I recently watched an episode of the TV series Ancient Aliens. I can’t subscribe to the heavily hammered view that everything our forefathers achieved was the work of ancient aliens, or that all the gods of every religion were actually alien visitations on Earth. However, the series does range over our ancient civilizations and religious worlds which do interest me and some of its speculations are interesting.
This particular episode focused on Erich Von Daniken and his best-selling book Chariot of the Gods, which first raised the possibility that alien visitors in the past could explain some of the mysterious art work and mythology of the ancients. I read that book when it first appeared, and later the works of Graham Hancock with books like Fingerprints of the Gods, and I must confess that they did influence the creation of my own fantasy trilogies, The Fifth Planet and The Third Planet.
I began to wonder, if they came at all, did these other world visitors have to have come from another solar system or even another galaxy. Then I learned that the asteroid belt which orbits between Mars and Jupiter could have been another planet which never completely formed or a planet which was somehow destroyed. I visited India and read the great Hindu epics of their mythology and suddenly all these ideas came together. I created Dooma, the lost fifth planet of our solar system and set the story between the last two Earth ice ages.
Recently scientists have discovered a large asteroid in the asteroid belt which was composed of solid iron, possibly the iron core of a planet which had somehow suffered some catastrophic means of destruction. Now it is difficult to tell where reality and fact come to an end and the fantastic fiction of my imagination begins.
Read the books and find out. The Sword Lord, Sword Empire and Sword destiny tell the story of The Fifth Planet. The Gods of ice, The Gods of Blood and The Gods of Fire, tell the continuing story of the survivors on The Third Planet.
Greed for power, and greed for glory,
The double curse of mankind‘s story.
Since life first crawled and time began,
And earth was marked by steps of man,
The patterns of progression range,
Through dynasties of changeless change,
Heroes rise, dictators fall,
And heroes turn dictators all,
Each crashing down as each one must,
Dissolved by death, returned to dust,
And so through all eternity,
This torn world must divided be,
The only limit of the creeds,
The power-seeking men who lead,
Each King and Priest, Hero and knave,
Lusting for his share of fame,
Raising noble swords on high,
Fluttering banners to the sky,
Cries of Liberty and right,
When Liberty is only Death,
And right is only might.
And yet --
Through the curtained veils of sleeping time,
When life dwelt in primeval slime,
When all was helpless, groping, blind,
All one mindless, bestial kind,
The creature first to raise his eyes,
Towards the sun and stars and skies,
The first upon two legs to stand,
Was power-seeking, striving man,
Those who led us from the swamp,
To dignity and pride and pomp,
Who wrote our history's golden page,
And gave us all our heritage,
Who made our empires soar and flower,
In their lust for glory and for power,
Who showed us what a man is worth,
And made us masters of our earth,
Are those same kings and priests and knaves,
Who slumber silent in their graves.
The strive for power, the strive for glory,
The shining light of mankind's story.
Here is another first chapter.
THE GODS OF ICE is the first book in my new THIRD PLANET trilogy. It follows the adventures of the leading characters from THE FIFTH PLANET who are marooned on Earth now that Dooma has been destroyed.
THE GODS OF BLOOD and THE GODS OF FIRE are also available.
The Fifth Planet has been destroyed in the Holocaust War, and now the fate of Earth, The Third Planet, rests with Raven, the last Sword Lord of Ghedda.
A fragment has broken away from the new asteroid belt formed by the destruction of the fifth planet and is on a collision course with Earth’s moon. The impact will push the moon into a decaying orbit that will destroy the last life-bearing planet in the solar system. Raven’s space ship can be repaired by cannibalizing parts of Zela’s crashed space ship, but it will take Raven and Zela together to fly it on one last mission to deflect the asteroid. However, Raven has gone into exile with Maryam. Kananda and Zela, now King and Queen of Karakhor, set out to find them.
Their twin journeys take them across Earth as it was between the last two ice ages. The continent of Antartica is slowly drifting south, the north side of the continent is still habitable but the ice wall is advancing as the whole continent moves into the South Pole. The wanderings of Raven and Maryam lead them to the Tar Tikans, a mysterious race of benevolent teachers. The Tar Tikans are the survivors of a crashed space craft from Orion. The indigenous inhabitants of Antartica are the Jiptors, creators of an embryo civilization which will eventually be forced to move from their own Nile Valley on Antartica to the New Nile Valley in Africa.
In what is now Central America, the first blood-stained kingdoms of the Maytecs have also appeared. The teachers are trying to guide all these emerging peoples but Chac Mouel, the teacher entrusted with the development of the Maytecs is also the reincarnation of Strang, the first Gheddan Sword Lord, who died five hundred years before. Strang is determined to recreate a new empire and to destroy the Tar Tikans who would hold him in check. He is an astral traveler with terrible powers of mental coercion.
However, Kananda and Zela discover their own latent astral abilities. They spear head a small group who struggle with Strang on the astral plane while Maryam and Raven close in and fight him in the physical world. The battles rage across the ice lands of Antartica, the jungles of New Mexico, and in Karakhor on their return. The final conflict takes place in the vastness of space where the fiery asteroid is hurtling toward Earth’s moon.
He was born again and his first terrible memory was that of dying, of being torn apart and scattered through the heavens with the planet that had once been his home. For a millionth of a second he had known the excruciating white heat as his world exploded. He had heard the concerted horrendous mind-shriek as a hundred million souls had been incinerated and his own helpless soul had screamed with them. He should have been obliterated with everything else he had known, but somehow that fate had been denied him. For some reason, perhaps only known to the gods themselves, he had been reborn.
He was Antar/Allan, or to be more precise that was who he had been, but that was not what they called him now. The exhausted young woman who had expelled his puny new flesh from her womb had laughed through her tears of pain and called him by a new name. The man who held her hand, her husband, had repeated it with wonderment and joy and then kissed her with a gentle passion. The birth-watchers, the two older women who had tended the young mother had both smiled their delight, and repeated the name again as though it were a blessing. Antar/Allan did not understand his new name. The syllables were strange and alien. He was still Antar/Allan.
Instinctively he knew that this was not as it should be and that new life should not be born so swiftly and with all the old memories still intact. There was another instinct, an urgent overwhelming need to shout out who he was and to make them all understand what had happened. The awful sequence of events that had utterly destroyed Dooma must be made known. He tried but all that escaped from his feeble new throat and lips were a series of anguished wails. The semi-circle of loving faces above him were at first happy to hear the frantic sounds, the first healthy cries of a lusty new baby. Only gradually did their faces become anxious as they sensed that the child was truly distressed. They made soothing, cooing sounds and his mother rocked him gently against her bared breasts, offering him her nipple. It was common knowledge that a baby should be calmed by being allowed to feed, to feel close and hearing his mother’s heartbeat.
Antar/Allan could not communicate and he could not be comforted and he howled with frustration until hours later at last he subsided into the unconsciousness of exhaustion. His parents and the birth-watchers believed that he had cried himself to sleep.
With sleep came release and the old soul sprang upward from the weak new flesh. Back on the familiar astral plane he was powerful and alive again. With hardly a backward glance his spirit soared aloft. The continent receding below him was half green and half white, the southern half cloaked in a great ice sheet that was slowly pushing north. He sensed its form and condition only vaguely, it was peripheral to his awareness of the more pressing need. Within seconds the half ice continent was just one amongst others in a predominately blue sea globe, and then the planet itself was falling away beneath him.
He knew it was the third planet from the sun in a solar system that was far out on the curved arm of a spiral galaxy with a hot milky core. The first planet out from the solar furnace that sustained all the rest was the smallest of the nine planets that now remained. It was a scorched and barren world of dense iron and rock with virtually no atmosphere. The second planet was larger, but the atmosphere there was one of swirling unbroken sulphuric acid clouds that created a steaming hot house world totally unfavourable to any form of humanoid life.
The third planet, the planet Earth which he was fast leaving behind, was warm and blue, rich in life-giving waters. The Fourth planet, the red planet, was distinctively coloured by its rich iron oxide content. It was an arid, mainly dust and desert planet that had once been inhabited when the solar system was young. Now it was dead and dormant, its atmosphere had seeped away and what was left was too thin to support life
The fifth planet no longer existed. Once the planet Dooma, where he had lived so many lives, had moved in slow gracious orbit between the fourth planet and the first of the gas giants that made up the rest of this solar system. Dooma had been an Earth-like planet, fully habitable with an almost even balance of wet oceans and dry land continents. A thinner atmospheric cloak and a thinner surface crust over its molten core had compensated for its further distance from the sun, so that both planets had enjoyed similar surface temperatures.
