The Bamberger & Wahrmann Antiquariat Bookshop 

By Maya Wahrman

By now in Germany

rare books were so unwanted you could buy a sack

for only a shilling. So downtown Jerusalem

was bookshops bustling

with treasures of the written word

from the exile-land. Men of faith, famous authors,

 

many frequented his store, mingled among

the bookshelves, set out to explore

the words he owned and printed. Vanilla,

must, tan wood-based pages, bound.

The aroma made a man want books

with his tongue. Some men

 

found books they’d always wanted,

some wanted books they’d just found.

One customer fingered spines as he muttered prayer

under his breath. Rebuild our city Jerusalem,

please, hurry! It was 1939,

Jerusalem was being rebuilt in our time,

 

the storeowner’s home back in Frankfurt

was torn apart.

In the store,

men from all over the city would start

reliving, would meet Jews who seemed

foreign, would accustom themselves

to the desert dry heat of the Judean hills.

 

No longer reliving, now living.

He died. Store shut, past-life books

became harder to find.

But men said and wrote,

the city was never the same

when the doors closed.

______________________________________________________________

Maya Wahrman graduated from Princeton University’s Department of History, with certificates in Creative Writing and Near Eastern Studies.  She currently works at Princeton’s Office of Religious Life on issues of faith and forced migration. She has had opinion pieces published in the English and Hebrew editions of Haaretz, and has had poetry published in the Nassau Literary Review, the Jewish Currents poetry anthology Urge, and Sweet Tree Review.

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From an Open Window

By Ashley Kauffman

From an open window,

I saw a sea of people lined up to greet us.

 

They moved closer as we exited the plane,

Like waves that were anxious to touch the shore.

 

I wore the pale pink suit,

That he loved so much.

 

I graciously accepted the red roses,

As we greeted people on our way to the limousine.

 

His presence projected a beacon of hope,

That made people feel secure,

And somehow gave them a sense of direction.

 

Massive crowds just wanted to snap a picture,

Or reach out and touch his hand.

 

American flags were strung uniformly across the streets,

Providing a gentle reminder of all we had to be thankful for.

 

We drove through Dealey Plaza,

As we headed toward the Trade Mart.

 

It was November 22, 1963,

My first public appearance since I lost the baby.

 

I felt a sense of closeness to him,

That sometimes was hard to feel,

Because of the current,

That pulled him in so many different directions.

 

I smiled and waved,

As my pink pillbox hat,

Remained securely on my head.

 

From an open window,

Shots were fired,

And my life would never be the same.

______________________________________________________________

Ashley Kauffman is from Carlisle, Pennsylvania, and is employed as a teacher with the Mechanicsburg Learning Center. She has enjoyed writing since she used her imagination to bring her first story to life in second grade. Ashley received her B.A. in English, and is currently working to obtain her M.A. in Children’s Literature through Penn State University. She is an avid collector of vinyl records, Golden Books, and vintage typewriters. Ashley is legally blind and considers herself to be a differently-abled person who has spent her life envisioning the world with the turn of each page.

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The Last Campaign of Ulysses S. Grant

By Ted Harvey

The writer approached the sick man hesitantly. The writer’s name was Samuel, but few people called him that anymore.

The sick man sat in a rocking chair. He was covered in a thick wool blanket. A wool hat was pulled over his head, the edge was almost touching his closed eyes. Samuel wiped the back of his own hand across his forehead. It came away damp.

Samuel stopped. He considered coming back another time. He knew his old friend needed the rest. But he needed the money too. A man of surety, Samuel had never felt so conflicted. Finally, he decided he would come back later. He turned to go.

“Better stay,” the gravelly voice said. “Even for a minute.”

Samuel turned back.

The seated man’s eyes remained closed, but his lips moved now, quivering.

“I can come back,” Samuel said, running his hand over his mustache.

The seated man opened his eyes.

“No time for that. Never know if I’ll still be here when you get back.”

Samuel opened his mouth to protest or maybe say something positive, he hadn’t determined what yet, but with a sudden vigor, the seated man waved his hand. It was a thick hand with stubby fingers, crooked joints, but even after all these years there was power behind it. Then, as quick as it had been flashed, that power dissipated and the hand dropped back into the blanketed lap. He sucked in a long breath and started coughing. Samuel took a step forward. But what could he do?

The coughing fit lasted almost a full minute before he regained control.

Samuel watched him, trying not flinch with each body spasm. They were worse now than the last time he was here.

“Can I get you anything?” Samuel asked.

“A few more months would be nice,” the sick man said, forcing a half grin.

“You’ll have more than that,” Samuel said. He could hear the doubt in his own voice.

“Maybe,” the sick man said. His body moved under the thick blankets. “I can never get comfortable. That’s the main thing. And the cough.” He cleared his throat and Samuel thought he would start coughing again, but he caught himself.

“How’s the writing coming?”

