that felt like an American Aesop and that helped build the milieu, especially around the central and somewhat mysterious figure of the Heron King.

In the Spirit of Showcasing Other Writers

They've found the blog of James, Bishop of Jerusalem.  No links to YouTube, unfortunately.

Bonus: picture of Margaret Barker, my favorite Biblical scholar.

Not Since the Inklings...

...has the world seen such a heroic company of workers in narrative.

Story Monkeys update: Platte's in discussion with multiple agents about representation now.

(Cue ThunderCats music)

Story... Story... Story Monkeys, ho!

I Might Could Suggest a Different Text

            “My text this morning is from Isaiah fifty-eight,” the priest continued, almost mumbling now, face-down in the Bible.  Mutters of dissatisfaction were beginning to be voiced in the crowd.  “Is not this the fast that I have chosen?” he read.  “To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke?”

            Here we go, Sarah thought.  She would mock the sanctimonious Yankee just a bit, and then bring down the house like Samson.  “I might could suggest a different text!” she yelled.

            “Hush!” Angleton barked, peering at the crowd to see who was speaking.  Sarah crouched low and invisible behind the wagoneers.

            “How about Psalm thirty-nine?” Sarah continued.  This was not her first preacher-baiting, and she had verses to hand, above and beyond the fact that she was reasonably familiar with the Good Book.  “‘I was dumb, I opened not my mouth’?”  The crowd broke into laughter, but she kept a straight, pious face for the benefit of those that could see her.

            “Who’s that causing a disturbance?” the preacher demanded in his sour Yankee way.

            Someone grabbed at her arm, but missed, and Sarah didn’t see who it had been before she pushed through the wagoneers to reveal herself.  “Whoo-wee, you’re purty!” someone shouted, but other spectators gasped in alarm at the sight of her.  Well, they could go to hell right alongside the Right Reverend Father.  She hoped one of the tentpoles fell on top of them.

            Angleton dropped his jaw and his Bible, the latter slithering off the corner of the pulpit and thudding hard to the floor.

“Or maybe Numbers twenty-five?” Sarah continued coyly.  “‘Am I not thine ass’?”  The audience erupted into a fit of laughter that did not die down when the Right Reverend Father Ezekiel Angleton flapped his arms in an attempt to calm it.

Time to end the show and get out, before the preacher or his fat servant came after her.  “Mebbe Genesis nine: ‘he was uncovered within his tent’?”  Sarah stood bold and proud, feet planted apart and hands on her hips as she faced the preacher.  Just disrupting this foreigner’s show wouldn’t be satisfying for her; she wanted him to see who had done it.  She only wished the fat Englishman could see, too, serve him right for the nasty, pig-eyed stares he’d given her.

Angleton’s lip curled into a sneer.  “What’s your name, girl?  And what’s wrong with that eye?”  He squinted.  “Are you fey?”

Come on Andy, she thought.  You missed your call.  “I said,” she yelled louder, “‘uncovered within his tent’!”

            Still nothing happened.  By now she had expected the congregation to be shrieking in blind surprise and fighting to get out from under the canvas.

            “Come here, child,” Angleton said quietly.

            This was not going well.  Better get out before it gets any worse.  She hesitated a moment and then started to back away.

            The Martinite preacher put his hand onto the top of the pulpit and picked up something that had been lying there, invisible to the crowd, all along.  It was a fine flintlock pistol, matching the one the Englishman carried, and he aimed it carefully, leveling its deadly mouth at her.

            Too late; it was worse.

            “Child,” Angleton repeated.  “I said come here.”

*   *   *

I try to end chapters on a hook, which means, with an image, idea or line of dialog that strongly incentivizes the reader to keep reading.  The above is the last page and a half of Chapter One of Witchy Eye.

The Greek Seaman

This is too entertaining to pass up.  I do not endorse any of the language used by any of the participants, nor do I know anything about any of the book, its author or the reviewer.

Shelmerston Ladies

Here's some more not-filk for you.

One of my very favorite writers is Patrick O'Brian, author of the Aubreyad, i.e., Master and Commander and its nineteen sequels.  These books are amazing and you should read them.

One of the Aubreyad's two protagonists is Jack Aubrey, officer of the Royal Navy during the Napoleonic era and after.  Lucky Jack is a lion at sea and an ass upon the land, and one of his endearing traits is the baffling mess he makes of aphorisms, by mixing them with other sayings or by simply mangling them outright.

I wrote a song about Jack Aubrey, called "Shelmerston Ladies".  It's conceived as a celebration of the great mariner written and sung in the pubs of Shelmerston, a west country smuggling village that is greatly enriched by Jack's temporary career as a privateer, when he crews his ships with Shelmerston men.  It's a fairly straightforward, folky song, and the fun part of composing it was writing faux Aubreyisms.  In each of the three triplets, one is a genuine Aubreyism taken from the books, and two are written by me.  Kudos to you if you can spot which is which; kudos to me if you can't.

Shelmerston ladies, they all wear silk
Bathe every night in gin and milk
Shelmerston ladies, they all wear silk
Thanks to Captain Jack


Shelmerston mutt's got a tooth of gold
Ermine blanket against the cold
Shelmerston mutt's got a tooth of gold
Thanks to Captain Jack


Shelmerston ferry's got a silver hull
Glows like a ghost when the moon is full
Shelmerston ferry's got a silver hull
Thanks to Captain Jack


   Don't count your bearskin before she's hatched 
   Gather rosebuds while the barn door's latched
   A fool and his money are evenly matched
   Here's to Captain Jack


Shelmerston pub serves Rhenish wine
Venison stew should you care to dine
Shelmerston pub serves Rhenish wine
Just for Captain Jack


Shelmerston chapel's got an ivory pew
Don't sit there, whatever you do
Shelmerston chapel's got an ivory pew
Reserved for Captain Jack


   A rolling stone doesn't put down roots
   You can't judge a man 'til you've stolen his boots
   The proof of a pudding is in its fruits
   Here's to Captain Jack

Killer Canopic Jar

           Betty sprang up before the PINHEADs, clapping wildly.  “Where is he?” she shrieked, giddy and badly misguided.

           Milo Bumbles was a heavy man to the day of his tragic death, but he had quick reflexes.  In the blink of an eye he dropped the key and seized the other thing he held, which I could now see was some sort of stone carving, pointing it at Betty.

           The little idol in Bumbles’s hand exploded into a horse-sized snarling jackal head.  The head looked alive as it reared up and thrashed in the air above the ghost of my mother’s housemaid, but it had skin like jade and dark blue eyes.  The jackal lunged forward, its many-toothed mouth gaping wide.

           Poor, defenseless Betty.  “That’s not him!” she cried, and then the gigantic jackal head swallowed her in a single bite.

           The head immediately shrank back down to the scale of the object in Bumbles’s hand, which I could now see clearly was a stone jar of a faded orange color, with hieroglyphs cut into its side and a green jackal’s head for a lid. 

           “I shall have to thank Mrs. Whample for the key as well as for the tip-off,” Bumbles huffed.  He held the stone jar, shook it, pressed his ear against it and grinned.  “She’s still yelling ‘that’s not him’.” 

*   *   *

I try to write visually.  I do this because many people respond well to strong visual images, even in written form, and because I harbor the completely unconcealed and unabashed hope that some Hollywood greenlighter will read my stuff and get excited about it.


The above passage is from The Devil's Interval.  Betty, Francis's mother's housemaid, is a recently-deceased ghost like Francis himself, but, unlike Francis, is very disoriented as a result.  Here Francis witnesses her capture by the PINHEADs, a sort of Ghostbusters-meets-MI5 outfit.