That thin surface crust had been partly responsible for the planet’s demise. When the continents of Alpha and Ghedda had launched their terrible array of atomic weapons at each other in the futile and arrogant atomic war the entire planet had erupted and split open in a nightmare chain reaction of volcanic upheavals. The molten core had boiled outwards and the planet had disintegrated.
Antar/Allan could feel the heat again as he grew closer and the echoes of that last anguished, concentrated all-souls death cry began to peal through his tortured mind. His astral form slowed to a stop and he covered his ears helplessly with his hands, but with no effect. He screamed again with the silent, soul scorching pain.
Where Dooma had been there was now a flaming band of red hot rubble, boulders and rocks, asteroids and debris, all orbiting slowly in red and orange ribbons of molten star matter. In a slow, macabre dance of death the remains of the fifth planet floated midway in space between the fourth and the sixth planets of the solar system. The drifting, smoking remnants, some as small as grains of dust, others the size of small mountains, were slowly elongating to fill the whole circle of orbit. Inside this narrowing but lengthening belt of planetary destruction all was still volatile. The individual fragments still crashed together, skidding and grating, ricocheting and colliding with solar bright flares and deafening impacts. It would take a thousand years, perhaps many thousands of years, before the carnage would settle. By then the name Dooma would be forgotten, and if there was any inhabitable part of the solar system left the occupants would call it by another name, or perhaps it would simply be The Asteroid Belt.
Antar/Allan felt a terrible grief, a harrowing sickness of heart and soul. He had been drawn here, following an irresistible compulsion, and now he wondered why. He had died here, and there seemed to be no real reason to re-live that awful agony. He wanted to leave, to flee again, and yet that same merciless compulsion was forcing him to stay.
He struggled against it, but suddenly he was the helpless babe again with no will of his own. The resurgence of astral power that had brought him here had just as suddenly drained away. He was alone and lost in the freezing darkness of space, and it was much, much worse than the wet darkness and loneliness of the strange womb.
He hung suspended against the starry heavens, watching the slow, on-going death throes of what had once been his home planet. If anything was responsible for his present predicament then there was sublime cruelty here and he wept bitter tears, for himself and for all those who had died. He wept for the guilty and the innocent.
In front of him were two of the larger fragments of flaming rock, like two rough hewn, grotesquely distorted and gigantic spaceships manoeuvring in some strange ritual of dying combat. Both were spitting violent flashes of fire from internal pockets of trapped and blazing gases and Antar/Allan found that he could not wrest his gaze away from the nightmare scene. They were moving faster than he had first realized and after a few moments, or perhaps it was a few hours or a few days, he saw that they were coming together and that they were going to collide. Time had no meaning now. He was frozen. Time was frozen. The universe itself was frozen. Only the two giant asteroids were still moving.
The impact, when it came, left all his senses stunned. The great curtain of sparks and flame blinded him and his astral form was flung back through the vastness of space. It was like dying again and he shrieked against whatever power there might be and demanded to know what had he done to deserve this merciless punishment. There was no answer, but through all his pain his senses slowly cleared and his vision returned.
He saw that the two giant asteroids were now veering apart, bouncing away from each other. They were ploughing slowly through the fragments of smaller debris as they each pursued their new course, striking more terrible sparks and fires.
One of them was floating slowly away from the inner planets and the sun, the force of the collision throwing it out of the slow swirl of the general orbit of the main asteroid belt. Its eventual destination, millions of years from now, would be somewhere in the vast darkness of space between the distant stars. Perhaps it would be swallowed up in the vortex of a black hole, or caught up in another gravitational pull to crash into another planet, or be incinerated in some unknown solar core.
The other, the largest fragment of the two, perhaps a hundred miles long and fifty miles in diameter, was also moving clear of the main swirl but heading directly toward the centre of the solar system.
Antar/Allan looked back and saw the small blue circle that was Earth, outlined sharply against the much more distant disc of the hot yellow star that was the sun. With the same certain instinct that had brought him here he now knew why he was here and what was happening.
The asteroid was on a collision course with the third planet.
He did not know how he could be certain of this. He only knew with sure and blinding insight that this was what was destined to happen, and this was why he had been reborn so swiftly, with so many old memories. This was why he was here.
He was the only soul who could carry a warning, but as yet he did not know how he would be able to communicate. The asteroid’s journey might take a year or more, but even then in his new physical form he would still be an infant, perhaps just able to crawl but still unable to effectively talk.
And even if the inhabitants of his new world could be warned, he still could not see how they might be able to save themselves.
In his despair he screamed again and wept.
The blades danced and sang in flashes of bright morning sunlight as the two evenly matched men circled each other in the lush forest glade. The ring of steel that echoed repeatedly as the blades touched was the only sound. The small birds that had chattered and sang when the small party had arrived had all taken wing and fled. The two men fought in silence. As yet their breathing was still controlled and deep with no harshness of sound. The two women and the five men who watched were idly attentive, careful not to distract the two warriors engaged earnestly in their duel, but showing no concern. The tired horses tethered nearby were interested only in browsing the sweet grass at their feet.
One of the fighting men was Gujar, the young Hindu Lord of Gandhar, one of the great noble houses of Karakhor. He wore a leather tunic and leather leggings and riding boots and his hard muscled arms were bare. His lean-jawed face was handsome, his brown eyes hard and alert. His long dark hair was neatly tied back at the nape of his neck to prevent it from swinging across his face. His skin, like the watchers in the loose circle around the glade, was a deep nut brown.
His opponent was of another race and colour, alien to Earth. Raven, the Last Sword Lord of Ghedda, had skin that was bright blue. His eyes were black and the hair on his head was of tight black curls. He too wore leather leggings and boots, but he still favoured the gold chain mail waistcoat and groin protector that had been part of the white uniform he had once worn as a Space Commander of the Gheddan Empire. A hand lazer weapon was fitted into the white leather holster on his right hip.
The two men had practised their sword play at the end of every day since they had left the golden city of Karakhor. Gujar had no real need of the exercise. In the long months of the Great War with Maghalla his sword arm had done enough bloody work to last him his lifetime. However, Raven did have an urgent need to re-hone his sword skills. He had recovered well from the sword thrust that had nearly killed him, but the puckered and badly knitted scar tissue under his sword arm had slowed and restricted his speed and movement. He needed to loosen up and regain some of the skill that he had lost. He knew that he would never again be the unbeaten master of the blade with only kills to his credit, but he was determined to improve upon the slow and clumsy hack and slash man that he had become.
Maryam, the first princess of Karakhor, sat with her back leaning comfortably against the trunk of a smooth bark tree. The curve of the tree bole fitted neatly between her shoulder blades and the tree root on which she sat had a soft covering of moss so that it was not too hard against her bottom. After the long day of riding she needed the soft seat. She had loosened her long black hair and eased the tight buckle of her sword belt. She watched her husband with love and affection. He was improving with every day, working himself hard, and soon he would be Gujar’s equal. Her eyes blinked, her head nodded, and her thoughts drifted.
The word “husband” still brought an uncomfortable twinge of guilt to her conscience. Her mother and her aunts, her brother Kananda who was now King, and the doughty Prince Devan, the last of her uncles, all still believed that some sort of marriage ceremony had actually taken place on Raven’s home world. They regretted that it would not have been as grand and glorious as the wedding of the daughter of their King should have been, with all the lavish spending and splendour that only golden Kharakor could provide. However, they all assumed that some sort of blessing of the strange union of their daughter and her blue “husband” had been ritually celebrated in some way due and proper on the other unknown world.
Maryam had allowed them to retain that delusion. She had followed Raven to his own world and there he had simply taken her as his woman. If her father and her brothers had been there he would have placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on his sword and challenged them to deny him, but even that had not happened. She had gone to him willingly, shamelessly, revelling in the passion that had flared between them, but sometimes it troubled her to know that he would have taken her anyway.