“Yesterday was a good day,” the sick man said. “Today?” He moved again and Samuel realized he was shrugging.

“I could help you write,” Samuel suggested. It was not the first time he had made this suggestion. He knew what the answer would be. But he had to ask anyway. The man was his friend. Of course he was more than that. A general. A president. A great man who risked being forgotten. I will not allow that to happen, Samuel told himself. Not this man. Even if it meant cheating a little. Even if it meant lending his own writing to the memoirs. No one would know. He would make it sound authentic. He knew he could. He had practiced at home. Late at night when he should have been asleep but couldn’t settle thinking of his old friend, struggling to breathe, struggling to finish.

“No,” the answer was definite. Samuel met the sick man’s gaze. The eyes never left him, determined. He saw the general there. The husband and father, too, and Samuel knew he would finish himself unless death came first.

“Fine,” Samuel said, “The offer is always there.”

“I think I’ll take a little rest now,” the sick man said.

“That’s good,” Samuel said. The sick man’s eyes were already closing. He moved his lips, mouthing something, but there was no sound.

“What’s that?”

The sick man’s eyes flickered open.

“Thank you, Sam,” he whispered, “I will owe you.”

“You’ll owe me nothing. I’m happy I could convince you to do it.”

Samuel meant to say more but the sick man’s eyes were closed now and his breathing was gentle and even. It was the most peaceful he had seen his friend in a long time. He turned away, and left him to sleep.

 

The sick man opened his eyes. The writer was gone. He wished he could stay, but he needed to be alone to write.

Samuel Clemens. A good name. Why he decided to use Mark Twain, he would never understand.

Samuel. Sam.

That’s what people called him too. Some people. Now they also called him Mister President, although he hadn’t been president for many years. General would be better. There were still plenty who called him that when they came to visit. He wasn’t sure what he preferred. Maybe Sam after all. A mistake, that name. Like so many things in his life it just happened. And it stuck. He was born Hiram. Hiram Ulysses Grant. Even he thought it was a bit of a strange name. He didn’t mind Ulysses, although he would never compare himself to his namesake. More of an Agamemnon. Or maybe Aeneas. He always liked Aeneas. Things just happened to the Trojan hero and on he went until in the end he founded the greatest empire the world had ever known. He could never be a Ulysses, although he wished he could. Such cleverness and wit! If he could have been more like Ulysses and less like a Sam, less like an Aeneas, maybe life would have been a little different. But he had known men like Ulysses, and if he was honest with himself, would he really have preferred that?

He sighed. What did it matter? He was what he was. Hiram. Sam. The General. Mister President. All of it. And none. He was simply himself and the few times he had tried to be something else, well, everybody who thought they knew something about him knew that version of him. A failed version. It was why he was writing. Better to be what you were. No more, no less.

Grant breathed in slowly. He was tired and knew he should rest. But the writing would not get done itself. Nor was he about to let someone else take it up for him. Not even Sam Clemens. Not while he was still breathing, and who knew how long that would be.

Slowly he leaned forward to his desk. The paper was half-filled with his scratchy marks. He began at the top and read what he had last written, moving his lips as he spoke each word. When he reached the end of the page, he paused and then, placing his pencil on the paper, began to write.

He did not stop after that for some time. The pencil rarely left the paper. He wrote slowly, but consistently. The words were there, they were his words after-all. It was simply a matter of transferring them down in writing.

It would have been easy to let the memories overtake him. But he would not allow it. There was no time for sentimentality or regret or anything else that came so often with thinking of the past. There was only space to write. Whatever came after that, well, he had no control of it, and in all likelihood would be gone from this earth for it to affect him. But that is not why he wrote. He did not write so others might know his thoughts or read of his exploits. He did not care what the outside world thought of his actions, his life. He cared only for Julia. And Fred, and Buck, and Nellie, and Jesse. But mostly for Julia. He could not leave her with nothing. Worse than nothing. With debts. With the debts he had brought down on them.

“You trust people too much,” Julia had told him once, many years before, soon after they were married. At least he thought she had said that. It was like something she would say. Not mean, just matter-of-fact. And true. That was always the worst of it, or maybe the best of it. The truth of her statements. And that declaration, of his never-ending trust, was as true as anything she had ever said. Even if she hadn’t said it exactly as he remembered. His trust was why he owed money. It was why he wrote now.

Once, years before, the memoirs from the war were a dime-a-dozen. And why shouldn’t they be? It was cathartic to write down all that had happened. Maybe cathartic was not the right word, because no matter what you wrote or how much you wrote, it did not relieve the memories. Time helped a little. And drink. But the war never really left you. As a soldier there was nothing you could do to make you forget, although they had all tried, and writing seemed to help some, at least a little.

