Tag Archives: Climate Change

Epilogue

This Old Mine Is Now B.C.'s Largest Solar Farm | The Narwhal

GIMLI XYZ announcement:

Hi there, folks, this is Sitting Cloud here, your new DJ while Foghorn Fredricksson takes a long break. My husband says I should get out of the house more, so here I am! I’m still getting used to all these controls so bear with me – but these last few weeks have been a learning curve for all of us, haven’t they? Well, I’m pleased to announce the repairs on the Lighthouse are completed – the solar panels have been fitted – and to celebrate there is going to be a disaster relief benefit concert, raising funds and resources for all those affected by the recent crisis, at the Sports Hall, with no less than The Runestone Cowboys playing, featuring my son, Eddy Redcrow! It’s going to be this coming Saturday. Hope you can make it. To get you in the mood, here’s one of their numbers. Now, which damn button is it…?

EPILOGUE

The sports hall was packed, the atmosphere electric with excitement and relief as Eddy stepped onto the stage with his band. He picked up his guitar, and his bandmates attended to their own instruments – Deep Fried Fred on rhythm, Berserk Bjarki on bass, and Octopus Ollie on drums.

‘Hello Gimli!’ Eddy roared, as he strummed his guitar. ‘It’s good to see you all! We’re the Runestone Cowboys, and I don’t know about you, but we’re here to party!’

The crowd went wild as the band plunged into their first upbeat number. Hit the ground running, was Eddy’s motto. Three months into the clear-up and folk were ready to let their hair down. It had been ninety days of hard work, of grim discoveries, of burials and memorials. Slowly normality had returned. Power. Water. Food and fuel deliveries. The internet and phone signals. The streets had been cleared, the ploughed piles of dirty snow slowly melting away. It was strange, at first, to see asphalt again, sidewalks, lawns and fields – the colour slowly returning to the landscape like someone adjusting the balance on an old television.

The completion of the new solar-panelled lighthouse had been the symbol of renewal for the community – an affirmation that the sun would once more grow in strength, the light would return, and crops would grow again. The nuclear winter was over – all the reports confirmed it. The floods had been devastating, but at least the milder weather and greater daylight made the rescue and clear-up operations easier.

As satellite communications were restored a flood of emails, texts, and voice-mails filled up people’s message boxes. In the last week Eddy had received two unexpected but welcome messages: one was from Cruz, who was now leading the remaining members of the Wild Hunt. She had sent a photo of herself in front of the club on the battle-scarred million-dollar bike. The message simply said: ‘The Wild Hunt rides on! Patch for life, Red! Seeya on the road!’

The other was a video-message from Bog standing with a pint of Guiness outside Lowry’s: ‘Would you believe it, I made it back! Took a week to thaw out! My hands were like a pack of fecking fish fingers! I found your website. Looks shite, but the music sounds good! Come over the pond for a jar or three! You’ll like the craic here. It suits crazy halfbreed like us! Anyway, I see from your homecoming gig you made it back. That was one epic ride there, my friend! You’re a legend! Here’s to more wild times, but with better weather, hey?’

Eddy scanned the dancing crowd and saw his sister dancing proudly near the front with her friends. She waved and grinned. He smiled back and went into the lick of the next track – a smooth segue they had been practising for a while. They had a three song medley to warm up the crowd, and they weren’t going to pause for a break and a bit of banter until then. He was in full flow, loving the vibes, the admiring or envious looks, but more this time – the deep appreciation, the respect. He wasn’t just Eddy of the Runestone Cowboys, he was a local hero, and perhaps more, but no one except his community knew the whole story. He was cool with that – the last thing he wanted was news crews camped outside the family home, pestering his friends and family for sound-bites, tempting offers to appear on chat shows and more. After everything he had gone through more than anything he wanted to keep it real. A low profile. His old job. A cold one with his friends down the brewhouse now and then. Sure, he had fantastic memories to keep him going for the rest of his life. Those would never fade. The people he had met. The things he had seen. He had ridden with legends. Fought monsters. Journeyed between worlds. And had lived. That was enough for any man.

At least that’s what he told himself.

But he had tasted magic. And the world would never be the same again. Whenever he closed his eyes, he saw her. She haunted his dreams.

Fenja.

No mortal woman would ever live up to her, and how could they? He had sampled the nectar of the gods. He knew he should just be content – for being back in Gimli, for being alive. They had all lost much, but he still had the gift of life, so fragile, so precious. And once gone, irreplaceable.

Every day he reminded himself of that. He easily he could have failed, could not be here.

Where would he be, exactly, he wondered? Which world would his spirit go? Was it destined for a Dakota afterlife or an Icelandic one – or some snakehole between the two? He shook his head and laughed and the audience thought it was just the buzz of the performance. He had spent his life trying to square that one, and perhaps he never would. Death was merely a change of worlds, his grandfather had said. Perhaps there, in the great beyond, all such differences faded away… The Red and the White. The Black. The Yellow. The Rainbow Nations, becoming one again. Perhaps there, all his loved ones who had passed on waited for him…

Lost in the solo with the throb of the drums behind him, he slipped into a semi-trance state. The hall suddenly felt larger, the crowd vast – extending into shadowy catacombs where ranks of ancestors eavesdropped.

Eddy nearly fudged a chord as he was overwhelmed by the presence of his grandfathers – Gunnar and Running Bear stepped forward from the shadows, side-by-side. They parted as a blue light appeared between them.

The image vanished in a flash, and suddenly there in the audience … there she was, dancing.

Fenja.

She gyrated to the music. Wearing jeans, boots, a tight t-shirt, she just looked like another one of the crowd, out for a good time.

Eddy nearly fell off the stage. His bandmates made a joke, yanked him back, carried on playing.

She looked up at him, and her fierce blue eyes caught his.

And the distance between the worlds melted away.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

The Way it Happened

There now, I have chopped off half the winter.’ Traditional tale ending.

Chapter 33: The Way it Happened

The old man sat back in his battered armchair and groaned. ‘Ah, my bones. This cold has made them worse than usual. They ache like a seawife’s heart for her drowned sweetheart.’ Snorri wore a thick Icelandic cardigan, patterned with snowflakes and sunflowers.  His craggy face was like a map of sorrow and hardship, and yet there was a spunk of fire in his eyes beneath the kindling of his eyebrows. In contrast to his stiff, jagged body his hands were mercurial, conjuring gods and monsters out of the air with the simplest of gestures.

Around him in the Harbour Master’s Office, where he had temporarily taken up residence, sleeping in the lighthouse, and running a scratch school in the office while the main school remained closed, were the children of the community, those ‘not too old’ for stories or too young to understand, although some infants lay curled against their mothers, who helped run a makeshift nursery between them. Others had ‘called by’, on some vague errand, and lingered in the doorway, eavesdropping with a mixture of scepticism and amusement.

Snorri’s afternoon story sessions were becoming a popular fixture of the community. In the gulf left by online entertainment folk had taken to making their own again – board games, singalongs, drumming circles, and storytelling.

‘So, nobody wants another story do they? You look tired. Perhaps you should all go home and have a nap…’

‘One more story. Please…!’ cried the children.

He raised his bird-hands in mock defeat. ‘Very well then. Only one more mind. Then it’s hometime. Otherwise I’ll be run out of town, for leading you all into the hillside of tale like some Pied Piper. Which one shall it be? Scary? Sad? Funny?’

‘Tell us about the end of the world again!’ someone cried, and others joined in, echoing the sentiment.

Snorri laughed, stroking his fox-like beard. ‘The one I told yesterday? And the day before that? Ah, you have appetites worse than Thor! Y’know, once he dressed up as a woman to fool the king of the Frost Giants and win back his hammer, Mjolnir. Thrym liked the look of this fine figure of a woman – bearded and bicepped – so much he decided to marry her. At the wedding feast Thor ate a whole ox from tail to horn, eight mighty salmon, all the cakes and sweets, and two barrels of mead, which impressed Thrym even more!’ Everyone laughed and Snorri went to get up and leave.

‘Stay! We want our story!’

‘What?’ He smacked his forehead. ‘Plain forgot! My memory! It’s like a Swiss cheese in a colander!’ He settled down again, scanning the eager faces, lit by the candles set up around the room. ‘Very well, then. Let me tell you about the end of the world. This is the way it happened…’

‘Our Eddy, yes! Eddy Leif Redcrow of Gimli, Manitoba! Icerider! He who had crossed the Atlantic Ocean on his iron steed! Friend of giants and foe of demon raiders! He had a difficult job to do! He had to reach Law Rock, the ancient rock in Thingvollr, the crack in the world, where all the laws of Iceland were proclaimed. Why? Because there he had to recite the Runestone given him by his grandfather, my old dear pal, Running Bear, may his spirit be at peace in the arms of the Great Creator. If he could he could bring an end to the war of the gods that had locked the world in an icy embrace. He could bring an end to the end. Unfortunately, between him and his goal there was that loathsome trickster, Loki, and his hellish hordes: wolves! worms! trolls before them! Ice Force shock troops behind! The chasm of the sundered world below!’

The audience gasped in delightful terror.

‘But our hero was not alone! Oh no! He had mighty friends! Odin One Eye, the Allfather, riding his eight-legged steed, Sleipnir! Tear, god of war, who, with one hand could do more damage than a ten men with twenty! Rig, the guardian of Bifrost, blower of the great horn that woke the gods! And the rest of the Raven god’s crew – Will and Way, his powerful brothers! Fearsome Frey! And let us not forget the formidable Fenja, the frost-giant’s daughter who had melted Eddy’s heart! They led the Wild Hunt into battle – the final battle that they would fight! Many others had been lost along the way. It had been a hard road. But soon all would be reunited in Odin’s hall! This was the day foretold by the Weird Sisters! Ragnarok! The twilight of the gods! The world had endured the terrible Fimbul-Winter! Frost giants had walked the Earth, crushing humanity beneath their big boots! The Death Ship, Naglfar, made from the untrimmed nails of the dead, had sailed. The legions of Hel herself had sallied forth, raining down fire on the world! Surt woke up and his breath choked the sky! The Sons of Muspel rode out and nowhere was safe! Even Gimli!’

He looked around at the adults, who now were hooked too.

‘Yet Gimli was foretold to be where survivors of the end of the world would live … it is the place protected from the fire! We’re tough! We fight! And we protect our loved ones! But without Eddy’s bravery we would never know safety! The place more beautiful than the sun would always live in the shadow of conflict! And so the Wild Hunt had to do what they did, for us all. For communities like us across the world. For people who didn’t even believe in them, who didn’t even know they existed! Their sacrifices that day would be forever unknown if not for the one who survived … but I get ahead of myself! All things in order. Everything and everyone must play their part in the web of wyrd. Ask the Weavers!’ He pointed at the women in the room. ‘They know! They understand! The warp and weft… there must be a pattern to it, a sequence!’

‘We’d better not let you near a loom then!’ one of them called, and they all cackled.

‘Harrumph!’ His frown melted into a smile. ‘So, the Wild Hunt fought against Loki and his lackeys – and what a battle it was! There, where the world is sundered. If it was not already so, the force of their clash would have broken it in twain! What a sound! The Earth shook!’ He stamped his feet up and down on the floor-boards, making a dull rumbling sound. ‘The sky was shattered by lightning!’ He weaved his hands back and forth, his rings glinting in the candle-light. ‘Crash! Boom!’

The young audience gasped in mock-terror and delight, while some of the adults rolled their eyes.

‘The outcome of such a battle was very close. Very close indeed. Such valour! Such deeds were seen on the Plains of Vigrid that day! It was the ultimate Holmgang—’

‘What’s that?’ asked a wide-eyed child.

‘Well, little one, I’m glad you asked. Holmgang is a Norse custom for settling disputes. The two feuding parties would go to an island to sort out their differences – only one was allowed back. It was a fight to the death. As it was that fateful day! One by one, the mighty gods fell – like tall trees in the forest. The Allfather is eaten by Fenris the Wolf in gigantic gulp…’ Roaring, Snorri used his arms to mime the jaws snapping shut. ‘Like that!’

The audience gasped.

‘Tear is torn apart from Garm, Hel’s own hound, while slaying it with his dying breath!’ Snorri growled and howled. ‘Frey and Surt destroy each other. Biff! Bash! Pow! And Rig, wily Heimdal, runefather and friend to all, falls at the hands of Loki, even as he delivers a fatal blow to that double-tongued trickster! And like trees in a storm, the rest of the Elders of the Wild Hunt topple. But they’re deaths are not in vain! Eddy reaches Law Rock, guarded by Fenja! He pulls out the runestone and … he can’t read it! It’s all in runes! A fatal flaw in the plan! All their deaths in vain!’ He smacks his brow in disbelief.

‘No!!!’ the children cried out.

‘Except … Fenja, she blows wisdom into his mind – puff! Like that! And suddenly, he can understand the markings! A-ha!’ He points a finger up in the air.

‘A-ha!’ the children echoed, mirroring his gesture.