Since her return to Karakhor, and while Raven recovered his strength she had briefly luxuriated in the old life, enjoying rose-scented baths and silk sheets and all the fussing attentions of her hand-maidens. She had once again been pampered and bejewelled and richly fed, her every whim instantly gratified. She was the daughter of the old King, and the full blood sister of the new King. It had grieved her to find that Kara-Rashna, her beloved father was dead and cremated, his funeral pyre long grown cold, but there had been many a helpful courtier to tell her how nobly he had died, and many a daintily offered and sweetly scented handkerchief to dry her tears.
Within a month she realized that she was bored. What she really craved was more excitement and adventure. Her life in Karakhor was soft and sweet, but it was a continuation of her childhood and it would never be anything different. She was an adult woman now and there was a thread of steel in her soul that would not be restrained or denied. There had been moments on Ghedda when she had been cold, hungry and terrified and had longed for the comforts of home. But now it seemed that she had never been more alive.
She had impulsively followed Raven before, and when he announced his intention to leave Kharakor on his self imposed exile she had determined again to accompany him. Kananda the King, her devoted brother, had tried to dissuade her. He had followed her to another world to try and bring her back and he was reluctant to let her go again. In the last desperate days of the Great War with Maghalla Raven had fought for Karakhor and the last of his ship’s crew had died for the city they had once tried to claim for the Gheddan Empire. Raven now had the King’s pardon for all past crimes, but still he could not stay. Zela, Kananda’s new Queen, was still his sworn enemy. It was the golden-skinned Alphan woman who had finally pierced his defences with her blade, although only after he had already fought for a long weary day against Maghalla.
Maryam had shared his self anger and frustration as she had watched his first clumsy attempts to re-learn his old skills with the blade. She had been his first practise partner, too swift and nimble for him and only angering him further because she was a woman. Then Gujar had offered to take over. He had more strength to withstand Raven’s ferocious blows, and like all the young lords of Karakhor he had been personally trained by the old Warmaster Jahan. He knew how a man should be trained, and gradually some of Raven’s old mastery had returned.
Now it was almost five weeks since they had left Karakhor, every day riding due west from dawn to sunset. They were heading for the coast for Raven had assured them that there was another sea on the far side of their great pear shaped continent. The others had been dubious, but Maryam had added her own assurance that this was so, for she too had seen the Earth from space. Raven’s damaged ship, which the Hindus still thought of as a flying temple of steel, still stood in the great square of Karakhor, and so their assurances were philosophically accepted. For most of them one direction seemed as good as another.
She heard a movement at the edge of the glade. Takarni, the young captain of her guard had returned from his hunting foray in the forest. His bow was slung across his back and the carcass of a small springbuck was draped across his left shoulder. Two of his soldiers had already prepared a small cooking fire in anticipation of his return, for Takarni rarely failed them. He had the infinite patience and the keen eye for trail and sign that marked a born hunter. He usually chose to hunt alone for their evening meal, varying deer with a fat pheasant or a small pig. He stopped as he emerged from the circle of trees, calmly watching the two fighters.
Maryam returned her own attention to the duel. Raven and Gujar were moving faster, matching each other cut for cut, and it seemed that an edge of aggression had crept into the battle. That was good, she thought, for it brought out the best in both of them. With renewed interest she followed the blur of swordplay and slowly she felt her muscles tense. There was definitely a new air of tension between the two men. There was a shine of sweat at Gujar’s temples and a tight set to his lips. Raven’s face showed the pain of the twisted scar tissue as it was stretched and pulled and he tried to ignore it.
Maryam felt a tightening grip on her arm. Shareena, the only one of her maids in waiting who had chosen to accompany her was sitting close by her side. The girl had also become aware that the fight was taking an ugly turn, she had reached for Maryam and almost unconsciously her fingers were digging into the bicep of her princess.
Shareena was not really fitted for the rigours of the trail and the long days of riding, but she had begged to be allowed to journey with her princess. Her father and brothers had all fallen in the war with Maghalla and she could no longer bear to live in Karakhor without them. Somehow she had believed that the pain would be lessened if she left the familiar things behind. She had been continually nervous of the dark nights and the thick forest and the jungle animals that lurked behind the green tangles and the gloom, but now she was suddenly afraid. Raven and Gujar together were two powerful protectors but if enmity had come between them then it was dangerous for the group as a whole.
Maryam felt suddenly uncertain and confused, and she could see from the puzzled expression in Raven’s eyes that he too was unclear of what was happening. Gujar had pressed him hard, and at first Raven had assumed that this was just a step up in the pressure designed to test him and push him further. He had responded with a counter attack and for a few seconds Gujar had been forced into defence. Then suddenly the young Hindu had launched another attack, more savage than the first and a hot flash of rage had appeared in his eyes.
In the old days Raven would have killed him then. With almost two score of sword kills to his credit and the blade merely a lightning extension of his own arm a death thrust would have been quick and easy. But now the damnable wound was dragging at every move, griping at his muscles and tendons, blunting all the old tricks that had been fluid and swift. He was hard pressed to keep Gujar’s blade blocked, and suddenly he realized that he was again fighting for his life.
The knowledge gave him strength and determination. With an effort of will he dismissed the muscle ache and the stabs of pain, concentrating his mind on the blades, and only on the blades. He had practised with Gujar often enough to know his opponent’s speed and skill and style, but slowly he realized that he had never actually fought with him. Something had changed inside the Hindu Lord and he was unleashing more than he had ever shown before.
Raven was forced into retreat. The blades rang louder and the cuts rained with an increased ferocity. Raven blocked and parried but was too slow to turn the attack. All around the arena of flattened grass the rest of their small party had all stopped anything else they had been doing and were watching with growing horror and alarm.
Takarni slowly allowed the dead deer to slip away from his shoulder and fall to the ground. As if in a bad dream he un-slung his hunting bow and eased a feathered arrow from his quiver. Then his fingers became helplessly still. As Captain of the Princess’s guard he felt that he should do something to intervene. But Gujar was a friend and a Lord of one of the great noble houses of Karakhor. The blue man was a stranger from another planet, but he was the husband of the princess Takarni was oath-bound to protect. Dumbly he looked to Maryam for a sign.
Maryam was blind to his look of appeal. She was too busy watching the two fighting men and the protracted training match that had suddenly become deadly serious. She had pushed the trembling Shareena aside and her right hand had moved down to the hilt of the dagger sheathed in her boot. She could throw that dagger with as much skill and accuracy as any man, but for the moment Raven’s back was towards her. She waited for them to turn, but even if they were to do so she was unsure whether she could actually let the dagger fly between Gujar’s shoulder blades. He was one of Kananda’s closest friends. They had all played together as children. She was bewildered by this sudden turn of events and for the moment she hesitated.
Raven threw everything into one last attack and for a moment Gujar was pushed back. With a flick of his wrist Raven turned Gujar’s blade aside and risked all on a thrust. His arm failed him, he just wasn’t fast enough. Gujar had the speed to parry again, deflecting the thrust, and then the tip of his own sharp blade was at Raven’s throat. His eyes blazed hot fire.
Raven froze. He knew his death was just a heartbeat away. He had his lazer at his hip and a knife in his boot, but he knew he would never reach either of them. Gujar’s sword arm trembled but he did not finish the thrust. Slowly Raven lowered his own blade. He stared into Gujar’s eyes and waited.
Slowly the anger and the blood lust in the dark brown eyes began to fade. Gujar’s sword arm trembled again and his chest heaved. Raven felt the cold sharp tip of the blade vibrate at his throat.
Gujar said at last, “You killed my father.” His voice was harsh and grating, as though it had been forced out of his constricted throat.
Raven said nothing, still waiting. His heart was pounding and yet he was strangely calm. He had always believed that he would die by the sword, probably while he was still young, and now he was mildly curious.
“When you first came to Karakhor,” Gujar continued. “Three men tried to kill you in one of the alleyways of the city. For that you blamed the House of Gandhar. You executed my father with your hand fire weapon in the great hall of the palace.”
“I remember,” Raven said quietly. He recalled the incident now but he had never connected Gujar with the fat old man he had killed as an example to all the others. He had commanded a crew of five men to control the entire city, and it was only the demonstrations of lazer power that had kept the Hindu hierarchy in check.