Still, what did he know about writing? And why would anyone care what he wrote? He was no great philosophizer. His view of life was not worldly. Maybe he could have written a book on breaking a horse. Now that would have been something. But he didn’t think it would come out like he wanted it. It would have been like translating a foreign language that only he knew and there was no proper translation. No, it was better he had never attempted anything like that. It was better he stuck to what he knew, soldiering and moving forward.

He paused. Three new pages were filled with his words. He thought maybe he should read it back, but he knew he wouldn’t change any of it. It was what it was, no more, no less, and no amount of re-reading was going to alter what was written. Besides, he didn’t have time. The pain in his throat had grown significantly over the past week, much more than all the weeks before. He knew it wouldn’t be long now.

He had thought of death before. It had been all around him. At Shiloh and Vicksburg, the Wilderness, Petersburg. At Appomattox. And before that, at Palo Alto and Resaca de la Palma. Death was a constant, but it had always been a constant around him. Now he would be joining the ranks of the departed.

He sighed. His throat burned. He wanted to cough to relieve the pain, but the coughing would be temporary relief only, so he forced the cough to subside.

Sam Grant didn’t mind that he was going to die. He had accepted it as a fact of life, as the only fact of life, long ago. But the pain was beginning to grow unbearable, and he wanted it to end. Rarely in his life had he reached a point of desperation, but he was getting close now. Except he couldn’t yet, not until he was finished. He leaned back over the desk. He put the pencil down and moved his fingers, one by one. They were old and stiff and not inclined to grip the pencil. But he forced himself to pick it up again, and re-reading the last line, began to write.

 

Samuel Clemens was also writing, but his was an altogether different story. He wasn’t sure what would come of it. With Tom Sawyer he had been confident it was his masterpiece. It was good. He knew it was good. But he was also painfully aware something was missing. So, in a way, he was re-writing it now. Not really re-writing, but pushing the story beyond what he originally thought it could be. Now it wasn’t about Tom. Tom Sawyer was not the right person to take this new story where it needed to go. Instead Sam Clemens had turned to Huck Finn.

It was better. He was certain of it, although he hadn’t let anyone read it yet. It was much too raw. He thought he might let the General read it. He might enjoy it very much. There was not much time. Not as much as he had thought before his visit earlier that day. The General did not look well. Of course he wasn’t well, but until today it had almost seemed impossible he was sick. Now it was very clear he was very sick.

Sam stopped writing. He wondered if the General was writing right now. Sometimes he wished he hadn’t convinced him to start the memoirs. The only thing they seemed to be doing was speeding the illness along. Sam knew that wasn’t really true. And he knew the General would write anyway. It was the only thing he could now and it was the only possibility of saving his wife and children from monetary ruin. Having lived a life that had so profoundly affected the people around him, most of whom he had never met, the only thing that would matter in the end was whether the General finished the book.

Sam Clemens could not help but smile at that oddity of life. The man had been the finest general the country had ever seen. He had become president for eight years. He had toured the world as the most famous man in the world. And now, none of it mattered. Except the book. It was remarkable the clarity death brought.

Sam peered down at his own work. He scratched his head as he read over the last paragraph. It was good, but not good enough. He scratched it out quickly and tapped the pencil on his tooth. He began again.

 

“Thank you for coming back,” the General’s voice was so soft, Sam Clemens had to take step closer to listen.

“Of course.”

He stared at his friend, wishing he could look away. It wouldn’t be much longer now.

“I need your help,” the General said.

It had been almost two weeks since his last visit. It was July 10th and Sam Clemens could feel the sweat dripping down his back. The General remained wrapped in the thick blanket.

Sam Clemens nodded. He had been waiting for this. He was prepared. The words he wrote would match exactly the words the General had written. No one would ever know the General had not finished.

“Sit,” the General said.

There was a second chair that had not been in the room before. When he had started, the General explained he didn’t want visitors getting the impression they could stay. But now it seemed that had changed. So Sam Clemens sat.

“Take the paper and pencil,” the General said, “I will dictate. I’m having a little trouble gripping the pencil now.”

Sam Clemens stared.

“I could just write it,” he said finally but the General shook his head.

“If you’re going to be difficult,” the General said, “I’ll find someone else.”

Sam Clemens shook his head, “No, I’ll write.”

He picked up the pencil and moved the desk that had sat by the General for so many months closer to his seat.

“No changes,” the General said, meeting Sam’s eye. Sam nodded. The General closed his eyes. “There isn’t much left, but I want to make sure it gets written. I can feel the end coming.”

Sam did not question him this time. He remained poised, ready to write.

The General began.

The Personal Memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant was completed on July 18, 1885. Ulysses S. Grant, former General and President of the United States of America, died five dies later of throat cancer. The Memoirs were an instant best-seller and provided his family financial stability for the rest of their lives.

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn was also published later that same year.