‘He starts to recite the runic inscription, as the gods die around him, and the remains of Loki’s horde swarm towards the rock! Fenja fights them off as best she can, but she is hideously outnumbered. She can only hold them off for so long… All seems lost…’

Snorri looked around and saw even the adults were awaiting his next words with baited breath. The candle-light seemed frail in the gloom. This golden circle of humanity, so precious, so fragile.

‘Then Eddy’s words, spoken with power – he’s not a rocker for nothing – were finished. There was a vacuum of noise into which all the din of battle was sucked.’

Snorri paused for effect. You could hear a pin drop.

‘And then a great blast of energy rippled out from Law Rock across the Thingvollr, across Iceland, across the Atlantic, across the world! KA-BOOM!’ He clapped his hands. ‘Eddy released the Ragnarok runes, encoded on the Vérendrye Runestone, lost but found, right here in Manitoba! Preserved for centuries by the Redcrows! The tablet crumbled to dust and blew away in an icy breath of wind. Whoosh!’ He flicked his hand.

‘Whoosh!’ the children copied.

‘Eddy lay unconscious on the Law Rock. All was still and silent. Slowly, painfully, he revived. A patch of blue appeared in the sky overhead, and a shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom. Sunlight! Golden, like the hair of his beloved… Fenja! He got up and saw her at the foot of the rock, her broken body on a pile of the demon hordes. “No!” he cried, and stumbled down to her. Her body was limp and lifeless. He held her in his arms and wept. They had won, but at what cost?’

Snorri looked slyly about the room and saw there was not a dry eye. Satisfied, he continued. ‘Eddy sat there for a long time, holding the body of his sweetheart, amid the corpse-strewn battlefield, a feast for crows. If the Valkyries moved among the valiant, taking them to Valhalla, he could not see. All he saw was the white landscape running red with blood, his heart as black and as cold as the rock he sat upon. Then a slit appeared in the freezing air, glowing bright blue. It widened and heightened until a giant was framed. It was the King of the Frost Giants! Eddy was too weak, too bereft, to move, to react. If his time had come, so be it. But the frost giant wept too – tears of ice – and, reaching down, tenderly picked up Fenja and, turning back into the portal, carried her away.  ‘Wait! Stop!’ he cried, but it was futile. The King disappeared into Jötunheim, but, strangely, the portal remained open – and looking closer, Eddy could see, on the far side of the mountainous plateau, another portal, and through that, he saw … home! Gimli!’

 A cheer went up.

‘And so he took his leave of that place, where his words had healed the wound of the crack in the world. He stepped through the portal and …’

The arrival of another made Snorri stop and everyone looked up.

In the doorway, looking weak, but alive, was Eddy Redcrow.

‘Hey there! Am I missing anything?’

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Coastguard

Praise day at even, a wife when dead,
a weapon when tried, a maid when married,
ice when ’tis crossed, and ale when ’tis drunk.

                                                              Hávamál

Harley winter Stock Photos, Royalty Free Harley winter Images |  Depositphotos®

Chapter 24: Coastguard


Eddy rode on. That is all he did, for that was all he knew. He was close to getting frozen to his bike. Man and machine in perfect harmony – yeah, right. Eddy felt as clapped out as his ride, which rattled in an alarming fashion. It had taken a battering back there, as had he. Lucky to get out of that Coastguard tub alive. When he thought of those frozen corpses… At least he had a bag of food and a can of gas, but how long was that going to last him, realistically? A couple of days before he ran out of fuel, a couple of more before the food went. He’d been on the ‘road’ now, if you could call it that, for at least four, maybe five days now. He should be there, going by Rig’s estimates, but that wasn’t factoring in the extreme conditions, the giants and abysses, zombie coast-guards and leviathans. It was turning into a salty seadog tale in his imagination already – rime of the ancient fucking mariner. His stubble was frosted with frozen brine, so he had the look right. With his mix of First Nation and Icelandic blood, he’d never been able to grow a full beard, just ‘bum-fluff’ as his sister liked to call it. But he felt grizzled enough – an Arctic explorer. Well, it was in his blood, if Grandpa Gunnar was to be believed: descended from Leif Ericsson himself. How that squared up, he didn’t know, as he thought the Icelanders of Gimli were all descended from Mormons who had come over in the eighteen hundreds. But Gunnar had been insistent. Some of Leif’s men had settled. Had there not been archaeological remains on Greenland? Other possible sites on the north-east coast of America? As always, Eddy’s grandfather mixed up real history with his own personal mythologizing. But then most Icelanders seemed to claim descent from Thor or one of the Aesir…

He smiled at this, thinking fondly of The Hammer and the rest of the Wild Hunt. Maybe there was something in that claim after all, for the gods lived – lesser than before, yes, but here at the end of the world, duking it out with the bad guys one last time. And Eddy was playing his part, however small. If he didn’t die on this interminable ice first, that is.

Stopping for a snack and a stretch – he’d been riding for a couple of hours – he pulled out the sunstone. It glowed in the perpetually overcast gloom and was deliciously warm in his hand, which started to soften from its cramped death-grip position. It made the frost-bitten tips of his fingers burn, but he gritted his teeth and waited. After a moment, he felt a distinctive tug in one direction. The sunstone shifted on his now fully open palm, fixing on one direction: magnetic north.

Figuring he had passed the southern tip of Greenland now, he knew he had to head due west, striking out along the sixtieth parallel (he could picture it in his mind’s eye, having pored over atlases in his community school). Crossing the frozen Labrador Sea, he would, if all went well, reach the Canadian coast. He had to make for the Hudson Strait, into Hudson Bay, to Churchill, on Manitoba’s eastern coast, approximately two thousand miles. From there he could follow the railroad to north of Lake Manitoba, then take the Winnipeg Road down to Gimli – another mere six hundred miles or so. Simple! Except he’d need at least ten refuelling stops on his Buell Ulysses. Not many gas stations between here and Churchill. He couldn’t rely upon finding ships and after the last experience he wasn’t sure he wanted to. It was insane, and he had a snowball in hell’s chance of making it, without extra-ordinary luck. But that was exactly what Fenja had gifted him.

And he had the sunstone too.

And, according to his grandpa Gunnar, his own orlog. He had struggled to understand what had been meant by that at the time – ‘Your luck, your will, your destiny…’ Gunnar had elaborated, vaguely, pounding his chest. Between the hamingja of a frost giant’s daughter, the sun stone of Sol, and his own orlog, Eddy hoped that he had the ghost of a chance at least.

At the end of the day, he brooded as he looked across the endless ice, being alive is a risky business and all we have to peg our hopes upon are the blessings of our beliefs.

Eddy rarely prayed, but he felt the extremity of the circumstances called for it. So, feeling a little foolish, he raised his arms and called out his hopes, his voice sounding strange on the still air: ‘May the gods of the red and the white, ancestors of my people, and spirits of the sea, land and sky, bless this journey. Help me, Great Mystery, to get home.’

Remembering the bearing, he put away the sun stone, and got back on the bike, heading across the ice into the west.

Eddy’s bike had a range of two hundred and forty miles, and a couple of tanks worth of gas would get him about half way across the Labrador Sea. And then what…? He tried not to think about it. ‘Denial is not a river in Egypt,’ he could hear his sister saying. Just keep riding, Eddy, just keep riding…

Ice, ice, more fucking ice. The world had turned into a snowball. Maybe this was it. The. End. Eddy brooded. Maybe there was no point in fighting it. There had been ice ages before – he remembered that much from school. Mass extinction events. Maybe humanity’s time was up? Hell, the world would be better off. Mother Earth could have a breather. Mend herself. Start afresh, once she’d recovered from her abusive relationship with Man. Many of the species would be okay. Sure, some would die off, but others would cope, or adapt. The polar bears and snow leopards would flourish again. The Inuits and the other polar tribes might scrape by, but they would continue as they had done, on the fringes, in the minority – leading low impact lives. Maybe his people would too, better suited to the extreme cold, the Canadian winters. But … what about the rest of the human race? Didn’t they stand a chance? If he had a role in trying to save them, however minor, then Eddy didn’t want six billion lives on his conscience. That was too much bad blood for anyone to handle! Besides, he couldn’t let bastards like Koil and his cronies win – sitting out the Fimbul-Winter in their cosy bunkers, fiddling while the world freezes. The anger at the thought drove Eddy onwards, giving him a new surge of energy.

He never realised, he thought distantly, there were so many shades of white. The vista was like some abstract impressionist painting, a large canvas thickly painted with coagulated oils – ivory white, lead white, titanium white … Look closer and you would start to discern other colours tangled up in the viscous brush-strokes, or glimpsed beneath. Spectral ghosts. The memory of colour.

            Eddy was numb from tip to toe, but felt a strange serene acceptance.

            Everything fades to white in the end, he thought. Why resist?

            The deathly scene filled him with peace.

            Life was … an effort … he didn’t want to make anymore.

Then the bike cut out, rolling to a stop.

He laughed bitterly. That was that, then.

Eddy threw his helmet off as he climbed off the Buell and kicked it across the ice. ‘Aargghhh!!!’

Game over.

He fell to his knees. Still hundreds of miles from the coast, thousands from home. Who was he fucking kidding? It was getting dark again. No shelter. He’d freeze to death on the ice without it – the sunstone would only keep him alive for so long.

As he knelt there in despair, he suddenly felt a vibrated in the ice, which made him get to his feet. He scanned the bleak vista. Nothing, but the light, such as it was, was fading – just a thin red band towards the west. Then he felt another shudder. This time his eyes were drawn to the bloody afterlight of the setting sun. Another boom, and he was able to locate the source. There.

Eddy rubbed his eyes, looked again.

Silhouetted against the blood-stained sky was the figure of a man, but the scale was all wrong. He was miles away.

But with each slow step the ice shuddered again.

Then the dread realisation hit him.    

A giant.

And he was coming closer.

And then Eddy saw two others join him.      

Here he was: no gas, a sitting duck. There was no point in running.

Time to meet your maker, Eddy Redcrow.

He just sat there, leaning against his bike, singing ‘The End’ by The Doors, as he watched the giants approach. They were the height of a five-storey building, and wore long cloaks of whale-skin, encrusted with barnacles and trimmed with polar bear fur. They wielded spears made of single trunks of the tallest pines, spear-heads the size of anchors. Their faces seemed hewn from a wave-blasted sea-cliff, eyes the hue of glaciers. Towering over Eddy, they looked down upon him as though he were a plaything.

‘Oh, look, what prize the ice has brought us, brothers!’ roared the first one, with a shovel shaped beard orca black with a single streak of white.

‘An intruder, trying to sneak into Kong Koil’s kingdom. Not many come this way. It is a good day,’ said the second, with a beard as ragged and grey as an Arctic peninsula.

‘We must tear him limb from limb,’ rumbled the third, whose spiky beard was as white as icicles.

‘Yes. Yes. Yes.’ they said in unison.

The three giants reached down with fingernails like narwhale tusks.

He waited for the first blow to fall.

‘You will do no such thing, if you value your lives!’

Eddy turned in surprise to see a familiar figure standing next to him.

‘Fen!’

He couldn’t believe his eyes. There she was. Not a vision, but really there!

‘I am the daughter of Thrym, your king! This human is under my protection! Find prey elsewhere, frost-giant kin! No feast of hot blood for you here today! Go!’

The giants sighed with disappointment, but stood upright and turned slowly, walking away with a booming gait.

Eddy embraced her. ‘Fen! You’re here! I can’t believe it! How…?’

‘The snakeholes…’

He looked non-plussed.

‘I can open portals between the nine worlds. The serpent-paths are there if you know how to find them. I merely turn the key.’

Eddy blinked through the tears. ‘Why … didn’t you use this … gift … to get across Europe?’

She shrugged. ‘Time of the month.’

He snorted.

‘I’m serious! The magic is like my moon-blood. It waxes and wanes. Sometimes stepping through is easier. The snakeholes just … open wide.’

He shook his head, laughing in disbelief, in relief. ‘Oh, I don’t care. It’s just … so good to see you!’

Fenja pushed him back. ‘I cannot stay. Time is of the essence. Only I can persuade my father not to destroy humankind. I must return to his realm.’

‘But Fen! I’m shafted here … If the frost giants don’t get me, the cold will. I’m out of gas and out of luck!’

‘You have some of my hamingja, remember? It doesn’t run out so easily. But here, let me leave you with this parting gift…’

Smiling, Fenja placed her hands upon the tank of the Buell. From her fingertips emitted an aureole of blue light like a kirilian photograph. ‘There, that should get you home.’

‘What have you done?’ Eddy wondered.

‘Just get on your bike and ride. Find that runestone Eddy Redcrow. Much depends upon it. Farewell, for now!’

Fenja stretched out a long nail and a tearing sound cut him to the quick.

A split in the night opened like a tear in satin. From it radiated a cold light and icy blast even fiercer than the one on the frozen sea. Fenja stepped through and the gash sealed up behind her.