“He was a brave man,” he offered. “He was not a warrior, his fighting days were over, but he moved away from your princes and the other nobles so that they would not be in my line of fire.”
They faced each other in silence over the length of the extended sword. Raven understood now and at last he spoke again. “The men who tried to kill me wore the colour of your father’s house.”
“But they were not hired by the House of Gandhar.”
Gujar sounded tired. He withdrew his sword and returned it to its sheath at his side. “I know now that the assassins were hired by Rajar, the King’s brother. He persuaded them to wear my father’s colour to conceal his own hand. Prince Rajar believes that he is much too clever to pay the price for his own guilt.”
Maryam eased herself upright and came to stand at Raven’s side. Her dagger was again sheathed in her boot. She looked briefly from one to the other, and then her gaze fixed on Gujar, her dark eyes asking more.
“When I heard of my father’s death I swore to kill you,” Gujar told Raven, although he was now explaining as much to Maryam. “But by then you had returned to your own home world. At the same time I knew that my father was not guilty of planning your intended assassination. That was never his way. I set out to discover who had paid your would-be assassins, and I am now satisfied that it was the Prince Rajar. Then, on the battlefield with Maghalla you saved my life. When I lost my footing you stepped in to cut down my enemies and gave me your hand.”
Gujar wiped a trickle of sweat from his eyes and drew a deep breath.
“I still wish to avenge my father. But Kananda is my friend. We are brothers of the Tiger Hunt. And Rajar is the King’s half brother. That is why I could not stay in Karakhor.” He looked to Maryam and bowed his head. Forgive me, My Lady. I came to protect you in your exile. It seemed an honourable solution for my need to leave Karakhor. But your husband’s part in my father’s death has continued to torment me. I could not ignore it, even though the black heart of Rajar is really to blame.” He looked back to Raven. “I could control my desire to kill you when it would have been too easy, but as you regained your strength and skill the old anger grew each time we crossed blades.”
“Today the anger burst. Perhaps that is a good thing. What lies between us had to come out into the open to be purged. This had to be said. I have held your life at the point of my sword, and I did not take it. Perhaps now I can let the anger go.”
Raven’s face was expressionless, but he carefully sheathed his own sword. Around them the others relaxed. Takarni replaced the drawn arrow in his quiver and leaned his bow against a tree. Only Shareena still looked scared.
Gujar turned his face to Maryam. “I will leave now,” he said grimly, “And find my own exile alone.”
He turned and strode toward his horse, a skittish grey mare which backed up startled as he laid a sudden hand on her bridle. Maryam caught him and stopped him with her hand on his arm before he could loosen the reins from where he had looped them around the branch of a thorn tree.
“Wait,” she said earnestly. “Please wait.”
Gujar turned slowly. He no longer knew what to say.
Raven moved up behind them. His face was thoughtful as he considered the situation and then he said slowly.
“There is no need for you to go. I too would have you stay.”
Gujar looked from one to the other. It was his turn now to be hesitant and uncertain.”
“We understand each other,” Raven agreed. “What has been said is in the open. Stay with us if you wish.” He smiled. “You are an excellent swordsman and I have a long way to go. I still have need of you to re-hone my skills with the blade.”
For full details of the series and how to buy the books go to my heroic fantasy page
THE CALL OF THE SEA
“Oh to go down to the sea again,”
John Betjeman grandly wrote,
Words as true now, as they ever were then,
Of the song in our blood, and a boat.
For the soul of an Englishman longs to be free,
To cut loose with the ebbing tide.
The soul of an Englishman longs for the sea,
To sail on the oceans wide.
To ride on the waves,
To challenge the winds,
Under the cloud-racing sky.
To taste the salt spray,
To feel the salt breeze,
And hear the wild seagulls cry.
Those seas that lap on our island shores,
Echo the heart’s pulse in our veins,
And the lure of the ships, both great and small,
Will call us again and again.
I wrote a lot of poetry during my travelling days and this is the one that seems to sum it all up and gave me the title for this blog.
THE FAR HORIZONS
There is always a far horizon
A city yet to be seen
Always a distant landmark
A pasture of promised green
Eternal the soft voice calling
Come here! Go there! Move on!
Endless the lost soul searching
For what it does not know
Endless the lost soul searching
For what it cannot tell
Perhaps its love, or faith or hope
Perhaps its death or hell
And always the call is urging,
Insistent, Sweet, sublime
Perhaps the answer is waiting
Beyond the coming mile
Just round the approaching corner
Or over the barrier hill
Perhaps the answer is waiting
The quest at last fulfilled
But no, the road is empty
Another hill bars the way
The secret of life is elusive
It dances afar and astray
And there is always a far horizon
A city yet to be seen
Always a distant landmark
A pasture of promised green.
The pictures are of the Himalayas, the Forbidden city of Old Peking,,the shore temple of the Sun God at Konarak, for centuries a sailor’s landmark, and finally an English pasture
Have you seen the film DEEPWATER HORIZON yet?
It’s a fantastic fiery film about an oil rig explosion and the resulting inferno and environmental disaster. It would make a perfect prologue for a film of my novel SEASCREAM. In SEASCREAM the new warm water currents generated by an oil rig explosion penetrate deep into the ocean to disturb a colony of prehistoric plesiosaurus. The monsters move and eventually surface off the coast of Cornwall. The story is DEEPWATER HORIZON, plus the guys that ate jaws as a passing snack, with a Romeo and Juliet love story between two warring fishing families.
When the hungry horrors cause the wreck of a giant supertanker it seems as though setting fire to the oil spill might be the only way of driving them back where they came from.
The film rights are still available. (If you are an American producer you can always substitute Cornwall with the coast of Florida.) In the meantime you can read the first chapter of SEASCREAM for free below.
It was out there somewhere offshore in the thick swirling mist which filled the pitch black night.
It was a diffused sound which could have come from any direction, or from all directions
AS THOUGH THE SEA ITSELF WAS SCREAMING
The sea creatures were not unknown. They were frequently sighted and recorded in the days of sail when ships moved silently under wind power, or lay becalmed in remote parts of the world's vast oceans. The sightings stopped when the ships were fitted with noisy thudding engines and kept to direct but relatively narrow sea lanes which the creatures learned to avoid.
But the creatures were still there, far down in the abyss depths, where they might have remained, unseen and undisturbed, if Aztec Three had not exploded to turn the sea above them into a sea of fire.
The creatures moved east across the Atlantic. They were angry and they were hungry, and for those who had to live and work upon the sea it was the beginning of a savage, screaming nightmare.
The gas bubble had been born more than one thousand feet down below the bed of the ocean. For a millennium of years it had been trapped motionless under enormous pressure, but now the three hundred foot thick layer of hard, compressing cap rock had been drilled through to reach the vast deposits of oil in which the gas bubble floated. The bubble was pure hydrogen and after aeons in lifeless limbo in the stygian darkness it began slowly to move.
Its progress was invisible and unknown, drifting slow millimetre by slow millimetre through the huge undersea reservoir of oil. Time and its direction were meaningless. Another century or another thousand years were as irrelevant as the journey itself. The bubble simply moved, following the pull of the strange new forces which had broken into and changed its world, Ultimately it reached the drill hole where the two miles of steel pipe had penetrated from the surface.
On the last part of its journey the bubble was drawn faster, the sucking pull increasing and the pressures all building up inexorably behind it. No longer drifting it was hurtled into the upward swirling vortex to eternity.
The production rig straddling the new well had been named Aztec Three and was an offshore platform operated by Pemex, the Mexican State oil monopoly. During the late seventies the discovery of immense oil reserves in the Gulf of Mexico had promoted the Mexican oil industry into one of the biggest in the world. Their own proven reserves were the sixth largest in any part of the globe, and encouraged by this veritable bonanza, together with eager American Investment, Pemex had expanded its operations throughout the entire Caribbean. Wherever the drilling rights could be bought or leased the Pemex rigs flourished, and Aztec Three was the most far‑flung outpost of a booming oil‑industry empire. It was also the first rig to step outside the Caribbean and be sited on the Atlantic side of the Windward Isles,
And Aztec Three had struck oil, another black gold bonanza with estimated reserves of up to a thousand million barrels.