______________________________________________________________

Ted Harvey has been writing for a very long time. His first memorable piece of writing was a condensed version of the Iliad, which he completed in first grade. Since then he has written thousands of pages of text with two publications to show for it: “Disappearing,” in the Aphelion Webzine, and “The Last Terrorist,” in AntipodeanSF. He is currently working in community development, although his true passions remain history and writing.

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Merlin’s Prediction

By Lisette J. Merry

Vortigern, the ambitious Chief Advisor to King Maines, and Manson, the leader of the Saxons had their final secret meeting in a dark, corridor recess, in King Maines’ castle in Camelot. 

Their plan would bring Vortigern everything his jealous heart desired, and Mason certain victory.

‘At sunset, then,’ Mason said.

Vortigern nodded, they shook hands, and then pulled up the hoods on their capes, and went their separate ways.

Vortigern went back to his chambers. He was not a man usually given to fear, because he was an experienced diplomat who had cultivated a show of bravado to disguise his true feelings in public.   And in private, he had always convinced himself that the cosmos smiled upon him and therefore there was nothing that could harm him.    

* * * * *

It all began well enough.  King Maines had always trusted Vortigern implicitly, and he followed him willingly enough when Vortigern told him that he wanted to talk with him privately about ‘a very pressing State matter’.   

Manson was waiting for them near the castle wall, and when he caught sight of King Maines on the battlements, he swiftly took aim, and fired.  Manson’s arrow found its mark.  It pierced a deep hole in the King’s chest, and moments later he was dead.

Vortigern looked down at the body of his dead King and suddenly his fears overwhelmed him. And like puffs of smoke in the wind, his well laid plans seemed to vaporise.   

Vortigern bolted straight to the sanctuary of his study and when he arrived there sweating and trembling, he sat down on his chair behind the great table laden with books. He forced himself to find a book, any book, rather than sit there staring into space and shaking like a lunatic.  He picked up a book and clutched at it until his hands stopped trembling. Only then did he attempt to open it and focus on the words on the first page. He forced himself to start reading. And when his manservant, Fabrian, arrived later to inform him of King Maines’ death, it seemed, for all the world, as if he had been reading for hours.

As soon as Fabrian had finished speaking, Vortigern reacted quite naturally to the dreadful news with surprise at first, and then with outrage, finally stating that King Maines’ murder was a treasonous act. His performance was flawless.  Fabrian stared at his master unable to speak, and finally, overwhelmed by grief, he bowed, and rushed out with tears streaming down his face. 

* * * * *

After King Maines’ assassination the Saxons defeated his leaderless army within days.  And Vortigern got what he had always wanted, the crown. 

King Maines’ subjects were terrified into submission, forced to accept the new order, or face torture and execution. And soon King Maines’ younger brothers Pendragon and Uther were banished to the distant land of Estion.

But still, Vortigern could not rest, because he was constantly plagued by the fear that they would return. He was too frightened to sleep, for whenever he did, he would soon wake again from yet another nightmare about his own violent death. 

After weeks of losing sleep in this way, something rather strange happened.  One night, on the eve of the full moon, King Vortigern was too exhausted to stay awake. But this time, instead of having yet another nightmare, he had a wonderful dream.  The dream was about the construction of a huge fortified tower, built to his own specifications. As it came to an end, he saw himself saved from Pendragon and Uther’s army by taking refuge inside it.  When King Vortigern woke from this dream, he felt, that at last, he knew how to save himself.

King Vortigern got up at sunrise. He dressed without the assistance of Fabrian for once, and then he opened the shutters and looked outside, with renewed confidence. 

When Fabrian arrived in King Vortigern’s chambers a little after 7am, he was amazed when his master ordered fruits, cold meats, bread and cheeses for his breakfast, instead of his usual half goblet of red wine.  

As soon as he had breakfasted, King Vortigern, feeling like a new man, ordered that the Royal Mason, Claudas, should be summoned to meet with him. 

And when they met, an hour later, King Vortigern described to him the tower that he had seen in his dream. Claudas hastily unrolled the parchment he had brought with him and placed it on King Vortigern’s dining table. And then with a series of questions he coaxed King Vortigern to describe the tower again, from the beginning, so that he could sketch it out. When King Vortigern saw how accurate Claudas’ drawing was, he immediately approved it, and told Claudas to begin work at once. 

Claudas followed King Vortigern’s orders to the letter, and as soon as he’d left the castle he assembled his masons and put them to work. King Vortigern was delighted, and he went about his diplomatic duties for the rest of that day with the reassuring sound of the masons chipping away at large blocks of sandstone, as they prepared them to lay as the foundations.

King Vortigern had ordered Claudas and his masons to complete the work by the next full moon. And fearful of incurring his wrath if they failed, they laboured from sunrise to sunset each day for the next whole month.