Eddy was left alone on the ice. He tried the engine and it started straight away. The fuel gauge needle suddenly leapt to full. Smiling, Eddy rode on.

Now, where did that helmet go?

Retrieving his helmet, Eddy roared westwards. No matter how long he rode, the fuel gauge did not go down. Whatever Fenja had done, it had worked. Hell, that gal could solve the world fuel crisis!

He rode through the night and on into the grey light of the next day. His heart leapt when he saw the coast of Canada. As he reached the Hudson Strait, he stopped to have something to eat and drink. He dropped the sunstone in his mug of coffee, and it heated it in seconds. Feeling a little more revived, he pushed on, following the northern coastline of Quebec around into the Hudson Bay.

Though it was vast enough to feel like a sea, Eddy was heartened to enter it, knowing it was surrounded by Canadian soil.

All day long and all the next he traversed it, heading southwest until he saw the sight he’d been longing for for days. The coast of Manitoba, and Cape Churchill.

Riding up onto the shore line he got off his bike and kissed the land, thanking the gods, ancestors and spirits.

He made his way to the lonely railway terminal and onto the tracks, which, beneath the snow, provided a little more grip and stability than the surrounding landscape, and they were mercifully level. Beyond exhausted, he now rode on, possessed by a growing excitement.    

But the miles carried on and on, seemingly forever, and his food supplies ran out. Weak with hunger and deep fatigue, he stopped to waver. Some kind of muscle memory kept him upright, kept him moving forward.

Mercifully, he didn’t have to think about the route. Just follow the tracks until it hit the road at Ponton, then follow that down to Gimli.

The bike seemed to know what to do. Had Fenja’s magic touch done more than fill the tank with perpetually renewing petrol?

Eddy was never to find out.

After several more weary hours, Eddy finally passed out and the bike skidded into a snow-drift.

Just over its ridge, the sign for Gimli protruded.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Belly of the Whale

Öxnadal, Iceland

Chapter 23: Belly of the Whale

‘Well, Snorri, you old fox. Even you did not expect to see this! The Fimbul-Winter is truly here!’

Having lived alone for most of his adult life, Snorri was used to talking to himself. He did not see it as odd. ‘It’s the only way I can have an intelligent conversation around here!’ he would joke. In truth, he’d had plenty of company over the years – hundreds of Gimli’s brightest hopes, scratching out there sentences in his classroom while he tried to kindle in them a love of history and literature, geography and art; and then, after he retired, the various audiences he shared his considerable repertoire of tales with. He had been working on an oral history of Gimli for decades, painstakingly collecting family histories, anecdotes, songs, folk tales, jokes, folklore … anything. He took perfunctory notes, sometimes audio recordings, but most were stored in his carpet-bag of memory. He felt it his duty to keep the material alive, in circulation, fearing it would die out if it was locked in written form. Whenever he heard a tale, he would exchange it for one of his own. A joke for a joke, a song for a song, and so on. It seemed fair barter. The fact he was as good a listener as speaker, made him welcome around most people’s hearths. Many found themselves opening their hearts to him, and sharing things they hadn’t talked about in years. Secrets and ghosts, and tears of joy and sorrow.

Yes, he had plenty of company. Returning to his small place he would reflect upon what his snares and traps of smiles and handshakes had brought him. He never went hungry.

His bright, canny gaze swept over the flatland, scanning left until it alighted upon the cluster of buildings he knew as home – so frail and vulnerable looking against the might of this freak winter.

‘Ah, good citizens of Gimli. May Heimdal protect you!’

He replaced his goggles and hood, and, taking up his poles, skied along the lakeshore down towards the scattered homes on its fringes. 

As he skied, he sang a Dakota tune to himself about the return of the Thunder Bird, which heralded the Spring.

The first house he came to was the Redcrow’s place. He’d heard how they were fearing the worst for their son, young Eddy, and so Snorri decided to call in on them, to be neighbourly.

He placed his skis against the porch, and stamping his boots free of snow, he knocked on the door.

Sitting Cloud answered, looking flustered in an apron. Good smells were coming from inside, as well as cussing from her husband, yelling from her daughter, and snoring from her father.

‘Well, well, look who rolled down the hill!’

‘I was passing by. Thought I’d check in on you.’

‘What, are you the district nurse now?’ She laughed. ‘Better come inside then, dry your boots. Quick, before we lose the heat!’ Sitting Cloud bustled him inside. She noted the brace of conies. ‘Look at you, the great white hunter!’

Snorri carefully put down his rifle, and lifted the rabbits off. ‘Figured I needed something for my pot, but here – have one! A gift!’

‘Oh, Snorri…’

‘Go on. No point in being backwards in coming forwards. We all know how hard it is to keep bellies fed at the moment, with the roads blocked, and the stores running low.’

Sitting Cloud accepted it, giving him a peck on the cheek and a hug.

‘What’s this? I turn my back for five minutes and you’re having an affair with a senior citizen!’ It was Magnus, standing in the doorway, a bear of a man in an Icelandic sweater.

‘Well, he’s in good shape, husband – unlike you!’ Sitting Cloud laughed, slapping his sizeable belly.

‘Keep feeding us your infernal pulses and beans and we’ll all end up like him! A streak of piss in the snow!’ He roared, and gave their visitor a bear-hug. ‘How are you, you old fox!’

‘Trying to breathe!’ Snorri gasped.

‘Come in! Have a shot of something warming…’ Magnus started to clatter around the drinks cupboard and finally found two unused glasses, which he dusted with the bottom of his sweater.

‘Look! He’s brought us a rabbit!’

‘Then you are thrice-welcome, Snorri! Sit. Warm your bones. Tell us your news. We’re all in the dark here now the internet has gone down. According to my blessed daughter that really signifies the end of the world!’ he yelled across the room.

‘Keep it down, you oaf. Father is trying to sleep!’ said Sitting Cloud, clearing a chair for their guest.

‘That’s all he does these days!’ rumbled Magnus.

‘So would you, if you’d hunted down a mankiller!’ she hissed.

‘Yeah, yeah. How grandfather saved Gimli. We’ll never hear the end of that one!’

Snorri was already very familiar with how the Sheriff and Running Bear tackled the Wendigo. The details had been kept away from the press, but the ‘Gimli grapevine’ soon had worked it up into legend. He still needed to talk to Ava and the old man about it – but the heavy snow had caught them all off-guard, and most folk had been snowed in for days now.

‘Here!’ Magnus presented Snorri with a shot glass of vodka and clinked it with his own. ‘Skol!’

Snorri waited for his host to settle, sipping his vodka slowly. ‘Ah, how I’ve missed your antifreeze, Magnus!’ They watched the log-burner for a while, while Sitting Cloud fussed in the kitchen. Custom dictated they offered him chocolates and coffee, but they were running low. ‘How are you all … bearing up?’

Magnus downed his vodka, leaned in close and spoke low: ‘Siggy is taking it the worst. She won’t give up. Believes he’s still out there somewhere. Surviving – in this!’

‘What about …?’ Snorri nodded to the kitchen.

Magnus blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, a mother, y’know. He was the apple of her eye. She’s coping by going into overdrive. Says we need to keep his room ready, the place warm and broth on the go, as though he was going to walk through the door at any minute!’ He shook his head, staring at the empty glass.

‘Eddy is a chip off the old block. If he’s anything like you two stubborn old mules he’ll be out there somewhere, making a go of it. I just know it.’

‘See! See! What did I tell you!’ It was Siggy, standing in the door from the bedrooms, looking wild-haired and dressed in a Rocky and Bullwinkle onesy and dressing gown, with one slipper.

‘Siggy, please!’ groaned Magnus.

‘Sit down, love. Have something to eat…’ implored Sitting Cloud.

‘Hey, Siggy’s right. It’s a tough old world out there at the moment, but we can’t give up hope.’

‘I can hear a story coming on…’ Magnus smiled.

‘Only if you want one…?’

‘Please, go on.’ Sitting Cloud sat down and gestured to her daughter, who curled up onto her.

‘You may well know this tale but I find with the good ones you can tell them again and again – like drinking a glass of water. Always hits the spot when you’re thirsty!’

‘Get on with it then!’ said Magnus, pouring them both another shot.

‘Rabbit lived with his grandma in their snug old lodge. Every day he went a-hunting. But you know what? No matter how early he got up, someone always beat him too his traps, leaving them empty. “Darn it!” said Rabbit. The only clue who it was – a very long foot print. “I’m gonna get up super early tomorrow, and catch that varmint red-handed!” So, back he went to his lodge, and tried to get an early night’s sleep, but he could hardly settled in anticipation. By the time he finally fell asleep rooster woke him up. He sprang out of bed. ‘The traps! The snares!’ He scarpered to them, but it was already too late. The long-footed thief had already been and got his breakfast, courtesy of his efforts. Rabbit hopped about in vexation. He returned to his grandma empty-handed again. He complained about his rival to his grandmother, who wondered what he had against him. She was wiser and perhaps knew the truth of it, and smiled at her grandson’s plans to stay awake all night to catch the culprit. He went back to the snares and traps and hid among the undergrowth. Using a strong bowstring, he set a snare by the tell-tale tracks, hoping to catch the secret hunter. He was tired from all his hard-work and lack of sleep from the night before, so he nodded off. When he awoke it was day. He panicked, but to his surprise, he found his trap had worked. He had caught the thief who was the Sun itself! Rabbit ran home and told his grandmother in great excitement. “I’ve caught him! I’ve caught him!” “Who have you caught, grandson?” “A very bright fellow. So bright in fact, it hurts me to look directly at him!” “Hmm,” pondered grandmother, looking at the grey sky and shivering. “I think you should go back and let him go and quick!” So, Rabbit ran back at top speed and sure enough, he found Sun caught in his trap, all tangled up with the bow-string. “Get me out of this mess this instant! I’ve got a busy day and you’re making me late!” blazed the Sun in his fury.  Rabbit felt the heat of his wrath, but did as he bid. He ducked and dived and, finally, with his good hunting knife – snick – cut Sun free. Immediately, Sun soared up into the sky and returned light and heat to the world, which was starting to get dark and chilly. Rabbit breathed a sigh of relief, but winced – for a patch of fur between his shoulders had been scorched yellow by the sun and remains so to this day, a constant reminder of when Rabbit caught the Sun.’

Snorri finished his tale, and was glad to see Magnus, Sitting Bear and Siggy all sitting there, gazing into the flames of the burner.

‘Well,’ he stretched. ‘I best be on my way. Thanks for the drink. And don’t worry about a bite to eat. I’ve got plenty to keep me going!’

He got up and hugged them one by one.

Magnus handed him his rifle; Sitting Cloud the remaining rabbits.

Putting on his skis, he waved to them as they stood in the doorway. ‘Don’t give up hope, the sun will come back!’ 

Snorri carried on his way, his load slightly lighter – he had six rabbits left – but his heart fuller. He hoped his story helped in some way. On a practical level the rabbit certainly would – providing a meal for a day. Stories, he found, provided food that lasted longer. Despite all the sophistication of modern life, or perhaps because of it folks needed nourishing stories to live by. For too long they had lived off the fast food kind of stories pumped out by the mass media. A healthy mind was like a healthy body – and he prided himself in keeping in shape – you needed to feed it well. A good diet; regular exercise. If you eat junk, you feel like junk, and your dreams become filled with junk. Here he was, in his seventies, and still running marathons and using his extensive memory every day. Use it, or lose it, as they say. Most folks relied upon ‘the Cloud’ or an external hard-drive to save things and no longer try to remember anything. Passwords and pins that’s all people remember these days, thought Snorri, pushing on through the snow. Passwords and pins!

He waved to the Sheriff and one of her deputies, doing the rounds on their snow-mobiles. Ava Rivet was a good woman, thought Snorri. Gimli was lucky to have her. Unlike that waste-of-space Mayor. Even as a pupil, Sonny Thornson had been a selfish bully, always picking on the other kids, stealing their snacks. Now as Mayor of Gimli he was even worse, making sure him and his cronies lined their pockets with local contracts and benefited from his position. In some ways, he was like Snorri – but he used his silver tongue to get his way, making people laugh, playing the buffoon, while he worked his way up the ladder. He was gunning for State Governor – plain as day – but for now, Gimli was his personal fiefdom. Running the department store hadn’t been enough for him. He was always hungry for more. Snorri suspected many of his appetites were on the wrong side of the law, but he didn’t want to poke that hornet’s nest!

With the freak winter all bets were off. Everyone’s priorities shifted to core needs. Survival. Though it didn’t have to be just the fittest who survived. More than ever we need to look out for each other, Snorri thought.

He came to the house of the local priest and saw a lonely light burning in the front room. Reverend Viktor Olafsson was an old chess-playing friend of Snorri’s, and so he called by. His friend was clearly ‘well lubricated’, even though it was not even midday. ‘Snorri! Come in! Come in!’