For five months the rig had been bringing up oil at the rate of twenty thousand barrels per day, but on the day of the disaster the round‑the‑clock drilling operation had been stopped. The wellhead was due for its first routine overhaul and maintenance cheek. Various pieces of piping and safety valves had to be cleaned, checked for wear and efficiency and if necessary be replaced,
The first priority was to kill the well, which meant stopping the oil flow. This was achieved by pumping heavy liquid mud from the big side tanks on the platform down through the steel pipeline into the well. The density of the mud had to be finely judged until its sheer weight was enough to plug the well and hold down the upward thrusting pressure of the trapped crude oil and natural gases straining to escape from below.
The next step was to remove the Christmas tree, the gigantic fire hydrant arrangement of valves which was clamped on to the producing well, The Christmas Tree had to be removed for inspection, and while this was taking place the hard rubber mass known as blow‑out preventers would be snapped shut on top of the open tubes to seal off the well head. The changeover was the crucial moment the few vital minutes of real danger, and before making this move the engineers on Aztec Three had waited for five hours to be sure their well was stable with no sudden surges of unexpected pressure from below.
When the five hour safety delay was over the engineers began their work. They did not know ‑‑ could not possibly have known ‑‑ that the fatal gas bubble was lurking two thousand feet down in the volatile darkness.
By killing the well the fast, upward rush of the hydrogen bubble had been checked, but it had entered the pipeline and being lighter than the surrounding column of crude oil it had slowly squeezed its way upward. Finally it had by‑passed the oil and encountered the downward thrust of the liquid mud.
Slowly, infinitely slowly, the gas bubble continued to rise, pushing up against the mud, finding its way through and allowing the pressure of the bottled crude oil to build up behind it.
The first sign to reach the working platform of the oil rig was the slowly rising level of the liquid mud in the mud tanks. At first it was so gradual as to be almost imperceptible, and for a full minute it was not noticed.
It was during this minute that the last bolts were removed and the Christmas tree was swung clear of the well head.
The mud level in the tank rose faster and bubbles began to appear. A roustabout watching from a higher level suddenly realized what was happening and uttered an urgent shout of alarm.
For the men working at the wellhead one look into the mud tanks was enough. The level was rising visibly and the first streaks of thick brown crude were showing through the heaving grey surface of the mud. Their luck was out and disaster was already overtaking then.
The engineer in charge of the operation yelled frantic orders and in panic the work team grabbed for the blow out preventer and tried desperately to manoeuvre it into position. They had less than three minutes and the seconds were fast running out.
The hydrogen bubble was gaining in momentum. The surge of mud and oil overflowed the tanks and slopped on to the platform. The well-head team found themselves fumbling, dropping vital bolts and tools, but right from the very beginning they had been given no chance at all. The first spurts of oil jetted out from the well head, spraying them with thick grey brown slime, and then they fled as the well blew out with a force which hurled the partially positioned preventer cap clear across the platform.
The blow‑out was uncontrollable and within seconds it was a hundred‑foot high geyser which was drenching the entire rig with its downpour of black rain. The alarms were already sounding as men ran from all directions to abandon the rig.
The rig master and his senior officers and engineers made hopeless efforts to maintain some discipline and order, but mostly they were ignored in the blind, yelling scramble to launch the life rafts. The men who had been working on the upper levels saw the very real possibility that they might be left behind in the general panic and became even more reckless and desperate in their race to reach the main deck.
One of these was a maintenance engineer who had been working to tighten up a wind‑loosened radio mast high up on the black steel derrick tower which topped the rig. With his heart thudding with fear he had tried to restrain the speed of his descent on the dangerously slippery ladder rungs inside the derrick. By the time he had climbed down to the upper catwalks his red overalls were saturated with oil. Somehow he had, lost his hard hat and the oil was flowing out of his hair and over his face, half blinding him and almost choking him. As he swallowed a mouthful of the filthy mixture he saw through the black downpour the first of the life rafts being launched far below. He still had a long way to go and a cry of anguish spilled up from his gagging throat as he broke into a fast run along the catwalk. The perforated steel planking beneath his feet was smothered in oil, but now the fear of slipping and falling was by far the lesser of two evils.
And inevitably he did fall, His feet skidded from under him and he screamed as he grabbed at a hand rail to stop himself from shooting out into space. His hands slipped along the rail, his body twisted painfully in mid‑fall and he hit down on the catwalk on his shoulder, slithering forward and groping for another hold as the top of the next gangway rushed to meet him. Somehow he braked, wedging his toes into the peroration holes in the steel planking. He stopped with his face thrust out over the top of the gangway but an object of black steel carried on past him and soared out in a slow falling arc to the decks below.
The scream froze on his lips as he watched it fall. He knew what it was and with sickening certainty he knew what was going to happen next.
He had been carrying the heavy steel wrench in the long thigh pocket of his overall, and the sudden absence of its weight against his leg helped him to recognise it as it had blurred past him. Everything was frozen now, time, the breath in his body, and even the wild pumping of his heart. He was suspended in that agonised second before death. For he knew he was dead. They were all dead.
As if in a slow motion dream he saw the wrench move in a circle and drop. The wrench started to spin, turning gracefully in mid air as it fell. And then it met the steel rail of another catwalk two decks down with a resounding clang.
It was steel upon steel, the fatal spark. The up-rush of hydrogen in the great geyser of escaping oil ignited, and Aztec Three was blown up into a million red hot fragments in the most spectacular rig explosion the oil industry had ever known. Not one man survived, and where the rig had been, a vast, spreading sea of flames leaped high on the bulging surface of the ocean.
With the rig totally destroyed there was nothing which could be done to control the raging fire-spill inferno. Within a matter of hours the monstrous red flame tongues were rising a hundred feet above the well site, and, within a week the blazing oil slick covered a, hundred square miles of ocean. And with every hour it was spreading wider. Until the pressure eased from below there was no hope of getting another rig close enough to drill a relief well, and even when that was achieved it would still take many more weeks before the oil reservoir could be tapped again and the flow diverted so that the wild well could be capped.
In the meantime the fire-spill continued to expand, a hundred foot high wall of creeping flames advancing on three fronts and blanketed by a pall of thick black smoke which turned even the days into perpetual, night. Mercifully the initial winds had been favourable, and instead of threatening the long chain of islands encircling the Caribbean the fire-spill was slowly pushed out into mid Atlantic.
For the peoples of the Windward and Leeward islands, and for the oil industry and the governments of Mexico the USA and Venezuela, this was a huge relief. The disaster was not as catastrophic as it might have been if the firewall had engulfed the inhabited islands, and the prevailing easterly winds had proved a blessing. Soon the ecologists and the environmentalists were the only ones left gnashing their teeth and making an ungrateful howling. The media made a seven day sensation out of the story, but with no coastline endangered it soon ceased to be news.
The governments and oil industrialists of three nations argued over the best ways to disperse or contain their fiery problem, while the rest of the world lost any immediate interest.
Unfortunately the ecologists and the environmentalists had some valid points. Their views were sought, debated and forgotten, but the dangers they feared did not go away. Vast areas of the ocean were being warmed up as the fierce heat radiated eastward from the gigantic fire blanket on the surface, and the violent changes in temperature and current movements began to have unseen effects.
The ocean waters are never still, but are constantly moving in a complex pattern of currents stirred by the forces of the winds, the rotation of that earth the gravitational pulls from the moon and sun, and the differing densities of cold and warm water. The superheated waters from beneath the fire-spill injected a new, random factor, some of it being circulated on the existing currents, and some of it causing whole new current patterns as it encountered waters of different temperatures.
The currents were not confined to the surface water. They curved deep through all levels, through sunlight, through twilight, to the abyss. Meanders from the main currents often broke away to curl back and form spirals toward their point of origin. Smaller eddies would spin off the spirals and gradually reach to all parts of the ocean. So it happened that one of the new currents of warm water generated by the fire-spill slowly made its way out into mid Atlantic, circled deeper through a thousand miles of ocean and finally curled back westward to penetrate into the freezing, abyssal darkness of the Puerto Rico Deep.
By the time the warm water current had completed its long involved journey from its source down through twenty‑seven thousand feet to the bottom of the Deep, it was capable of raising the sub‑zero temperatures at that depth by only a few degrees. But it was enough to disturb the creatures.