* * * * *

King Vortigern watched his tower steadily rise from its foundations to completion, and on the appointed day, Claudus held open the heavy oak door to the tower for King Vortigern. Once they were inside, Claudus lit his shuttered candle, and King Vortigern followed him across the flagstone floor to the foot of the stone spiral staircase. The King looked up, entranced by every tiny detail of the construction. And, as they climbed the staircase he stopped at each of the arrow slits in the curved stone wall to look outside.  He noted that they gave excellent visibility in all directions, just as he had seen in his dream.

When they reached the top step, King Vortigern listened with great interest as Claudus pointed out the cone shaped oak timber ceiling above their heads and told him how the structure supported the roof’s weight.

When the tour was over, King Vortigern had no hesitation in approving the work. His fears had evaporated. For he now felt secure in the knowledge that he would be able to defend himself from Pendragon and Uther should they ever return.  When he retired that night, he slept more soundly than he had done in weeks.

The next morning he woke in excellent spirits, and he got up and walked over to the shutters and opened them so that he could, once more, feast his eyes on his beautiful tower.  But when he looked outside, to his dismay, his fortified tower was no more, it had collapsed during the night, and it was now just a huge pile of stones. A ruin!

King Vortigern was distraught. He began to pull at his hair and beard, and shout at the heavens in his outrage and distress. 

When Fabrian entered his master’s chambers a little later, with his breakfast, King Vortigern’s eyes were still wild with disbelief and fear.

‘How could this have happened?’ he asked Fabrian.  But he didn’t wait for Fabrian to answer, he just carried on talking, as if to himself. He ranted on and on.  Finally he said

‘……and I chose the finest mason, Claudus, the Royal Mason, no less, to design the tower and act as the foreman for the building of it. ’

Fabrian listened to him in stunned silence, too frightened to interrupt. When the King fell silent at last, Fabrian assumed that the storm of emotions was over. So he was startled when the King suddenly spoke again.

‘But, I am not deterred, Fabrian, I will have Claudus and his masons build another tower for me, and this one will stand, by God, and protect us against our enemies.’  

Fabrian breathed an inward sigh of relief as the King calmed down. But just to be sure, he waited until he had not spoken again for some minutes.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ Fabrian said as he served the King his breakfast, placing it before him on the dining table in the ante room which adjoined King Vortigern’s bedroom.  Then Fabrian poured him a goblet of sweet melon juice.

When the King had finished his breakfast, he looked up at him.

‘I will dress now, Fabrian. I have much to do.’

Fabrian bowed, and immediately fetched King Vortigern’s clothes and helped him dress. The King finally put on his sleeved cape, and as he looked at his appearance in the mirror he nodded his approval at his reflection, and gently stroked his sleeved cape’s ermine collar.

‘Bring Claudas to me, Fabrian,’ he said.  ‘I have decided that he will start the rebuilding of my fortified tower today.’

Fabrian bowed, and then withdrew from King Vortigern’s chamber and fetched Claudas.  He met with the King an hour later.  And after they had spoken, the work on the tower began again. The King had given orders that the masons were not to use stones from the old tower for the rebuild. He ordered them to use all new sandstone, which meant that they had to start the work all over again, and painstakingly shape each piece of sandstone with their hand chisels. They were furious, but they were so afraid of King Vortigern’s temper, that they kept their feelings to themselves. 

Weeks passed, and by the end of the month, the fortified tower was finished.  When he saw it King Vortigern thought it looked more splendid than the first one had done.

But ill fortune struck again. For soon after it was finished, the tower collapsed, just as the first had done. King Vortigern was furious, but he was also frightened, for he could find no explanation for why both of his magnificent towers had collapsed so suddenly.  King Vortigern was so angry that he interrogated Claudas for a whole hour after the second tower’s collapse, but he finally concluded that Claudas was as puzzled as he was.  

King Vortigern would not let the matter rest. He was determined to find out why the towers had collapsed, and he called the Court Astrologers to him to ask them for their advice.  They dutifully responded to King Vortigern’s summons without delay, and upon their arrival walked ceremoniously into the great hall, and then stood before him resplendent in their silken robes trimmed with fox fur. They listened intently to all that King Vortigern had to say.  And when he had finished, they turned to each other and spoke amongst themselves for some time.   Finally, and after much deliberation, they nodded their agreement to each other.  They had made their decision, and they chose Micas, the most learned of their number, to tell King Vortigern what they advised. 

‘Sire, we are all sorely troubled by what you have told us, and by what we have learned ourselves of these events. We can determine no explanation for them in the cosmos, despite our efforts to do so.  Our advice to you is that you seek your answer from a young boy who is known to us, and who has extraordinary gifts.’ They all nodded their agreement to this. 

King Vortigern was deeply disappointed. He had felt certain that they would have found an answer to his dilemma in the cosmos. But it seemed they had not. He was at a loss now as to how he should proceed.  And although he was startled by their advice, he knew better than to question it.

‘Who is this young boy?  And how shall I find him?’

‘You will not have to find him, Sire. We will go in search of the boy,’ Micas replied.