Olafsson flopped down heavily in his armchair. ‘Help yourself, old friend…’ the priest waved to the drinks table. ‘I’m afraid I’m not really in a state to play a game today…’ He picked up his tumbler. ‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ he toasted, swooshing the contents round his mouth, before swallowing it. ‘Ahh.’

‘Are you eating anything, Viktor?’

`Oh, peanuts … pretzels … There’s stuff in the cupboards, but I really can’t find the time …’

‘You’ve got to eat well in this weather, friend. And you need something to soak up the drink…’

‘You sound like my housekeeper… Always nagging me. I’ve told her she needs to look after her own. The journey is worth it. Nobody is going anywhere. Certainly nobody is coming to church… You know how many people I’ve gave my sermon to on Sunday? Three! And one of those was the organist!’

‘Don’t take it personally. It’s hard to get anywhere at the moment. Unless you have skis or a snowmobile, well, forget it.’

‘Not everybody is as nimble as you! I don’t know how you manage it, doing your crazy running! Anybody think you sold your soul to the Devil for a good pair of legs.’

‘Not quite. But here … have one of my rabbits. Make some broth.’

The priest accepted the gift, stroking the limp body like it was a pet. ‘Thank you.’

Snorri tried to work out what the strange sound was a realised Olafsson was crying. He got up and, awkwardly, put his arms round his old friend.

‘It’s all so … fucking pointless,’ spat the priest, snot and tears running down his face.

‘Here,’ Snorri offered his friend a tissue. He waited for Olafsson to compose himself. ‘Don’t give up, my friend. You know I’ve never been one of the faithful, but I do believe we all need stories to get us through this. We need something to believe in.’

‘That’s the problem… I’m not sure if I do any more.’ Olafsson stared at the facets of his tumbler. ‘All the people suffering … dying … because of this infernal winter. How can a God justify that? How can I explain it to my flock, when I don’t have an explanation for it? It feels like the light of the Father has left us. His children so appalled Him, He has decided to forsake us. It’s no less then we deserve.’

Snorri gave him a hard look. ‘You’re just experiencing the belly of the whale, my friend.’

‘I’m not alone in there! Welcome to Leviathan! Population eight billion and counting!’

‘Here, let me share a story…’ offered Snorri.

The priest shrugged. ‘Why not? Got time to kill. S’plenty of time at the end of time,’ he slurred.

Snorri frowned with concern, but took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘Once they was a hill that ate people. That’s right, a hill with one hell of an appetite. Rabbit’s grandma told him to stay away from it! “Don’t go near that hill, grandson – it has a mean cussedness to it. Will eat you soon as look at you! Even when it’s not peckish!” But Rabbit had a contrary nature. The more he was warned not to do something, the more he wanted to. And so he found himself nibbling closer and closer to that mean old hill and its cave-like crack of its mouth. He knew the name of that hill and feeling mischievous Rabbit called out: “Hey! Pahe-Wathahuni, open that big flap of your’s and eat me if you dare!” But the hill knew Rabbit and his tricks and so ignored him, pretending to sleep. But when a hunting party of two-leggeds came close Pahe-Wathahuni opened his big wide maw and swallowed them whole. Acting fast, Rabbit dashed in behind them just before the mouth closed. Rabbit burrowed deep into the hill’s belly, but this tickled the monster mound, who coughed him up like a hairball. Finding himself back outside, Rabbit waited and another hunting party came along. The same thing happened – the hunters were gobbled up whole – but this time Rabbit, disguised as a two-legged, went in with them. He slid all the way down into the bowels of the hill. There, entangled in the monster’s guts, were the bones of those that had been devoured, and the bodies of those half-digested, and some that were still alive. And then there was a gigantic juicy heart. “What a juicy heart!” called out Rabbit to Pahe-Wathahuni, who was surprised and disconcerted to hear the voice within him! “Why don’t you eat it?” cried Rabbit. “It looks so tasty!” Rabbit took his good hunting knife and went as if to eat it himself. The hill, feeling ‘something that he ate’ was violently disagreeing with him, set to howling. This didn’t stop Rabbit slicing the heart in two – chop! The hill shuddered and split asunder. All the folk still alive within its belly were disgorged and, boy, were they glad to see the blue sky again! They hailed Rabbit as their deliverer, for he had cut Pahe-Wathahuni’s heart in two! The two-legged wanted to make Rabbit chief, but he declined, saying all he wanted was the big heap of blubber and guts left by the dead hill – this would feed him and his grandmother for a very long time. And so he carried the whole lot back to his lodge, and sure enough, they had good eating for many moons after. The end.’

The priest was snoring loudly by this point. Snorri sighed and gently took the tumbler from his hand and placed it on the table. Bidding his friend a quiet goodbye, he put his kit back on and set off, once more, into the snow.

He only had five rabbits left now. Snorri figured he probably wouldn’t have any left by the time he got home, but that would okay. He had plenty of dried and tinned food, and his neighbours mattered more. They were ravenous for story, even if they fell asleep at the first taste! Stories were the best rabbit broth. But as he pushed on through the frozen town, Snorri realised he had to come up with a new story for its population – one they were all writing day-by-day: How the town of Gimli survived the Great Winter.

***

Extract of Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

NEXT CHAPTER

The Storyteller

DJ Foghorn on GIMLI XYZ:

‘Cockle-doodle-doo! It’s your favourite loudmouth here! How are you all doing out there, Gimli folks? Keeping your asses warm? Is it chilly enough for you? Burn some books, that’s what I say! It’s all on the web these days. Although that’s gone down too.  Hold up! [sound FX of a screeching brake] So maybe keep some books back. Cookbooks. DIY. Survival skills. Useful stuff. Not novels. That can all go in. Who needs made-up stories when you’re living in one?’

Polar Night, Finland

Chapter 22: The Storyteller

The man skied along, apparently alone in a vast, wintry landscape. A rifle was slung over his shoulder in its case, and a brace of rabbits balanced the other side. The figure was slight, but nimble – negotiating the bumps and bends of the snowscape with confident ease. Each deft push of the pole sent him hissing along on his well-waxed skis. He came to the edge of a cliff and stopped like an ice-skater. Sinking his poles in, he pulled back his hood and lifted up his goggles. It was a spry old man in his seventies with blue lagoon eyes and a wispy goatee that still had a trace of red to it. He looked out over the frozen surface of Lake Manitoba and clucked his tongue.

‘Well, Snorri, you old fox. Even you did not expect to see this! The Fimbul-Winter is truly here!’

Having lived alone for most of his adult life, Snorri was used to talking to himself. He did not see it as odd. ‘It’s the only way I can have an intelligent conversation around here!’ he would joke. In truth, he’d had plenty of company over the years – hundreds of Gimli’s brightest hopes, scratching out there sentences in his classroom while he tried to kindle in them a love of history and literature, geography and art; and then, after he retired, the various audiences he shared his considerable repertoire of tales with. He had been working on an oral history of Gimli for decades, painstakingly collecting family histories, anecdotes, songs, folk tales, jokes, folklore … anything. He took perfunctory notes, sometimes audio recordings, but most were stored in his carpet-bag of memory. He felt it his duty to keep the material alive, in circulation, fearing it would die out if it was locked in written form. Whenever he heard a tale, he would exchange it for one of his own. A joke for a joke, a song for a song, and so on. It seemed fair barter. The fact he was as good a listener as speaker, made him welcome around most people’s hearths. Many found themselves opening their hearts to him, and sharing things they hadn’t talked about in years. Secrets and ghosts, and tears of joy and sorrow.

Yes, he had plenty of company. Returning to his small place he would reflect upon what his snares and traps of smiles and handshakes had brought him. He never went hungry.

His bright, canny gaze swept over the flatland, scanning left until it alighted upon the cluster of buildings he knew as home – so frail and vulnerable looking against the might of this freak winter.

‘Ah, good citizens of Gimli. May Heimdal protect you!’

He replaced his goggles and hood, and, taking up his poles, skied along the lakeshore down towards the scattered homes on its fringes. 

As he skied, he sang a Dakota tune to himself about the return of the Thunder Bird, which heralded the Spring.

The first house he came to was the Redcrow’s place. He’d heard how they were fearing the worst for their son, young Eddy, and so Snorri decided to call in on them, to be neighbourly.

He placed his skis against the porch, and stamping his boots free of snow, he knocked on the door.

Sitting Cloud answered, looking flustered in an apron. Good smells were coming from inside, as well as cussing from her husband, yelling from her daughter, and snoring from her father.

‘Well, well, look who rolled down the hill!’

‘I was passing by. Thought I’d check in on you.’

‘What, are you the district nurse now?’ She laughed. ‘Better come inside then, dry your boots. Quick, before we lose the heat!’ Sitting Cloud bustled him inside. She noted the brace of conies. ‘Look at you, the great white hunter!’

Snorri carefully put down his rifle, and lifted the rabbits off. ‘Figured I needed something for my pot, but here – have one! A gift!’

‘Oh, Snorri…’

‘Go on. No point in being backwards in coming forwards. We all know how hard it is to keep bellies fed at the moment, with the roads blocked, and the stores running low.’

Sitting Cloud accepted it, giving him a peck on the cheek and a hug.

‘What’s this? I turn my back for five minutes and you’re having an affair with a senior citizen!’ It was Magnus, standing in the doorway, a bear of a man in an Icelandic sweater.

‘Well, he’s in good shape, husband – unlike you!’ Sitting Cloud laughed, slapping his sizeable belly.

‘Keep feeding us your infernal pulses and beans and we’ll all end up like him! A streak of piss in the snow!’ He roared, and gave their visitor a bear-hug. ‘How are you, you old fox!’

‘Trying to breathe!’ Snorri gasped.

‘Come in! Have a shot of something warming…’ Magnus started to clatter around the drinks cupboard and finally found two unused glasses, which he dusted with the bottom of his sweater.

‘Look! He’s brought us a rabbit!’

‘Then you are thrice-welcome, Snorri! Sit. Warm your bones. Tell us your news. We’re all in the dark here now the internet has gone down. According to my blessed daughter that really signifies the end of the world!’ he yelled across the room.

‘Keep it down, you oaf. Father is trying to sleep!’ said Sitting Cloud, clearing a chair for their guest.

‘That’s all he does these days!’ rumbled Magnus.

‘So would you, if you’d hunted down a mankiller!’ she hissed.

‘Yeah, yeah. How grandfather saved Gimli. We’ll never hear the end of that one!’

Snorri was already very familiar with how the Sheriff and Running Bear tackled the Wendigo. The details had been kept away from the press, but the ‘Gimli grapevine’ soon had worked it up into legend. He still needed to talk to Ava and the old man about it – but the heavy snow had caught them all off-guard, and most folk had been snowed in for days now.

‘Here!’ Magnus presented Snorri with a shot glass of vodka and clinked it with his own. ‘Skol!’

Snorri waited for his host to settle, sipping his vodka slowly. ‘Ah, how I’ve missed your antifreeze, Magnus!’ They watched the log-burner for a while, while Sitting Cloud fussed in the kitchen. Custom dictated they offered him chocolates and coffee, but they were running low. ‘How are you all … bearing up?’

Magnus downed his vodka, leaned in close and spoke low: ‘Siggy is taking it the worst. She won’t give up. Believes he’s still out there somewhere. Surviving – in this!’

‘What about …?’ Snorri nodded to the kitchen.

Magnus blew out his cheeks. ‘Well, a mother, y’know. He was the apple of her eye. She’s coping by going into overdrive. Says we need to keep his room ready, the place warm and broth on the go, as though he was going to walk through the door at any minute!’ He shook his head, staring at the empty glass.

‘Eddy is a chip off the old block. If he’s anything like you two stubborn old mules he’ll be out there somewhere, making a go of it. I just know it.’

‘See! See! What did I tell you!’ It was Siggy, standing in the door from the bedrooms, looking wild-haired and dressed in a Rocky and Bullwinkle onesy and dressing gown, with one slipper.

‘Siggy, please!’ groaned Magnus.

‘Sit down, love. Have something to eat…’ implored Sitting Cloud.

‘Hey, Siggy’s right. It’s a tough old world out there at the moment, but we can’t give up hope.’

‘I can hear a story coming on…’ Magnus smiled.

‘Only if you want one…?’

‘Please, go on.’ Sitting Cloud sat down and gestured to her daughter, who curled up onto her.

‘You may well know this tale but I find with the good ones you can tell them again and again – like drinking a glass of water. Always hits the spot when you’re thirsty!’

‘Get on with it then!’ said Magnus, pouring them both another shot.