They were a prehistoric colony which had survived here for millions of years. Once, their ancestors had been warm‑blooded, flesh‑eating surface creatures, which had inhabited the upper surface waters of their world, then had come the great ice ages of advancing glaciers, which had brought doom and extinction to their land‑walking counterparts. Most of the surface‑feeding sea creatures of that long forgotten era had also perished, but a few had adapted by going deeper in search of food, and gradually evolving into the essential cold-blooded creatures of their new environment.
Now the slight temperature increase could not harm them, but it irritated them, making them uncertain. It moved them from their deep familiar haunts causing then to embark upon a lost, blind pilgrimage to nowhere. Their tiny brains could not know that they would have fared better to remain where they were. Instead they moved up from the depths and began to travel eastward across the Atlantic.
To buy and read the rest of the book follow the link on my Horror books page
I spent twenty years as a retained fireman on call with the Suffolk Brigade so when I started writing for the Suffolk Journal it was almost inevitable that I would write a piece on the Fire Service. It’s hard to believe now that this was more than twenty years ago.
BY ROBERT LEADER
It’s three o’clock in the morning and you are wrenched out of a cozy, dreaming sleep like death catapulted out of a coffin. It’s mid-winter and outside your bedroom window a full-scale blizzard is raging, and East Anglia is doing one of its credible imitations of the frozen Arctic. Your brain is shattered, and your multitone pocket alerter is shrieking its urgent bleeping.
Somewhere out there in the howling, hostile night, there’s a blazing inferno, or a piled-up road traffic accident with bloodied human bodies and mangled vehicles scattered over black ice -- or perhaps it’s just a slice of burnt toast setting off somebody’s over-sensitive automatic fire alarm. You won’t know until you get to the Fire station, and whatever it is, you have to respond to the call.
That was just one of the joys of being a retained fireman, on call 24 hours a day, 365 days of the year. And it’s not just when your nicely tucked up in bed that the inconvenient call out comes. Emergency situations happen when they happen. The bleeper has no respect for those most intimate moments of your private life, no coyness about whether you’re in the bath, on the loo, or even making love.
Make no mistake, carrying a Fire Service bleeper is a definite pain, constant interruptions dominate your life, and elicit howls of frustration from your luckless spouse. And yet, most of those who carry one would not be without it. I’ve collected my own Twenty Years Long Service and Good Conduct Medal from the Suffolk Fire Service, and I have no regrets. In fact, now that I’m retired and bleeperless, I find I miss the damned thing.
Now I can actually finish every meal I start, take the time to soak and luxuriate in a hot bath, and sleep peacefully right through every night; but sometimes I would just rather be riding that big red engine again, with the blue lights flashing and the adrenaline pumping as I struggle into the harness of a breathing apparatus set. It was often hard, dirty, hot, and even dangerous work, alternating with the frustration of the “Mickey Mouse” calls, as we dubbed the false alarms, the routine of small chimney and grass fires, or the boredom of just waiting on stand-by. But in action or waiting you are always a part of an Elite Team, always ready for the Big One.
It’s hard to know precisely how many lives the Fire Service saves. A “Persons Reported” message gets the blood pounding quicker than anything, but mercifully live person rescues from burning buildings are relatively rare. The most common life or death situation is the road traffic accident. Here you work to free casualties as quickly as possible, without adding to or exacerbating the injuries they have already suffered. The final battle will usually be carried out by surgeons at the nearest hospital, but you have the satisfaction of knowing that if you have worked carefully and quickly enough, then you will have added to that person’s chance of survival as the ambulance ferries them away.
On one occasion we arrived on the scene just as one of the crashed vehicles burst into flames. The driver was trapped helpless behind the wheel, his feet crushed up between the foot pedals, and I shall never forget his horrified face, framed in the broken glass of the shattered windscreen and wreathed in tongues of leaping fire. Two of us hit the road running to whip the hose-reels, always the quickest means of attack, from either side of our machine, and I know for certain that on that day we did save a life.
Of course, for all of us Old Timers, our year of pride and glory was the hot summer of 1976. I was part of the fire crew at Brandon, and through July and August I never finished a single meal or slept a full night at home. We were in the heart of Breckland and ran till we were exhausted from one forest fire to the next. We finished that scorching summer with a plane crash. A Phantom jet from USAF Lakenheath nose-dived immediately after take-off with a full load of aviation fuel on board. In those tinder-dry conditions it set four square miles of fir plantations alight. Adrenaline-pumping stuff indeed!
In 1979 I transferred to Bury St. Edmunds, then a three-pump station, with the second and third pumps still manned by retained crews. In March the following year, at four-thirty in the morning of the 19th, the Bury St. Edmunds Sports Centre was completely destroyed by fire, an incident involving seventy men, fourteen major pumps and a turntable ladder. The fire had started in the cafeteria end of the upper building and when the first pumps arrived strong winds had swept the flames through the full length of the roof.
The first breathing apparatus teams to go inside were quickly pulled out again when the roof started to collapse. I went in twice with the second waves of BA teams allowed in after the roof was down, hauling a fire-fighting jet up the concrete central staircase that gave us some protection from any further collapse, but there was no way to beat that particular fire. Fifteen hours later we were still there, sweat-soaked and smoke-blackened, wearily damping down a huge pile of twisted girders and steaming debris.
But we didn’t really lose that fire. As any fireman will tell you, it’s still a good stop if you save the foundations!
So was it all worth it? Of course it was -- and there are always vacancies for those who can still do it. Most of East Anglia is covered by retained fire stations where crews are on bleeper call as and when they are needed, and even the few full time stations also need retained back-up. A full fire-crew is six fire-fighters, which means that to allow for sickness, holidays, and those times when you just can’t respond, the ideal is for twelve fire-fighters to be on call for each pump. However, the demands of most modern employers mean that not many people in full-time employment can make the total commitment needed for what is technically a part-time job so many stations are often short of crew.
Actually, it’s not quite a total commitment. It is recognized that even retained firemen are only human, so you will only be expected to make 65% of your station’s total number of calls. Training is usually an initial one week course, and then a two-hour drill night once a week.
So if you are a fit and healthy insomniac who doesn’t mind interrupted meals, and interruptions to all those other delicate activities which ordinary mortals expect to conduct in peace and privacy, then why not give it a go? Serving your community brings its own reward, and just one life saved, or one rampaging fire stopped in its tracks, makes it all worthwhile. Plus you’re almost guaranteed a cheerful, wise-cracking camaraderie that you won’t find anywhere else. London’s Burning got that part right at least.
I know that I’d do it all over again, if only they’d let me.
A HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL MY READERS.
In December I put up the last chapter of SIAFU – THE TIM BAILY STORY. Well, not quite the last chapter. The good news is that in putting up the book chapters on this blog I have again made contact with Tim. He is currently running fishing safaris on Lake Nasser in Egypt. (Look up the full details on his website at www.african-angler.com) Tim is keen to resurrect the book with a new third section on the highlights of all the following Siafu expeditions he organized through the seventies and eighties. We’re working on that together and hope to get the book published under a new title, OVERLAND THROUGH AFRICA.
In the meantime I have to decide how to continue this blog. Over the past eighteen years I have published over three hundred feature articles in the East Anglian county magazines, the old, Suffolk, Norfolk and Cambridgeshire Journals, the Essex Magazine, and currently the Suffolk/Norfolk Life. I realize that for people outside East Anglia this is a foreign country and so I intend to go back to the beginning and put them all up here, alternating with some of the poetry that originated in my travelling days.
My first article was LORDS OF THE DANCE, a feature on Morris Dancing which appeared in the May 1988 issue of The Suffolk Journal. It was published with the first seven of my photographs. Since then I have had over two thousand of my photographs published.
LORDS OF THE DANCE
By ROBERT LEADER
From May to September you will find them all over England, outside pubs, on village greens, at folk fairs and festivals, feet flying, bells jingling, thwacking sticks or waving handkerchiefs, flamboyant costumes whirling and weaving in circle and line dances that have evolved from the pre-Christian mists of pagan Britain. The dances are a celebration of the cycle of the seasons, for hunting and fishing, of Spring and Harvest, of fertility rites and rites of passage as ancient as Stonehenge and the druids. The dancers are, of course, the Morris Dancers, the modern day Lords - and Ladies - of the ritual dance.