‘So be it.’ King Vortigern said.

Then he turned to Fabrian who was standing by his side. 

‘Take Fabrian with you, so he might be your messenger. Send him back to me with the news that you have found the boy,’ he told Micas. Then he smiled at the assembled group of men.

‘You have my leave gentlemen,’ he said, dismissing them.  

And as soon as they left the king’s presence, the Court Astrologers set out with Fabrian, on their journey.  Early the following morning, they found some children playing together by a stream. One of the children, a young boy, noticed them, and he immediately left his playmates and ran over to speak to them,

‘I am the boy that you seek. My name is Merlin.’ He said.  The Astrologers looked at him and were silent for a moment, because they were amazed that the boy already knew their purpose. Micas turned to Fabrian, and said.

‘Go now my friend, and tell King Vortigern that we have succeeded in our search.’ Fabrian nodded to him, and set off towards the castle at a run.  Then Micas spoke to the young boy.

‘Will you come back with us to King Vortigern’s Court, and speak to the King on a matter of great importance to him?’

‘Yes,’ Merlin replied. ‘But before I go with you, I must first return home and tell my mother why I am going to see the King, so that she does not worry about me. My home is close by, so I won’t delay you long.’

‘Good,’ Micas replied. And a short time later, after Merlin had reassured his mother, he went with the Astrologers to Camelot. And when they arrived there, they took Merlin straight to the castle’s great hall.

Merlin walked into the great hall behind the Astrologers, and they processed in this manner to the far end of it where King Vortigern sat on his throne.  Despite the grandeur of the hall, and being in the presence of the King, Merlin showed no fear.  He stood infront of King Vortigern, looked up at him, and said confidently,

‘Sire, my name is Merlin, and I know that you have brought me here to tell you why your great towers would not stand.’

King Vortigern was amazed by the child’s knowledge and insight.

‘And why would that be, young master?’ he asked.

‘Your towers did not stand Sire, because two dragons sleep under the ground where they stood.  And the weight of the towers pressed down on the dragons’ bodies as they slept. They became uncomfortable, and began to move about in their sleep. Their movements shook the ground above them, and it was this that caused both of the towers you built to fall down.’

Silence descended on the great hall.

There had been something about the look in Merlin’s eyes as he had spoken that defied King Vortigern to question his conclusion, and therefore, though he was amazed by what Merlin had just told him, he sent Claudas and his masons out to the site, and ordered that they should dig down beneath the foundations.  The men did as they had been ordered. And after some hours of digging, they found the two dragons, just where Merlin had said they would be, one of the dragons was red and the other one was white. As soon as the masons saw them they were terrified, and they ran away, in fear for their lives.

Although this looked cowardly, it proved to be a wise decision on their part, because only a few minutes later, the daylight woke the dragons, and they climbed out of the ground and attacked each other.  They fought ferociously for some time, and the Red Dragon was killed.  But the White Dragon was not the victor. For Destiny had determined that just before he died, the Red Dragon had found the strength to mortally wound the White Dragon and he too died soon after the battle finished.

King Vortigern had witnessed the dragons’ fight from the battlements of his castle with Merlin standing beside him. 

‘And what is the meaning of all of this? Is it possible that you can tell me, young master?’ he asked Merlin.

Merlin looked up at King Vortigern whose eyes were now wide with fear, and said,

‘I believe I can, Sire. You are the Red Dragon.  The White Dragon is Pendragon and Uther, who will soon return to Camelot, kill you, and reclaim their kingdom.’ King Vortigern smiled, and shook his head, for he did not want to believe Merlin.

* * * * *

Merlin’s prediction soon proved true.  For only a few days after the collapse of King Vortigern’s second tower and the battle between the dragons, the two brothers, Pendragon and Uther returned to Camelot with an enormous army. They fought with, and defeated King Vortigern and Manson’s Saxon army.  When the battle was over, the usurper King Vortigern was found dead in the remains of his second ruined tower. Pendragon and Uther reclaimed Camelot, and the older brother, Pendragon, assumed his place as the rightful king.

King Pendragon and Uther asked Merlin, despite his youth, to become their counsellor. For Pendragon and Uther both agreed that Merlin was wise far beyond his years. Merlin said he was honoured by their request and accepted.

Merlin instinctively knew what his first duty would be, and that was to warn them of the imminent danger of another attack on Camelot by the Saxons.

And a short time later, the Saxons did indeed invade and wage war against King Pendragon, Uther and their loyal army close to Camelot.  Both victory, and tragedy were destined to follow. For even though they won this, their second battle against the Saxons, Pendragon was struck down on the battlefield and killed. 

After his brother’s death, and the designated period of mourning, Uther succeeded his older brother Pendragon, and out of respect for his brother’s valiant deeds, and in devoted remembrance of him, Uther chose to be known from that time forth, as King Uther Pendragon.