‘Rabbit lived with his grandma in their snug old lodge. Every day he went a-hunting. But you know what? No matter how early he got up, someone always beat him too his traps, leaving them empty. “Darn it!” said Rabbit. The only clue who it was – a very long foot print. “I’m gonna get up super early tomorrow, and catch that varmint red-handed!” So, back he went to his lodge, and tried to get an early night’s sleep, but he could hardly settled in anticipation. By the time he finally fell asleep rooster woke him up. He sprang out of bed. ‘The traps! The snares!’ He scarpered to them, but it was already too late. The long-footed thief had already been and got his breakfast, courtesy of his efforts. Rabbit hopped about in vexation. He returned to his grandma empty-handed again. He complained about his rival to his grandmother, who wondered what he had against him. She was wiser and perhaps knew the truth of it, and smiled at her grandson’s plans to stay awake all night to catch the culprit. He went back to the snares and traps and hid among the undergrowth. Using a strong bowstring, he set a snare by the tell-tale tracks, hoping to catch the secret hunter. He was tired from all his hard-work and lack of sleep from the night before, so he nodded off. When he awoke it was day. He panicked, but to his surprise, he found his trap had worked. He had caught the thief who was the Sun itself! Rabbit ran home and told his grandmother in great excitement. “I’ve caught him! I’ve caught him!” “Who have you caught, grandson?” “A very bright fellow. So bright in fact, it hurts me to look directly at him!” “Hmm,” pondered grandmother, looking at the grey sky and shivering. “I think you should go back and let him go and quick!” So, Rabbit ran back at top speed and sure enough, he found Sun caught in his trap, all tangled up with the bow-string. “Get me out of this mess this instant! I’ve got a busy day and you’re making me late!” blazed the Sun in his fury.  Rabbit felt the heat of his wrath, but did as he bid. He ducked and dived and, finally, with his good hunting knife – snick – cut Sun free. Immediately, Sun soared up into the sky and returned light and heat to the world, which was starting to get dark and chilly. Rabbit breathed a sigh of relief, but winced – for a patch of fur between his shoulders had been scorched yellow by the sun and remains so to this day, a constant reminder of when Rabbit caught the Sun.’

Snorri finished his tale, and was glad to see Magnus, Sitting Bear and Siggy all sitting there, gazing into the flames of the burner.

‘Well,’ he stretched. ‘I best be on my way. Thanks for the drink. And don’t worry about a bite to eat. I’ve got plenty to keep me going!’

He got up and hugged them one by one.

Magnus handed him his rifle; Sitting Cloud the remaining rabbits.

Putting on his skis, he waved to them as they stood in the doorway. ‘Don’t give up hope, the sun will come back!’ 

Snorri carried on his way, his load slightly lighter – he had six rabbits left – but his heart fuller. He hoped his story helped in some way. On a practical level the rabbit certainly would – providing a meal for a day. Stories, he found, provided food that lasted longer. Despite all the sophistication of modern life, or perhaps because of it folks needed nourishing stories to live by. For too long they had lived off the fast food kind of stories pumped out by the mass media. A healthy mind was like a healthy body – and he prided himself in keeping in shape – you needed to feed it well. A good diet; regular exercise. If you eat junk, you feel like junk, and your dreams become filled with junk. Here he was, in his seventies, and still running marathons and using his extensive memory every day. Use it, or lose it, as they say. Most folks relied upon ‘the Cloud’ or an external hard-drive to save things and no longer try to remember anything. Passwords and pins that’s all people remember these days, thought Snorri, pushing on through the snow. Passwords and pins!

He waved to the Sheriff and one of her deputies, doing the rounds on their snow-mobiles. Ava Rivet was a good woman, thought Snorri. Gimli was lucky to have her. Unlike that waste-of-space Mayor. Even as a pupil, Sonny Thornson had been a selfish bully, always picking on the other kids, stealing their snacks. Now as Mayor of Gimli he was even worse, making sure him and his cronies lined their pockets with local contracts and benefited from his position. In some ways, he was like Snorri – but he used his silver tongue to get his way, making people laugh, playing the buffoon, while he worked his way up the ladder. He was gunning for State Governor – plain as day – but for now, Gimli was his personal fiefdom. Running the department store hadn’t been enough for him. He was always hungry for more. Snorri suspected many of his appetites were on the wrong side of the law, but he didn’t want to poke that hornet’s nest!

With the freak winter all bets were off. Everyone’s priorities shifted to core needs. Survival. Though it didn’t have to be just the fittest who survived. More than ever we need to look out for each other, Snorri thought.

He came to the house of the local priest and saw a lonely light burning in the front room. Reverend Viktor Olafsson was an old chess-playing friend of Snorri’s, and so he called by. His friend was clearly ‘well lubricated’, even though it was not even midday. ‘Snorri! Come in! Come in!’

Olafsson flopped down heavily in his armchair. ‘Help yourself, old friend…’ the priest waved to the drinks table. ‘I’m afraid I’m not really in a state to play a game today…’ He picked up his tumbler. ‘Here’s mud in your eye,’ he toasted, swooshing the contents round his mouth, before swallowing it. ‘Ahh.’

‘Are you eating anything, Viktor?’

`Oh, peanuts … pretzels … There’s stuff in the cupboards, but I really can’t find the time …’

‘You’ve got to eat well in this weather, friend. And you need something to soak up the drink…’

‘You sound like my housekeeper… Always nagging me. I’ve told her she needs to look after her own. The journey is worth it. Nobody is going anywhere. Certainly nobody is coming to church… You know how many people I’ve gave my sermon to on Sunday? Three! And one of those was the organist!’

‘Don’t take it personally. It’s hard to get anywhere at the moment. Unless you have skis or a snowmobile, well, forget it.’

‘Not everybody is as nimble as you! I don’t know how you manage it, doing your crazy running! Anybody think you sold your soul to the Devil for a good pair of legs.’

‘Not quite. But here … have one of my rabbits. Make some broth.’

The priest accepted the gift, stroking the limp body like it was a pet. ‘Thank you.’

Snorri tried to work out what the strange sound was a realised Olafsson was crying. He got up and, awkwardly, put his arms round his old friend.

‘It’s all so … fucking pointless,’ spat the priest, snot and tears running down his face.

‘Here,’ Snorri offered his friend a tissue. He waited for Olafsson to compose himself. ‘Don’t give up, my friend. You know I’ve never been one of the faithful, but I do believe we all need stories to get us through this. We need something to believe in.’

‘That’s the problem… I’m not sure if I do any more.’ Olafsson stared at the facets of his tumbler. ‘All the people suffering … dying … because of this infernal winter. How can a God justify that? How can I explain it to my flock, when I don’t have an explanation for it? It feels like the light of the Father has left us. His children so appalled Him, He has decided to forsake us. It’s no less then we deserve.’

Snorri gave him a hard look. ‘You’re just experiencing the belly of the whale, my friend.’

‘I’m not alone in there! Welcome to Leviathan! Population eight billion and counting!’

‘Here, let me share a story…’ offered Snorri.

The priest shrugged. ‘Why not? Got time to kill. S’plenty of time at the end of time,’ he slurred.

Snorri frowned with concern, but took a deep breath and plunged in. ‘Once they was a hill that ate people. That’s right, a hill with one hell of an appetite. Rabbit’s grandma told him to stay away from it! “Don’t go near that hill, grandson – it has a mean cussedness to it. Will eat you soon as look at you! Even when it’s not peckish!” But Rabbit had a contrary nature. The more he was warned not to do something, the more he wanted to. And so he found himself nibbling closer and closer to that mean old hill and its cave-like crack of its mouth. He knew the name of that hill and feeling mischievous Rabbit called out: “Hey! Pahe-Wathahuni, open that big flap of your’s and eat me if you dare!” But the hill knew Rabbit and his tricks and so ignored him, pretending to sleep. But when a hunting party of two-leggeds came close Pahe-Wathahuni opened his big wide maw and swallowed them whole. Acting fast, Rabbit dashed in behind them just before the mouth closed. Rabbit burrowed deep into the hill’s belly, but this tickled the monster mound, who coughed him up like a hairball. Finding himself back outside, Rabbit waited and another hunting party came along. The same thing happened – the hunters were gobbled up whole – but this time Rabbit, disguised as a two-legged, went in with them. He slid all the way down into the bowels of the hill. There, entangled in the monster’s guts, were the bones of those that had been devoured, and the bodies of those half-digested, and some that were still alive. And then there was a gigantic juicy heart. “What a juicy heart!” called out Rabbit to Pahe-Wathahuni, who was surprised and disconcerted to hear the voice within him! “Why don’t you eat it?” cried Rabbit. “It looks so tasty!” Rabbit took his good hunting knife and went as if to eat it himself. The hill, feeling ‘something that he ate’ was violently disagreeing with him, set to howling. This didn’t stop Rabbit slicing the heart in two – chop! The hill shuddered and split asunder. All the folk still alive within its belly were disgorged and, boy, were they glad to see the blue sky again! They hailed Rabbit as their deliverer, for he had cut Pahe-Wathahuni’s heart in two! The two-legged wanted to make Rabbit chief, but he declined, saying all he wanted was the big heap of blubber and guts left by the dead hill – this would feed him and his grandmother for a very long time. And so he carried the whole lot back to his lodge, and sure enough, they had good eating for many moons after. The end.’

The priest was snoring loudly by this point. Snorri sighed and gently took the tumbler from his hand and placed it on the table. Bidding his friend a quiet goodbye, he put his kit back on and set off, once more, into the snow.

He only had five rabbits left now. Snorri figured he probably wouldn’t have any left by the time he got home, but that would okay. He had plenty of dried and tinned food, and his neighbours mattered more. They were ravenous for story, even if they fell asleep at the first taste! Stories were the best rabbit broth. But as he pushed on through the frozen town, Snorri realised he had to come up with a new story for its population – one they were all writing day-by-day: How the town of Gimli survived the Great Winter.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

The Bone Road

PATRIOT NEWS
A Message from our President

President Koil has broadcast this recent message from his crisis command centre: ‘Citizens of the Free World – this is your president speaking. These are unusual times and they call for unusual measures. If you have seen giants walk the Earth do not be alarmed. My Frost Giant friends, the highest level of special, are helping with the security of our great nation. Keeping our country safe. The threat of Icesis has been met with ultimate force – the rebels are holding out in their stronghold of Reykjavik, but rest assured they will soon be neutralised. The USS Naglfar is at this moment engaged in hostilities. Some bleating liberals have complained about civilian casualties. All I say to that is: collateral damage. What price is freedom, people? We must hold to our resolve. The enemies of truth, justice and the American way are out there, plotting to over-run our country in the midst of this environmental crisis, made worse by the woolly policies of my predecessor. We should have been investing in our natural reserves of energy instead of squandering hard-earned tax-payers money on ‘wind’ and ‘wave’ and ‘solar’ power – what use is any of that now? We need coal, we need oil, and we need geothermal power, which Iceland has in bucket-loads by the way. They can’t keep it all to themselves. This unprecedented global crisis calls for unprecedented measures. Keep warm. Stay safe. Pray for your President. Good night.’

UPDATE: Ice Force units have already been deployed in the field in Iceland from the USS Naglfar, moored off shore. Units have been despatched to deal with the Icesis insurgents holed up in the capital, who have been accused of using the ‘human shield’ of Reykjavik population to hide behind.

The hidden world of frozen oceans | Earth | EarthSky

Chapter 21: The Bone Road

Eddy looked out over the endless ice of the frozen ocean. Here he goes again… He must be a glutton for punishment! But he had two good reasons now to go, to undertake this suicidal endeavour: to return to his people; to find the runestone. When he was given the quest by One Eye Eddy had been torn at first. The whole point of going home was to stay there to protect his family, his community. But now he was going to have to turnaround and come right back – provided this mysterious stone could be found, if it even existed. Yet the Elders seemed convinced that somehow it would be pivotal in the great battle to come – and if it brought about the end of the terrible war of the gods currently devastating Earth then he would be saving his loved ones, perhaps more effectively than anything he could do, a rock musician, in Gimli. What use was an electric guitar against a frost giant?

Eddy stamped his feet, slapped his shoulders, trying to warm up a little. He checked the trailer again before remounting his bike. He cast one last look southeast, where the boom and flash of the battle made him shudder for his comrades. Yet it was the best cover he was going to get – now was the time to fly. The day had begun and he had a long way to go. He pulled on his helmet, and pressed the ignition, rolling the bike down onto the ice with great care.

Canada, here I come! He prayed that Fenja’s hamingja would save his skinny red ass and get him home safe. He really was in the lap of the gods now.

The frozen surface of the sea vibrated disconcertingly with each shell blast from the bay, or was it the thunder and lightning ripping the sky apart? Eddy, grunting at the effort to keep his bike upright, hoped the Wild Hunt was giving as good as they got. They were not many to stand against the full might of Koil’s Ice Force, but they had gods on their side, even ones that were not as strong as they used to be. If only the rest of the world knew … many more would honour the Aesir and their might would increase. But their time had passed and this was the end of things. The best they all could hope for was to end it well.