Symbology abounds, greenery and maypoles for the resurgence of nature and the renewal of life. Circle dances to represent the changes of the seasons, the passage of the sun or the phases of the moon, or perhaps just the spirit of the community. Much of the true meanings are lost in the past, in the instincts, experiences and emotions of our long dead ancestors, and the explanations are now best guesses or logical deductions.
The themes are world wide, and in England Morris Dancing seems to have reached the height of its development around the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. Then most of the dancing would have been village based by agricultural labourers celebrating Christmas, Plough Monday (The first Monday after Twelth Night when the fields were ploughed and the crops were planted), May Day and the completion of harvest. Through the seventeenth century the dances were boosted by inter-village competitions, and by the injection of new factory sponsored teams, where clog-dancing was introduced in the new industrial towns. The clogs were initially the only footwear the mill working men possessed, but they were ideal for stamping out a heavy, noisy rhythm, and so many Morris sides still wear them today.
Morris dancing almost died out during the First World War, due to the vast numbers of young men who perished on the bloody battlefields of Europe, and it was only the introduction of female dancers which kept the traditions going, leading eventually to the modern day folk revival. A few areas such as the Cotswolds resisted the new mixed side trend, preferring to stay male only. All male sides can get much more robust, especially in the many stick battle dances that are possibly derived from the concept of summer beating back winter, and may deliberately try to break each other’s sticks. With ladies involved the mixed sides tend to be just as enthusiastic, but perhaps a little less aggressive.
In Suffolk alone there are almost twenty sides with strange names like Lagabag, Barley Brigg, Danegeld, Devil’s Dyke, Flying Tatters, Gyppeswyck Garland, Haganeth, Green Dragon, and the Haughley Hoofers, to name just a few.
Usually a Morris side needs around twenty members to be sure of fielding a regular dancing eight with at least two musicians favouring melodium and drums. Most of them will practice regularly in winter and dance out at pubs, festivals and street fairs at least once a week through the summer. Traditionally most of them will dance at the crack of dawn on Mayday, perhaps in a farmer’s field, although some prefer to wait to catch an early bird audience in the centre of one of our bustling market towns. The rest of the time they will dance for the fun of it, and perhaps the sheer joy of working up, and then slaking, a good thirst.
Most of the dance routines performed by the Suffolk Morris sides are derived from the more traditional dancing areas of England, but Suffolk ingenuity means that they are often given a new style and flair of their own. Danegeld, who are based at Woodbridge, wear black trousers or skirts and yellow shirts and socks, female waistcoats are green and the male waistcoats are red. Their vividly colourful dances are a form of North West clog morris which originated in Lancashire and Cheshire.
Some are processional dances associated with the ancient customs of well dressing, others celebrate rituals like the changing of the rushes, one of the many forms of dance that once took place within churches. Before Cromwell and the puritans it was not uncommon for folk dancers to perform inside the churches, or to dance around them in circles of unity.
Danegeld, who will celebrate their tenth birthday in October,(1988) take their name from Danish Gold, the extortion demanded by the Danes in the eleventh century as an alternative to their raping and pillaging your town or village. It was perhaps the first known protection racket. Danegeld’s tongue-in-cheek variation of the principle is that if you don’t put money in their hat they threaten to dance again.
Green Dragon Morris, who are based in Bury St Edmunds, dance in tatter coats and black faces. The tatter coats, jackets sewn with a complete covering of brightly coloured strips of rag, or tatters, represent the tattered poverty of the original dancers, the agricultural labourers or factory workers who had only rags to wear. Today the streaming tatters are also popular for their colourful whirlwind effect as the dancers leap and twirl.
The custom of blacking their faces is generally held to have originated from the dancer’s need in some circumstances to disguise their identities. Just as the modern day groups need to pass round the hat to cover their costs in transport, instruments, costumes, and hiring halls for winter practice, so many of the mediaeval dancers had to beg to survive. Blackening their faces meant that they were not so easily recognized when work became available again and they had to face their prospective employers. Also their pagan posturing became looked upon with disfavour when the puritans came to power, and it was not necessarily a good thing for the church and civic leaders to know exactly who the dancers were.
Most of Green Dragon’s dances come from the Cambridgeshire borders, although combined with any other style that takes their fancy, including the creation of “traditional” styles of their own. There is nothing static in folk dancing, like everything else that is alive and vibrant, it evolves.
One of the Cambridgeshire traditions is Molly Dancing. The “Molly” was a man dressed as a woman, who usually partnered the “Squire”, in dances that deliberately aped and ridiculed the more genteel, Mozartian waltzing of their betters. Many dances, and especially the mummers plays that go hand in hand with Morris Dancing, were cheerfully disorderly and satirical, reversing the rules and roles of rural society, and generally taking the mickey.
Today’s Morris dancing is a feast of colourful, traditional entertainment, of noisy music and dance that is joyful and vigorously energetic. Its devotees are drawn from all walks of life. Green Dragon’s dancers include a computer operator and a carpet-fitter, a radiographer and a schoolteacher, a nanny and a doctor. All they need in common is a little rhythm, a great deal of physical energy, a love of life and a great sense of fun.
And why do they do it. The obvious reason is to keep our national dancing traditions alive. It’s also a fantastic way of keeping fit. It’s a great day or evening out with convivial company. It’s an opportunity to dress up and play to the crowd. It’s the ultimate stress-buster, because dancing is an exhilarating and happy way to escape into the thrill of the moment.
It could lead to travel. Danegeld have danced at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival, in Luxembourg, Normany and Germany. They simply present themselves at the local tourist information office and ask if they can dance in the town square. To celebrate the inauguration of the new Stenna Line hover-speed service the side danced on the quayside in Holland.
And of course, there is always the possibility of romance. When Pip Conen, a lady dancer with the Green Dragon Morris, fell in love with Adam Garland, a male dancer from the long-established East Suffolk Morris, both sides turned up in full regalia to provide a ceremonial arch of honour, and then danced outside the church. Dancing at weddings, especially when it is one of their own, is one of the things Morris dancers do best.
If you fancy having a go, then contact a bagman. The bagman is the one who carries the bag with the paperwork and money, a sort of secretary-come-treasurer.
(Look up the sides on the internet to find their contact details.)
SIAFU – THE TIM BAILY STORY
AS TOLD TO ROBERT LADER
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: SIAFU IS BORN
There was only one way to pull Siafu and myself out of the red and that was to promote an immediate return trip to England using the same four Land Rovers. There was a tremendous amount of work to be done before my ancient indestructibles were fit to tackle the overland route again and I had to practically re-build each vehicle. At the same time I placed more advertisements in the South Africa Press. Thanks to these and the publicity I had been given in the Rhodesian press when we had made our jubilant entry into Salisbury I gradually began to pull together enough adventurous spirits to form a new expedition. Some of them were South Africans and Rhodesians, travelling of course on British passports, and there was the usual sprinkling of Australians and New Zealanders.
During the six months that I spent in South Africa organizing the return trip I stayed with the Hooper family who very kindly allowed me to use their home as the base of my operations. Peter was still working in London but during my stay he flew out to South Africa on a brief visit and I was very happy to met up with him again. My dept to the Hooper family is a very large one for they gave me support and encouragement at a very trying time when I needed it most. My fledgling idea for turning Trans-Africa into a viable business enterprise was struggling to survive and most people still considered that I was crazy. However, the Hoopers gave me moral support and allowed me to run my course. There was a standing joke between Mrs Hooper and myself that she was my Southern Hemisphere Mother, and indeed it was more truth than a joke.
Gradually the new expedition took shape and with the money paid by my new companions in fares I was able to purchase the necessary food and spares and pay off some of my debts to my original team. By this means I managed to reduce my total debt to eight hundred pounds.
I still had Andy Robertson to help me in running the show but my hardest task was to replace Allan Crook. Allan had continued his travels by sea to Borneo, where he had joined another Land Rover party driving overland to Australia, and so I needed a new mechanic. Not just any mechanic, but a good bush mechanic who could improvise and keep my vehicles moving under practically any circumstances. It was a headache, but one that was finally solved when Don Townsend, an old school-friend and another expatriate from Kenya answered my advertisement in the press. Don was working in South Africa but was keen to visit England. He was a big, stalwart character, an ideal man to have on the trip, and more to the point another brilliant mechanic. I signed him up immediately.