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Lisette Merry has always found history fascinating. One of her favourite periods of British history is the time of the legendary King Arthur. She lives in Kent, England with her husband.

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Writing Historical Fiction Part 5

By Meredith Allard

Make friends with a librarian and, while you’re at it, try a university library.

I’ve already professed my love for the instant gratification of finding a necessary piece of information online in a matter of moments. However, nothing replaces library research. The depth of information from library research cannot always be replicated on the Internet with its short articles and occasionally unclear sources. The weekend historian may be intimidated by the sheer amount of resources in the library, but never fear.

I’ve been a university student for a good portion of my adult life. In fact, I’m currently a university student now, and I can tell you in all honesty that I’ve encountered many conscientious librarians who have gone beyond their job descriptions and assisted me by helping me track down an elusive book or an article about a little-known subject. If you’re not sure where to begin your quest for knowledge about your historical period, ask a librarian. And I’m not only talking about university librarians here since most of the public librarians I’ve talked to are more than willing to help however they can. And I’m not just saying that because Sarah Wentworth of the Loving Husband Trilogy is a librarian. I’ve always had a high opinion of librarians (as most book lovers do), and I’ve thought more than once that if I wasn’t a writer and a teacher I’d be a librarian.

The Los Angeles County Public Libraries, the Clark County Libraries, and probably library systems all over, have a wonderful program where, if a local branch doesn’t have a book you want but another branch does, the other branch will ship the book to your neck of the woods so you don’t have to go running all over town. Check with your local library to see if it has a similar program. In the Internet age there’s no more standing over card catalogues and pulling out musty cards that leave you grabbing for your asthma inhaler (or maybe that’s just me). Libraries have online catalogues these days so you can check at home to see if your local library, or any nearby library, has that book you need.

If your local library doesn’t have what you need, then indeed you should try visiting a university library. University libraries are created for research after all. In the old-timey days they had stacks of newspapers, journals, microfiche, and other hard-to-find materials. Some still have primary sources in their collections. These days university libraries have online search engines that allow you access to information you might not otherwise be able to find, and yes, you can access them from your home computer if you’re a member of that library. Many university libraries are open to the public for a yearly fee—from $30 to $100—and it’s a worthwhile investment for historical novelists.

I know I’m stating the obvious when I mention using the library, but the teacher in me feels like I need to remind people that there are these buildings with wall-to-wall books you can borrow for free (that’s the books you can borrow for free, not the buildings). With so many historical novelists using the Internet as their only source of research, I’m afraid they’re passing over other helpful ways of discovering useful, important information. And historical novelists need to use any source they can to discover the facts from the past that will make their stories come to life.

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Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review. Visit her online at www.meredithallard.com.

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Right Between the Eyes

By Hazel Kevlihan

Sasha Patrova is perfectly invisible to the naked eye as she makes her way up the hill in front of her. The landscape is a desert, a frozen wasteland which stretches on for miles. Underneath acres of hard packed snow lies a scorched and traumatized earth. It’s a battered remnant of farm lands and villages. Overhead, a crow glides beneath the cloud line. The winter sun reflects across the snow, giving his underbelly a dull sheen. Crows are the only birds who don’t migrate to escape the cold, instead embracing the wreckage of an ecosystem, taking the best of what meat remains without competition. Now the crows rarely starve, and great flocks of them soar over spent battlefields. They come down in a black rain of beaks, the odor of gunpowder clinging to their feathers, guzzling down their pound of flesh while it’s still warm.

Not on this day though. On this day there is just one solitary crow with a solitary soldier to match. She reaches the top of the hill and hunkers down, rifle thumping lightly against her back, fatigues crinkling softly in the breeze. Across the plain, Sasha can see the dark forms of marching soldiers. Estimating that she has about ten minutes, she pushes her arms through the snow until her elbows are submerged and her fingertips press lightly against the frozen earth. She then kicks both legs out behind her in one swift motion, and sinks to the ground. Wiping the snow off her face with the back of a gloved hand, she pats around in her pockets until she finds the binoculars, and raises them to her eyes. Snow begins to fall on her back, masking her slight frame further. All around her the land is a gleaming white reflective surface, crunching methodically beneath German boots.

Hans Schmidt has always hated the cold. Upon his acceptance into the 6th Army he was practically rejoicing, the invasion of Russia was advertised as an easy task. Those communist barbarians of the North were surely no match for the cultured perfection of German war. The USSR was isolated, backward, and would give the Third Reich the much-needed living space they deserved. It would be a lovely stroll through the warm Russian summer – shoot a few soldiers, secure the oil fields, and march back to Berlin in triumph. He dreamt of finding old Russian treasure. He would accumulate a small fortune, and finally be able to live in the heart of the capital, where he belonged.