Finally, the thunderous vibrations subsided and Eddy was left with just the sound of his bike and his breathing. He murmured a song to himself – one of Eddie Vedder’s, his musical hero. It really felt like he was going into the wild this time. But he was not completely alone – he had his upbringing and traditions to draw upon. Growing up in Manitoba, where the temperatures could drop to minus forty centigrade in the winter, he was not unfamiliar with extreme cold, and was probably better able to cope with it then most. Then he had skills taught to him by his beloved Dakotan grandfather – ice-fishing, by making a hole in the ice; hunting deer; building a shelter; starting a fire, even in the wet, with birch bark; navigating without a compass … essential survival skills, which he now realised were incredibly useful and precious. He breathed a heartfelt thank you to his grandfather, who suddenly felt very close. He could hear him now, Running Bear, telling him his wild stories on their trips into the backcountry about Ictinike the Liar, Rabbit Boy, giants and ogres, White Buffalo Woman, the Thunderer … The old man always took a while to open up. It normally took a few hours of trekking. He had never been a great teller, but in his gruff, matter-of-fact way, enthralled his grandson all the same. Eddy smiled, realising that perhaps the White and the Red Roads weren’t that dissimilar after all.

He made good time in the morning, covering a hundred bleak miles. He pulled over at an iceberg, frozen into the ice-locked sea, and in its shelter, he poured himself some coffee and had a snack.

So far, so good.

Iceland was no longer in sight. The horizon was dead flat in every direction. Eddy thought of Gunnar, his other grandfather of Icelandic descent, who had died when he was a teenager. Unlike Running Bear, Gunnar was a natural storyteller who couldn’t open his mouth without spinning a yarn. He remembered the outlandish stories he told about the Norse gods, stories from the ‘old sagas’, as he called them. He always swore he knew someone who was descended from the gods and heroes mentioned, ‘back in the old country’.  The story that had thrilled the young Eddy most was old Gunnar’s account of the Viking discovery of America. He recalled it now, as it gained fresh relevance…

‘Once there was a hapless sailor called Biarne Herjulfson who set sail from Iceland to Greenland, a hard country where some of our people had settled. Biarne had little knowledge of the winds or waters he navigated and was soon lost in fog thicker than your grandmother’s broth. Nevertheless, he pushed onwards and managed to miss Greenland entirely, which was very impressive, as it’s larger than your grandmother’s behind (but don’t tell her I said so). Finally, after many weary days of blind sailing, the fog cleared and the sailors found themselves off the coast of a fair land – hills green with pine, not mountains pointy with ice as he had expected. They did not make landfall, but sailed on to another. The sailors, desperate for firm land beneath their feet, said they should make landfall, but Biarne refused and they continued. After five more days at sea, they finally made it to Greenland and were relieved to see the huts of their own people on the coast.

‘The story does not end there, oh no. Pour your grandfather another vodka – don’t tell you’re your grandmother – and he’ll tell you more. So. When Biarne visited the court of Eric, Earl of Norway, he related his strange journey over the feast, as the mead flowed, poured by the comeliest of maidens. Ah, where was I? Yes! This account was finally heard by the son of Eric the Red, Leif Ericcson, who had colonised Greenland. Leif paid Biarne for his ship and with a crew of thirty five men (including a German named Tyrker) he set sail in search of the mysterious land found by Biarne. His skills as a sailor were far better and Leif had soon discovered the first land Biarne had encountered. It was a barren place, which he called ‘Hellu-land’, the ‘Land of the Flat Stones’ upon landing. They set sail southwards and came to a low-lying wooded country, which, as his foot touched the shore, he called ‘Mark-land’, or the ‘Land of Trees’. They put out to sea again and finally came to a strait lying between an island and a promontory. Here they made landfall and raised huts. The land was fairer in aspect and climate than Greenland – a loving bride as opposed to a reluctant one. Leif split the party in two – he led one, the German led another. Tyrker went missing, but they found him eventually, excited at the discovery of vines laden with grapes, just like his homeland. Loading the ship with the fruit and with fresh timber, they set sail in the spring away from the country Leif called ‘Vin-land’, the ‘Land of wine.’ Leif Ericsson returned to Greenland with news of his discoveries and it was recorded in the annals. Five hundred years before Christopher Columbus Leif Ericsson had discovered Canada and America: Newfoundland, Nova Scotia and New England.’

Eddy smiled at the memory – his Icelandic grandfather getting livelier as the story progressed. His tolerance of alcohol was legendary and he drank the stuff like water. Yet it had killed him in the end. His stories lived on in Eddy’s memory, and he thanked Gunnar for them. They would keep him going, along with his Dakota grandfather’s skills, over the coming days.

Eddy ploughed on, praying his bike wouldn’t let him down. He did not fancy his chances for surviving long out on the ice, hundreds of miles from land, even with the skills and stories of his grandfathers. Remembering the kiss of Fenja warmed his though – boy, he needed her hamingja now! So many things could go wrong with the bike, with him – after all, he was just as likely to break down as the machinery under him. He had maintenance supplies for both on his trailer – food, coffee, vodka, cooking gear, toolkit, spare fuel, spare clothing, a tent, and an all-season sleeping bag. The crater community had been most generous. Perhaps they had just been relieved to see them go, to have the Wild Hunt draw the wrath of Koil away from them.

Eddy thought about the President. Loki! It felt right, by the crazy bullshit he kept coming out with, the increasingly ‘mad dog’ way he had been acting since getting into power.  If one man had been responsible for bringing down this shit-storm on Earth, it was Koil. He must not win. Eddy would do all he could to stop him, for what it was worth!

The president must be shaking in his boots!

The following days passed in a blur of vibration, stillness, snatched sleep, caffeine, and prayers. Eddy rode a hard sixteen hours a day, averaging around five hundred miles. He made decent progress, but he could feel the toll the extreme conditions were taking on his body and on his bike. And his mind. Eddy was haunted by the possible fate of his family, his friends, and of his comrades back in Iceland. The winds howling across the ice at night sounded like their voices.

On day five Eddy’s way was abruptly stopped by a massive crack in the ice, a lightning bolt in negative, stretching as far as the eye could see.  He parked up and got stiffly off the bike, pulling off his helmet. Shielding his eyes against the glare, he stared down into the waters churning away beneath the broken ice – the furious sea, straining to break free of its icy fetters.

Eddy kicked a block of ice, roaring in frustration. It went skidding over the frozen surface like a puck. Sighing, he got back on the bike, and, after a moment’s hesitation rode northwards along the fissure. His heart was racing wildly. He hoped that somewhere the gap would be small enough for him to cross. Every mile out of his way added time to his already long journey. Time he couldn’t afford to waste. His supplies, his gas, would only last so long.

He rode on for a desperate couple of hours until finally he saw something that made his heart leap. At a point where the fissure narrowed there was an ice bridge, formed by large fragments which had splintered off and refrozen, wedging themselves against one another. It looked hazardous, to say the least, but it was the only chance he had.           

He took the bike on a wide arc, giving himself sufficient distance to build up enough speed – and revved the engine.

Muttering a prayer to the gods of the Northmen and the Dakota, he gunned the bike forward.

Just before he hit the edge of the bridge, a giant figure burst from the ice-flo. It was a female, going by her barnacled dugs. Seaweed hair hung down in long, dripping tresses over skin the colour of a walrus. From her wide mouth protruded two huge tusks. Eyes as black as a seals looked curiously at him as she thrashed in the water, a bather coming up for air. By instinct alone, he was able to swing the bike in an averting skid just in time – the bike coming to a stop inches from the freezing waters. The counter-swing of the trailer threatened to pull him in but he punched the release cable at the last second.

No!’ he cried.

Eddy watch in dismay, as the precious trailer skimmed onto the waters, coming to a stop in front of the giantess, who caught it in her hand.

‘Ahh, offerings… Poor Modgud does not get many in this age!’ the giantess complained, her voice like grinding icebergs.

Eddy killed the engine and, trembling, got off the bike. He pulled off his helmet, letting his long dark hair fly.      

‘What a racket you make! Modgud has not heard such, even when the grey armies of the dead in their ship of nail-clippings passed this way. They were silent, compared to you, but they cut through the ocean’s skin with their big iron ships…’

Eddy’s mind whirled – did the giantess talk of phantoms, or of Koil’s Navy, on its way to Iceland?

Tilting her misshapen head, Modgud blinked. Looked closer. ‘But you do not have their pallor… You have too much colour in you. Red blood … What business have you –  crossing the Bone Road?’

Eddy had to think quickly. ‘I wish to visit my ancestors. I … miss them.’

‘Miss them, mmm. Family is everything, is it not?’ The giantess seemed lost in wistful thoughts for a while. Eddy did not want to move, in case she took it the wrong way. One swipe of those arms and he would be mince-meat. ‘Since you have been nice to Modgud, and brought her presents, she will let you pass. Come, cross the pretty bridge she has built. Modgud will not let you fall.’

Eddy bowed – unsure what else to do – and quickly got back on his bike. He felt sick at leaving his supplies, but he had little choice. He turned the bike about and directed it towards the fragile bridge, which the giantess held up.

Heart in mouth, he crossed within feet of her, smelling the rotten fish breath of on her mouth. Pulling the bridge apart, she clacked her tusks and dragged the trailer under the water.

Eddy pressed on.

He prayed he had enough petrol to reach home. As for his own sustenance – he would just have to live off thin air. At least he had not ended up as Modgud’s supper.

***

Extract from Thunder Road by Kevan Manwaring

Copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

Terminal

Chaos at French port as Briton packs WW2 bombshells in his bag

PATRIOT NEWS

Climate Change is Fake News

In a press conference this morning at the White House President Koil dismissed the recent reports by ‘doom-monger’ climate scientists, who claim the extreme weather events we have been witnessing across the States and around the world in the last year are the result of so-called ‘Climate Change’. President Koil made it very clear that he sees these reports as evidence of ‘Fake News’ and renewed his campaign commitment to ‘make war on fake news’. The President said ‘the climate changes every day’ and it is ‘nothing to write home about’.  To say the extreme weather events – hurricanes, floods, wild fires – are the consequence of man’s actions, in particular the burning of fossil fuels, is, the President said, ‘a blatant lie’, and an ‘attack on democracy’. “These people want to shut down our oil industries, our coal industries, our car industries. They want us living in straw huts like Third World savages.” Afterwards, a Whitehouse spokesman said ‘Third World savages’ was just a ‘figure of speech’ and the President meant no racial slur by it. He had ‘a lot of Third World friends’. Many of them work at his chain of hotels around the globe.

Chapter 2: Terminal

‘So, what’s your story?’ Eddy asked, sipping a coffee and munching sceptically on a croissant.

They sat outside a service station café, just over the border into France on the outskirts of Strasbourg – which was overflowing with weary travellers. Some had a clearly spent at least one night there and the place had the air of a refugee camp. Folk sitting hunched exhausted, blankets over their shoulders, cradling a steaming cup or a half-eaten sandwich. Others recumbent in sleeping bags, on any spare floor. Eddy knew how he felt – four hundred and seventy seven miles since Pisa, another four hundred to go to Calais, but at least he was over the halfway point. A plasma screen blared out the latest news, watched avidly by the stranded – each latest revelation leading to more gasps, groans and curses. A spokeswoman from the Civil Aviation Authority was blathering on robotically: ‘There is no telling how long the eruption would last. The airspace above Europe will be closed for the foreseeable future, unless there was a dramatic change in wind direction.’ The studio cut to shots of airports and ferry terminals across the continent – aisles of awkwardly slumbering travellers like the dead waiting for resurrection, the ‘cancelled’ litanies of departure boards – showed the misery was shared with millions in the same plight.

‘My story?’ Fenja smiled. ‘You … people seem to like stories, don’t you?’

‘All the time.’ Eddy grinned. ‘Especially my people. My late grandfather Gunnar was always telling me stories.’ He looked wistful for a moment. ‘But … you distracted me. Answering a question with a question. Cunning! You could be a politician.’

‘Could I?’ Fenja considered the idea.

Eddy caught her eye. ‘Anyway…?’

‘Ah, yes. My story. A traveller, like you. In a place I don’t belong, like you. Trying to get … home. Like you. What more do you need to know?’

‘Your family, your job, what you love, what you hate…’

They laughed.

‘Mm, interesting. I’ll get back to you on those.’

Eddy gave her a puzzled look. ‘Ah, the mystery woman.’

‘Yes, that’s it. My story is … mystery.’

They enjoyed their breakfast in silence for a while.

‘Don’t you want to know my story?’ Eddy finally asked.

‘Why should I?’ Fenja lit up, despite the sign and the frosty stares.

Eddy considered this as he contemplated his coffee. ‘Because I’m giving you a lift. Because we’re sharing the road.  Because we’re fellow human beings, caught up in this mess.’

‘Mess?’

‘Katla. The ash-cloud and all that shit. A bit of dust and this whole continent reverts to the Dark Ages. Doesn’t take much.’

‘For what?’