It was in October of 1969 that I set out with Andy to lead my battered convoy of reconditioned Land Rovers back across twelve thousand miles of Africa. We by-passed the delicate Rhodesia-Zambia border by circling through Malawi and here we stopped for a few days by the lake to remove every made in Rhodesia or made in South Africa label from every single item of our food and equipment. We cut the tags out of shirts and clothing, hacked the giveaway words from rubber tyres and clipped the labels from literally hundreds soup packets and food can wrappers.
That return trip proved much the same as the trip down except that the amount and the variety of mechanical breakdowns increased. However, I had again picked a splendid team who tackled the journey as an adventure and a challenge in which it was up to each one of them to help get the expedition through. They all relished every minute of it; the hard work and the campfire parties, the dust and the mud and the cold beer at every stop, the Congo roads and the Malindi nights, the difficulties and the delays, and the ever changing panorama of Africa with its diversity of landscapes, flora and fauna and people.
In the Congo we had trouble again at Monga. The Congolese officer in charge of the garrison there was blind drunk when we arrived and because he enjoyed the presence of our girls he refused to let the party cross the river. He insisted that we all stay to drink with him instead. We eased out of that situation by passing round a bottle of cane spirit drugged with sedatives from our medical chest. While we pretended to take sips he took hefty pulls and finally passed out.
In Tamanrasset we ran foul of our old friends the customs officers when they found that one of our party was smuggling a revolver. I had warned everybody of the folly of trying to carry a gun and now there was nothing I could do to help him. He was jailed for two months and had to pay a fine of four hundred and fifty pounds to get out.
Finally, after another journey of three months, “Henry”, “Sarah”, “Maggie” and “Matilda” all limped wearily into London. During the last few weeks the whole expedition had again been desperately short of money but again we had arrived safely at our destination. Reluctantly I put the four Land Rovers up for sale and with the proceeds I succeeded in paying off the last of my debts and breaking even.
Now I had to review my situation yet again. I had no debts but I had no assets either. Without my Land Rovers I had nothing except the fact that I had led two successful expeditions across Africa and proved that my project was feasible. I started to look around for someone who would back me financially and this time I found the support I needed. Errol Baker, a good friend and at one time my managing director at “Samorgan” decided to invest in Siafu. He was joined by Gilbert Brown, another old colleague who had worked for an associate firm during my “Samorgan” days. They put up the hard cash to purchase new vehicles and equipment and again with Andy Robertson I led two more successful expeditions to and fro across Africa.
We hit a new problem in crossing the Oubangui at Bangassou. The ferry we had previously used had now rotted through and sunk. Undaunted we hired a fleet of native canoes, placed planks across them athwart ships and gingerly drove our vehicles onto those make-shift rafts. It was a risky business paddling our own improvised ferry across the wide sweep of the river, but we made every crossing without mishap.
In other spheres the trip became easier. The civil war in Nigeria was over and both Central Africa and the Congo became much more settled. The Siafu ant painted on the white door of a Land Rover eventually became familiar over the whole overland route and past experience and old contacts helped to smooth our way. With new vehicles and a sound knowledge of the hazards and terrain each trip became a little less difficult than the last, although Africa itself remained the same magnificent adventure.
In May of 1970 we were at last able to open an office at Abbey House in Victoria Street as a permanent base. And SIAFU EXPEDITIONS was registered as a Limited Company with Errol Baker, Gilbert Brown and Tim Baily listed as directors.
From this point on Siafu Expeditions were making regular Trans-African safaris, each one lasting three months between London and Nairobi and vice versa. Each safari consisted of approximately twenty-five young people in four Land Rovers. Plus an experienced expedition leader and a competent mechanic as second in command. Our prices were all-inclusive of transport, all the necessary equipment for cooking and camping, and all game park fees, camping fees and ferry tolls. All the organization and planning was done by Siafu, but once the expedition left London or Nairobi the expedition members were on their own. It was their trip and it was up to them to run it, for it was our endeavour to offer adventure and a challenge. The men took their turns at driving the vehicles, carrying the water and erecting the tents; while the girls did the bartering in the native markets and cooked the meals. In the event of a real emergency or an expedition leader being taken ill I was always ready to fly out personally and take charge, but otherwise it was our policy to give our expeditions free rein to show their own mettle.
Now that Siafu had pioneered the way there were soon other companies moving into the exciting new field of Trans-African travel. The route was getting easier but Siafu continued to run expeditions the hard way, opening up new routes to avoid the advancing spread of civilization. We began running expeditions down through Tunisia and entering Algeria via Djanet, and from there making the wildly beautiful but unmarked crossing over eight hundred miles of vividly painted sandstone desert before rejoining the main through route at Agadez. The Djanet crossing took an extra three days and had to be made by compass bearings with the help of Toureg guides. Economically, we were told, Djanet is crazy. Those extra days mean extra costs and the passenger on his first Trans-Sahara trip will never know the difference if we take him by the cheaper but less spectacular main road. My answer always reverted to the basic principle of Siafu – our aim was always to offer young people genuine adventure and to show them the best of Africa. We were a part of Africa and not just another commercially-minded company selling holidays.
In the shifting moods of Africa it became Siafu policy to explore every new route that became politically possible. Wherever there was something new to be tried in African experience or Trans-African travel, then Siafu would attempt it.
As we grew we expanded our ambitions. In addition to our regular overland expeditions Siafu would also contact out to private expeditions with a definite purpose. We could arrange specialized climbing expeditions to tackle Mount Kenya or Kilimanjaro, or short purely photographic expeditions in search of any specific animal. We were the experts with all the necessary knowledge, vehicles and equipment and the experienced personnel to outfit any type of expedition anywhere in Africa. We were ready, and able, to cater for zoological or archaeological, or any other scientific or university research teams who needed to penetrate into the more remote and difficult regions of the continent.
Siafu soon became linked with the Association of World Learning. For any group that wished to promote a greater understanding of Africa; whether it be by studying prehistoric rock painting in the Sahara, living with the Congo pygmies, or combing the Ruwenzories for those few remaining gorillas, Siafu was always ready to undertake the organization of such an expedition. We could guarantee the safe and efficient transport of its members to the site of their researches.
Siafu in the mid-seventies was a thriving company, with many thanks due to the early generosity of my fellow directors Errol Baker and Gilbert Brown. Our vehicles were the best and the personal contacts I had built up over the past few years had ensured reasonably smooth sailing through all the political frontiers we had to pass.
However, the overland journey through Africa is never certain and will never be easy. To make that trans-continental journey will always be a challenge and an unsurpassable adventure. In an age where man has left his footprints on the moon Africa can still offer untrodden regions of forest and jungle. Africa is mystique and excitement, freedom and peace and nature untamed and timeless.
And even in our safe, comfortable and insulated welfare state world, I believe there will always be young men and women ready to respond to the magic call of Africa. For the young man or woman who truly wants to discover his or her own capacity, strengths and weaknesses, there is no better testing ground than Africa. Under expedition conditions true character must emerge and be strengthened.
On a Siafu expedition there is much hard work to be done: sand, mud, dust, heat and tsetse flies to be faced. But on the credit side there is the experience of a lifetime: the close circles of talk and laughter lit by the red glow of the camp fires, the blue skies that burn above beautiful desert isolation, the mountain peaks whose snows dazzle under the equatorial sun, the vast grassy plains dotted with wildlife, the tangled forests with their green and mysterious depths, and the continuous pageant of fascinating indigenous peoples.
All these, I can testify, are the rewards of Africa. But most of all, he who discovers Africa the hard way, the Siafu way, will also discover himself.
So ends the original book.
However, the good news is that in putting these chapters up on The Far Horizons I have again been able to make contact with Tim Baily. Tim is now running fishing safaris on Lake Nasser in Egypt. You can check out his website at www.african-angler.net
Tim is still keen to see the book published and we are now working together on a third section telling all the highlight stories and dramas of the later expeditions that continued to run all through the seventies and eighties. There are some fantastic tales here for Africa never fails to surprise and delight.
So watch this space.
Look out for the Book.
It’s going to be called:
OVERLAND THROUGH AFRICA