‘For it all to come crashing down. You can’t even get on the travel websites to find out what’s going on. They’re all jammed. Tried to book tickets for Eurostar. Forget it. I figured my best shot was to haul my sorry ass to Calais, and take my chances at the ferry terminal. Get to Britain and ride up to Scotland – apparently a couple of their airports and still letting out flights. This trip has been a disaster – literally. I might as well head back.’

‘Why?’

‘I was meant to be touring Europe with my lady … my ex-lady… but she dumped me in Italy. Wonder how she’s fairing?’ He looked out at the grey skies. ‘If she had any sense she would have got on the last flight out of Dodge. I had to carry on regardless – bison-headed, my other grandfather would say. Look where it’s got me…’

Eddy finished his coffee. Sighed.

‘So, where are you heading?’

‘To Ellen Vanin.’

‘Ireland?’

‘The Isle of Man I think it’s called these days. There’s a big … meeting there. I’ve been … called.’ She looked into the middle distance.

‘The TT Races? Always wanted to go there. Isn’t that earlier in the year?’

‘No, not that.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m meeting tribe.’

‘Ah, I see. Well, let’s hope we can get across. The English Channel – only twenty one miles but it might as well be the Pacific. How good at you at swimming?’

‘We’ll get across.’ She smiled that smile again. ‘Get me there. I’ll take care of it.’

Eddy looked at her as she got up to go to the bathroom. She walked past the long queue and went straight in, causing stunned silence, followed by a chorus of angry voices.

They were at some service station somewhere in Luxembourg around the six hundred mile mark. Time to fill up for the third time since he’d set off. Eddy squeezed the petrol pump, watching the euro counter whizz round alarmingly rapidly. ‘Jeez, the cost of gas over here. It’s amazing you guys drive anywhere.’

Fenja looked agitated in the forecourt, pacing up and down. The legs had a hypnotic effect on some of the drivers. A long line of vehicles stretched back onto the road, into the distance. It had taken alot of nerve to ride straight in, but ‘it was every man for himself’, as Redcrow put it. ‘Survival of the fastest.’

‘Don’t these places always look the same?’ He called over. ‘Same plastic shit the world over. Bums me out.’

When Eddy had finished, tapping the last few drops out, Fenja walked back to his pump.

‘Well, looks like we’ve hit the jackpot again.’ He groaned, nodding at the final total displayed. He started to pull out his billfold.

His passenger leant nonchalantly against the pump, as though against a tree. She inspected her nails as Eddy’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. ‘Wha—!?’ Both counters spun around until they returned to zero.

‘How– how did you do that?’

‘That?’ She shrugged. ‘Me and electronic things never get on. They always seem to go haywire when I’m around. Don’t know why.’

Eddy watched as she straddled the bike, sliding up onto the passenger seat. ‘Coming?’

The petrol pump attendant was busy with a never-ending queue of customers. Shaking his head in disbelief, Eddy got on and fired her up. He set the tachometer back to zero. ‘I have to do it manually.’

‘I’m sure.’ She blew a kiss to the motorists as they accelerated off.

As they approached Calais they found the roads increasingly congested, until they saw a sign that flashed in French, German, Italian and finally English: ‘Ferry Terminal closed until further notice.’

‘How can it be closed!’ spluttered Eddy.

A truck-driver nearby, shaking his head. ‘A bloody farce, that’s what this is! So many people have tried to get there; they’ve had to shut it down. Evacuating Europe. Like flamin’ Dunkirk – my Pap was in it. He’d turn in his grave, God bless him. Doubt they’d send a fleet of fishing boats over.’ The trucker cast an ogling eye over the Nordic woman. ‘Hear they’re sending the Navy down to Santander – fat lot of good that’ll do us, stuck here. Your best bet is Rotterdam, mate. They’re still sailing from there, far as I know. Good luck to you and your bird.’

‘Your bird?’ Fenja queried.

Eddy grinned, checked the atlas. ‘Rotterdam, jeez. This really is turning into a non-stop funaround…’ He found it, and worked out a route. ‘Come on, before everyone and their dog has the same idea!’

They rode through the night until they arrived at the port in the small hours of the morning. It was as dismal as its name suggested – a squalid neon Purgatory, where the tourist dead awaited the Ferryman. The red tail-lights blurred in the rain into a continuous smear as traffic crawled towards the terminal – but Eddy managed to filter through without any prangs, more through luck than skill as the toll of the journey made him spaced out and lacking in the usual grace he felt on two wheels.

Nearly twenty hours on the road.

Mercifully, they were finally there.

The large crowd had gathered out of the ticket office, trawling luggage, barely kept in check by anxious-looking, exhausted security guards. It was clear many of the travellers had reached the end of their tether. Babies screamed. Adults snapped. Arguments were breaking out. There was a nervous desperation in the air. The barriers seemed very flimsy.

As Eddy stretched – stiff from the long ride – Fenja slinked over to the crowd and seemed to pour through them. This caused further uproar – but when an angry Brit harangued her, she turned to look at him and he fell silent. Like a cat sauntering along arrogantly she made her way to the front of the queue.

A little while later she returned with two tickets.

‘How did you get those?’

‘Never mind. Let’s go. The ferry is leaving soon.’

Eddy rode the bike with relief onto the roll-on, roll-off ferry, parked it and killed the engine. The doors started to swing closed behind them. A manic traveller tried to leap aboard at the last minute, plunging into the widening gap.

‘God! Man in the water!’ Redcrow shouted. He started to pull off his jacket to go in, but Fenja held him back.

‘No!’

There were what sounded like gunshots and screams, muffled as the doors clanged shut and the engines throbbed into life.

‘Jeez–us. All Hell is breaking loose out there!’ He started to shake with adrenalin. ‘I could have saved him. Why did you stop me?’

‘So you could get yourself killed? I saved your hide, mister! Don’t mention it!’ She turned on her heels and headed to the stairs.

Redcrow caught up with her as she reached the passenger lounge. ‘Let’s find a couple of chairs. I need to sit down.’

As they entered, they could see all were taken – and many were sprawled on the floor. The place was stuffy with a damp smell of wet and weary travellers, coughs and sneezes, murmurs of subdued conversation and a blaring TV.

Fen kept walking. ‘Up on deck.’

‘It’ll be freezing!’

‘We can keep each other warm.’

Eyebrows raising, Eddy followed.

Fenja found a spot, next to one of the funnels. It let out some warmth. They arranged their bags into a nest, zipped up their jackets.

She offered him her arms. ‘For survival purposes only.’

They huddled together, under the stars, the sea surging around them, the lights of Rotterdam fading into the distance. Fires were breaking out, sirens flashing. Then, a small explosion – a muffled boom in the distance.

‘Looks like we got out just in time! That could have been us.’

‘Sshhh! Rest.’

Eddy inhaled the scent of her hair, found himself nodding off. After the epic ride, he was exhausted. The slow undulation of the ferry as it ploughed its way through the waves rocked him. His eyelids grew heavy. Within minutes he was fast asleep, head resting on her shoulder.

Fenja stared up at the sky, wide awake, eyes filled with stars. ‘Allfather, I am coming.’

***

Thunder Road – coming soon…

Extract from Thunder Road copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

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Meltdown

traffic jam file new delhi

BBC WORLD SERVICE

Icelandic volcano eruption causes major disruption across Europe.

A recent spectacular eruption in Iceland, predicted for sometime by experts, has closed down European air space yet again. In 2010 the volcano Eyjafjallajökull erupted, grounding 100,000 flights in the largest commercial air-traffic shutdown since World War Two. And now Katla, a neighbour in the Katla Geopark, has erupted – causing an earthquake 6.4 on the Richter scale, which created shockwaves that reached the north of England. Since late on Saturday night vast amounts of toxic material have been thrown up into the jet-stream, where it is causing a major hazard to aircraft. Aeronautical engineer, Helen Macdonald said: ‘When ash is sucked into a jet engine, it is heated to such a high temperature it turns into molten glass. When it reaches the back of the engine, it cools, solidifies on the turbine blades, jamming the engine and causing the plane to plunge out of the sky.’ Vulcanologist, Sten Olafsson, said: ‘This has been a long time coming. The last time Katla erupted was in 1918. It threw up five times as much ash as Eyjafjallajökull and extended Iceland’s south-coast by three miles. The glacial melt released was similar in volume to the Amazon river. There was major destruction, although amazingly no one was killed that time. Unlike when Laki went up in 1783. That explosion killed a fifth of Iceland’s population, and created an ash cloud that covered the northern hemisphere for months, reducing temperatures to three degrees. Winds brought tonnes of lethal sulphur dioxide and sulphuric acid to your Britain, where an estimated 23,000 people died from poisoning and extreme cold. The poisonous ash created a fog that closed ports. The sun turned the colour of blood. Crops and farmworkers died in the fields. Some believe it triggered the French revolution.’ Europe’s travel systems are in meltdown as millions of travellers attempt to get to their destinations by other means. Train stations are experiencing chaos and major roads are gridlocked. Jeremiad Hopkins, controversial social media ‘influencer’ tweeted: “We are finally paying the price for the cholesterol of capitalism. The blood clots of a corrupt system. Europe’s infrastructure is having deep vein thrombosis.” Leader of the GB-Homefront party, Roger Fandango, said: ‘This is exactly why we need to get out of Europe. If we go down, we go down with them.’

Chapter 1: Meltdown

The young man on the Ducati motorcycle filtered through the gridlocked traffic. Eddy Redcrow had been riding all night. From Italy, through Switzerland, and now, at first light, into Germany. He’d travelled further down any of these poor souls would for some time, but with the endless jams he hadn’t been able to get up to speed and had barely covered three hundred and sixty miles in twelve hours. Yet, slowly, he was making progress. Up ahead, the traffic message boards weren’t boding well. Serious delays ahead. What, worse than this? Time to find another route.

Looking down, he checked updates on his satnav. His phone was playing up; the signal fracturing. He gave it a frustrated tap. No good. On a whim he turned off the autobahn as soon as he could – a junction to somewhere obscure – and pulled over on the slip road. He flipped up his tinted visor – showing fierce blue eyes, an angry brow, red skin. A ponytail of long black hair poked out from the base of his lid like dark tail-feathers. His appearance seemed apt for his name, so his friends joked. He pulled out the atlas from his tankbag and followed his intended route with his finger, from Pisa to Calais: fourteen hours, fourteen hundred clicks. He spotted a straight-ish country road, going north-by-north west, and nodded. Looked promising. He was tired and rubbed his eyes. He would need some coffee soon. The new day was about to start, though you would barely tell it.

The sky was dark again. Traffic jams stretched into the smoggy distance of the autobahn – an endless stream of red and white lights. Nothing was moving. As dawn broke over the land to a chorus of car-horns and road-rage, it could have been a scene from an apocalyptic movie.

Tired of the babble of rolling news, which seemed to be stuck on a Moebius loop of clueless politicians, failing to quell the rising panic, vox pops and punditry – Eddy Redcrow changed from radio tuner to music – selecting shuffle and revved the bike into action as a blistering rock track kicked in. He felt the tension of the autobahn melt away as he accelerated to a hundred along a blissfully empty country road. He would use his own navigational skills (‘your blood’s sat-nav’, Grandpa Running Bear called it) to cross this benighted land.

As he lost himself in the rhythm of the ride and the hard chords of the rock music, his mind flipped back to Pisa.

‘What do you mean, it’s over?’

Eddy held his arms out in disbelief. He wore a faded AC-DC t-shirt, Levis and shades. His girlfriend, a light summer dress which revealed more than it concealed. They had parked up in a view of the famous leaning tower. Tourists snapped away around them, the digital cameras making artificial shutter sounds. Despite the early summer crowds, it should have been perfect. The Italian sun caressed them, made everything stand out like a Surrealist painting. Their body language was a tableau, classic ‘arguing couple’.

‘I can’t go on, Edward.’

She always used the formal version of his name when she was upset. He hated it. He wanted to correct, but gritted his teeth.

‘We’ve only just started the tour! You wait until we’re all the way out here to tell me … this! You know how long it took to save for this trip. How many crummy shifts!’ He let his hands drop, shook his head. ‘I just don’t believe it!’

‘It’s hard to stop you, once you get started. It’s like when you ride that damned bike. I swear you have a death wish.’

‘Ah, that’s the real problem here. You hate the wheels. But you knew the deal. You chose to go out with a biker, for crissakes! When I suggested a bike tour of Europe, you leapt at the idea.’

‘I know. It sounded totally wild. But I didn’t realise it would … take so long to get around. And we’d have to wear all that gear. Uh. And hardly take any luggage. My butt aches after being on that thing all day.’

‘You seemed to like it at first – enjoying the views. It was a buzz, you said.’

‘Yes, we saw Naples; nearly died. But the thrill has … worn off. I want to travel in style and … comfort.’

‘Listen to you – you sound like someone whose retired! I thought you wanted some rock ‘n’ roll?’

‘Sure. But I like to change the station as well. That rock is deafening – after a while, it all sounds the same. Planet Rock, pluh– lease. Give me a break!’

Eddy looked over the glittering waters, scanning it for some meaning in all of this. ‘I thought you were different. Not just another Lake girl. You were so spontaneous. Now I see you just wanted a bit of excitement – to liven up your life.’

‘Oh, because it was so dull before you came along! Get real! Some of us grow up, get real jobs, want a real life. Not to keep riding…’

‘What are you getting at?’

A group of Japanese tourists stood watching them, filming it all. Eddy gave them the finger.

‘You can’t keep running forever, Edward.’

He gripped the rail, knuckles whitening.

‘A girl can’t pin her hopes on some … tumbleweed, blowing through life. Maybe one day you’ll realise that.’ She turned on heels and walked off.

Eddy watched her go.

Numb, he walked absentmindedly until he ended up by the bay. The black holes of his shades mirrored the beautiful vista. The seagulls harsh call seemed to mock him. Letting out a roar, he kicked the spare helmet onto the beach, to the alarm of Italian sunbathers who gesticulated their annoyance with verve. Sighing, he went to collect it. He picked it up, dusted it down, and walked along the beach, scanning the breakers. Their boom and hiss said it all.

The Ducati roared along the straight country road – an old Roman road, surely, Eddy pondered –  the needle pushing a ton. The rock track reached its feedback crescendo as he shot over some train tracks just before the barriers came down. A train rumbled past as he sped ahead. Suddenly, beneath a line of poplars he spotted a figure. A woman, with her thumb out.  As he approached he slowed down a little. She had a good figure. A very good figure accentuated by tight jeans, high boots and a leather jacket unzipped to reveal a figure hugging top. Designer shades. Spiky ash-blonde hair.

Eddy dropped gears and tugged on his front brake, sending the bike into a semi-circular skid, leaving a crescent of burning rubber. He rumbled to a stop, just a few yards passed the crossroads. He turned to look back, as she flicked away a cigarette, picking up a small bag, which she slung over her shoulder and walked towards him. ‘Walked’ doesn’t do it justice – the movement her lower body seemed to make, independent of the upper half. He took off his helmet and found himself beaming. ‘Want a lift?’

‘Sure,’ she said, with a faint Nordic accent, lifting up her shades, revealing eyes the colour of glacier melt. ‘Nice bike.’

‘Wish it were mine.’

The woman looked at him steadily.

‘Not that. Hired, for the grand tour that never was.’ He shrugged. ‘Where you heading?’ He was mesmerised by her face – and the rest of her he tried not to think about.

‘To the coast. I need to get to Britain.’

‘You’re in luck. So do I. I hear they’re still letting flights out of Aberdeen. Hop on.’

She appraised him and the bike coolly. ‘Can I trust you – on this?’

‘Lady, I’ve been riding bikes since I was a boy. Have a hog, but I wanted to check out a European bike. Belong to a gang back home.’ He anticipated her response. ‘No patches –  just for kicks. But you’re safer with me than some of the clowns on the road.’

‘I have your word of honour?’

Eddy laughed. ‘Not a word you hear very often these days, but, of course.’ He placed his hand on his heart. ‘By the code of the Runestone Cowboys – share the road, but not your woman!’

She took his hand and held it very firmly, nails white as teeth. ‘A man who does not live with honour is no man at all.’

‘Phew, I bet you’re one helluva ball-breaker when you wanna be, huh?’ He got off and unlocked the tail box. ‘Here, you’ll need this.’ He handed her the spare helmet, shaking out the remains of the sand.

She laughed, showing bright teeth.

‘Eddy Redcrow.’

‘Pleasure. I’m Fenja … Bergrisar.’

‘Pardon, mam?’

‘It’s an old name. Fenja with a ‘j’ but you pronounce it with a ‘y’.’ Eddy looked confused. ‘You can call me Fen if you like.’

‘Whereabouts you from, Fen?’ asked Eddy.

‘Guess.’

‘Somewhere Scandinavian, clearly..?’

She shook her head.

‘Mm, Icelandic?’

She smiled inscrutably. Nodded. ‘That’ll do.’

‘Icelandic? Cool. Can you go tell your freakin’ volcano – enough already!’

Fenja looked puzzled at this.

‘Never mind.’ There was an awkward pause. ‘Now you’re meant to say: And you?’

‘And you?’

‘Gee, thanks for asking. Well, a butt-hole called Gimli, Manitoba. New Iceland, they call it – lot of puffin-eaters. Sorry, that’s what we call your fellow countrymen – you might feel at home there!’

He watched the woman struggle with the helmet. ‘Here, let me show you…’ The strap clicked into place. He adjusted it so it sat true. Fenja said something, muffled. Laughing, he flipped the visor up. She gasped.

‘Is it meant to feel like you can’t breath?’

‘You’ll get used to it.’

‘It smells of … another woman.’

‘A long story. Listen, I don’t know about you but I’m dying for a coffee. Shall we find somewhere for breakfast? We can talk more then?’

Fenja scried him with piercing pale grey eyes. ‘Okay.’

‘Ridden a bike before?’

She smiled innocently.

‘Sit still, don’t lean. No funny hand signals. Hold on.’

Eddy mounted the bike, sitting between her thighs, which felt hot – even through his leathers.

Fenja placed her arms around him.

Smiling, he flicked his visor down and fired the 1200 into life.

It growled down the lane, leaving a tail of dust.

A new track kicked in.

***

Thunder Road – coming soon

Extract from Thunder Road copyright (c) Kevan Manwaring 2020

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Bards and the Bees

16-22 November

It’s been a week of inspiring eco-artiness and inspiration.

Eric Maddern - eco-storyteller

Monday I went to see the fabulous show by Australian storyteller, Eric Maddern, What the Bees Know: Songs and Stories to Sustain and Restore the World – an engaging and galvanising blend of story, poetry, song and environmental awareness raising. I saw a preview of this at the Ecobardic Minifest at Cae Mabon, Eric’s amazing eco-retreat centre in North Wales way back in May, but it was well worth seeing the full show, which had so much more in it. Eric’s charismatic presence filled the Chapel Arts Centre and took the small but committed audience on a 2 hour ‘bee-line’ from the malady to the remedy, honey being a traditional cure-all, and one of the rich gifts these industrious pollinators bestow upon humankind: beeswax, royal jelly, mead, various medicines, and most of all – the pollination of plants. The UK bee population dropped by 30% in 2007 – in Spain, it was 50%, and the USA is experiencing similarly sobering trends. Without these key pollinators, the cycle of life could grind to a halt (25% of the global species depend on plants pollinated by bees). Uber-brainbox Albert Einstein once said: “If the bee disappears from the surface of the earth, man would have no more than four years to live. No more bees, no more pollination … no more men!”…Despite the gloomy predictions, Eric’s show left the audience feeling uplifted – the creative act is affirming in itself, and is another example of the remarkable power of the human imagination, with which anything is possible – including solutions to these mounting environmental problems. Homo sapiens may be the problem, but is also the solution – and has proven over the millennia, since it first discovered fire, flint and the paintbrush back in the caves of our ancestors – that it is nothing but ingenius.

There are various good folk offering ‘plan B’, notably The Global Bee Project. We can all do our bit (eg plant bee-friendly flowers in your garden).

Eric is still touring his show – catch it next Spring, or even book it for your venue or group. Next month he’s off to Copenhagen – the place to ‘bee’ for such a committed eco-campaigner. Long may the story-honey flow from his lips.

it's been a long time coming ... Image from Home, words from Eric Maddern

On Saturday I went to the spectacular setting of Bath Abbey to see a film by Earth from the Air visionary, Yann Arthus-Bertrand called Home – deeply beautiful and moving. The Abbey was packed out with nearly a thousand people. It was very forward-thinking for the Abbey to allow this film to be shown. It was an interesting experience – the large screen in front of the altar, the haunting music drifting up into the vaults, hushed reverence, enduring the discomfort of the hard pews … a kind of surrogate religiosity pervaded the film – I would argue a genuine one, based upon awe of Creation, the miracle of this precious and fragile planet we live on. Perhaps if they had more events like this the Church would find its houses filled once more. Many are overwhelmed and despairing at the crisis facing us. Is it time for eco-churches – centres of energy descent, where folk can ‘pray’ not for their own salvation, but the salvation of the planet? The consolation of faith perhaps has its place – life without a spiritual dimension is shallow and ultimately futile – but we have to act now, before it’s too late. A good place to start is the Transition Movement, as mentioned last week. Read about the burgeoning Transition Culture here

In a week of extreme weather ravaging Britain, this seems more poignant than ever.  The flood gates are open.

Heavy Weather, Grey Wethers

Bath to Avebury

14-15 November

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My new 'time machine' at Silbury Hill, 2400 BCE

A contrasting weekend. Yesterday went to the Big Transition Bath Event at the Bath Royal Literary & Scientific Institute (BRLSI) – a day of talks, workshops, networking and inspiration organised by Transition Bath. Mark Lynas, author of Six Degrees, opened the event with a sobering but galvanising talk about the effects of climate change – and how we can respond to its challenges (as the Maldives is doing, becoming the world’s first carbon neutral country). There followed a triple programme of interesting and empowering talks. Oh, and some nice cake.

The weather was suitably ominous – like the start of some disaster movie. This particular ‘pathetic fallacy’ was simply a pain in the arse for most of storm-battered Britain. Unfortunately, it will probably take some extreme weather event (London flooding – a la New Orleans – to shock the majority of people, including the government, into action). Most people are still in the denial stage – prefer to see Climate Change as a myth (an morally outrageous & unscientific stance perpetuated largely by the Oil Industry), in itself a consoling fiction for those who wish to stick their heads in the sand and continue their carbon-emitting lifestyles. Yet it is very difficult for even the greenest person to lead a carbon-neutral lifestyle – from the day we are born we become a burden to the planet. In this ‘new paradigm’ the sin of carbon can be absolved by the purchase of carbon credits – the modern equivalent of medieval ‘indulgences’. Carbon-traders are the modern Pardoners, giving people the odour of sanctity with their invisible benedictions. Climate Change gurus are the new priests, the greener you are, the ‘holier’ you are – as people try to outdo each other in what could be called ‘hair-shirtman ship’, eg ‘I turned green twenty years ago’; ‘I went green twenty five years ago…’) and there’s even a happy clappy song to go with it: at the end of the day a guy called Chris got everyone to join in his ‘Climate Change’ anthem, which had the lyrics: ‘Energy … Descent … Plan  – Transition Culture!’ I don’t think they’re going to win over many people with that – they need to work on their song-writing! Green art doesn’t have to be bad art – and the last talk I went to (and the most interesting for me) was a session on Imagineering led by eco-poet, Helen Moore – where we discussed such matters, and the ‘spectre of the preacher’ as I put it: people don’t respond to a hectoring tone (I certainly don’t – and I’m sympathetic). You have to enchant people by sheer quality – entertain, impress, then you have their attention. Ask tough questions, but don’t spoonfeed answers. Light a candle, don’t fill a pail (although a few buckets today – when the heavens opened – wouldn’t have gone amiss).

Afterwards went to Bristol for something completely different – ostensibly – a critically-acclaimed Tobacco Factory production of Uncle Vanya at the marvellous Old Vic, but as it turned out, it had a strong ecological subplot, as advocated by the Doctor, with his forests, his love of trees, his vegetarianism. And in its stark depiction of how we have to keep on living – even through depression and despair, Chekov perhaps hints out how we might also ‘keep going’. It was surprisingly funny – and shows how much humour is an essential for life on Earth also (the probes being sent out across the Solar System should be scanning planets for it as well as water).

Avebury today by Kevan Manwaring

The Great Circle of Avebury in the winter light

Today, the skies miraculously cleared, so I made the most of the window in the weather to take my shiny new time machine (a Triumph Legend) out on a long run to Avebury. I’d been working hard –  after two weeks of marking OU papers I needed to blow away the cobwebs (all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy – and I didn’t want to do a  Shining: ‘Here’s Johnnny!’) I first went to Silbury Hill (Europe’s largest man-made mound, dating from 2400 BCE), then walked up to West Kennet long barrow (3650BCE), enjoying the glorious light, the wind, the space. Hardly a soul around.

Good to get away from computers, etc, in this vast sacred landscape temple… ancient technology that has stood the test of time. The incredible West Kennet is still standing after nearly six millennia – how many things these days would last so long?

West Kennet long barrow - 5659 years old and still looking good

Then I rode the short distance to the massive main circle and had my packed lunch in a copse of beech trees, enjoying being back in this magnificent sacred space where I have been coming for twenty years (‘I’ve been coming for twenty five years!’)

The standing stones are made up of what are known locally as ‘grey wethers’ (because they resemble sheep in poor light – many of which were manically munching away amidst the megaliths, bulging-eyed grass addicts). I walked all the way around the henge, stopping occasionally to scribble in my field journal – notes for my new book. Out in the sun on my shiny new steed – working on my new book … life is good.On Dyrham hill fort, Remembrance Sunday

Doing my bit for Climate Change ;0)