But now look at him. Hans is cold, miserable, and these ‘communist barbarians’ are proving far more difficult to deal with. His daydreams are haunted by the images he has witnessed, but far worse are the nightmares. Well, not nightmares. There is only one, singular. The same sequence repeating over and over every time he closes his eyes. The visions are so real that he wakes each night soaked in what he fears is blood, only to discover it’s just his own sweat.

It all started when a group of soldiers joined them from another division. They started telling stories, mostly to scare them he knew, of a sniper in the Red Army.

“They call her The Wraith.” An older man, with multiple scars on his face, said that.

“A woman?” One of his comrades asked with a scoff, “The Russians truly are barbaric if they let their women fight, and this is the best they’ve got? It’s a wonder she hasn’t shot herself in the foot yet.” The young men laughed softly, Hans louder and longer than most, he was covering the stroke of panic which had just raced through him. The older soldier scowled, frown lines deepening on his face.

“Just you wait,” he said, “You will see what the Russians are capable of.” And that was it. One ominous warning and he walked away. The young men continued with their raunchy jokes and laughter, but Hans could still hear the way a hollowness of fear crept into their every syllable.

Now, with winter upon them, everyone alive acts like a seasoned veteran, and everyone fears The Wraith. Hans prays every night that he will never encounter her. He wishes desperately for her to fight other battles, kill other men. He doesn’t want to die.

Sasha stops, a few feet away from a large boulder peeking out of the snow. She doubled back and checked her tail multiple times to make sure she wasn’t being followed, but giving away the position of her infantry would certainly be fatal, so she scans the area one more time. Satisfied that she is truly alone, Sasha walks forward, leaning one arm casually on the protruding boulder. Pushing her scarf away from her mouth, she painfully purses her cracked lips and whistles three notes. Slightly off-key, the sound curls away into the afternoon for several seconds until another three answers them. Her spotter stands to attention, leveling his figure slowly out of the snow, and then shaking himself like a dog. “The commissar will want to see you now.” He says, sounding slightly miffed. She knew that he’s unhappy to have been left behind at the army base while she went to scout on German troops. Sasha is sorry to disappoint him, but doesn’t regret going out on her own. Despite her prowess as a sniper, and fame even within her enemies’ camps, she hardly ever gets to accomplish anything alone. Instead, her spotter is always tagging along, like a nanny or a babysitter. As if she even needs a spotter, she can see an enemy uniform as well as any man, it isn’t that difficult.

“I know.” She says, and the words come out tired and soft. None of them has had much sleep since the offensive against Germany started. The press calls this The Great Patriotic War. A very big title, to be sure. Sasha doesn’t know much about what the rest of the ‘patriots’ are going through, and she doesn’t care. The entire world exists for her through the eye of a scope. Even the landscape of her dreams is not exempt from this. What little sleep she gets is consumed with warped memories, binding all the nightmarish traits of reality with the heightened awareness of the subconscious, and always down the sight a rifle. Her mind flinches at the sound of a gunshot ringing in her ears, the images eclipsing reality. Her husband, the letter came from the war office, then the dreams had started. The leaders didn’t sugarcoat anything, they said he was a deserter, killed by firing squad. She didn’t want to believe it, she didn’t believe it, but there it was on the page. Killed by firing squad, the blocking detachment, the section of the army who dealt with traitors.

Traitor. The word hangs in her mind, the meaning not fully comprehensible. The blocking detachment deals with traitors, this is all they do, a group of soldiers assembled by The Commissar himself for that singular purpose.

Her husband, off in the distance, detached from her now, had been fighting other battles, killing other men, and was killed by other Russians. Sasha shivers, the motion bringing her back to reality. Her spotter has sunk back into the snow to keep warm. She has to report to The Commissar.

Hans stomps his feet, trying to get some feeling back into them. The worn, soggy souls of his boots do little to protect him, but they’re better than nothing. He’s seen too many nine-toed men to risk taking off his shoes in this weather. Evening sets in slowly, each day passing by at such length, so as to prolong their suffering. The wind is beginning to pick up, flurries of snow dance between the soldiers as they make camp for the night. It is his turn to take watch, and so it seems as if his day is getting longer still. As he stands there, damp and freezing, Hans longs for the big, open fireplaces of his house back in Germany. His childhood home. As a young boy his parents would light huge open flames, almost bonfires, in the wintertime to keep the house warm. It’s old, and creaky, and out in the middle of the countryside. Passed down to his parents as a wedding gift, Hans loved living there. Running through its big empty halls, hiding in all the tiny places, sliding down the banisters. It was absolute heaven for a young boy. That was until his mother died. Then he started seeing things, frightening things, around the house. Images, forms of her, only warped and twisted. Like memories gone bad, or a soul which had soured. He hated the house, hated how every room or noise would conjure a memory of her, a memory which would scare him, chase him, hunt him until his throat went raw from screaming her name, screaming for somebody to please help him. He told this to a friend once, a person who he now can’t put a name or face to, but Hans still remembers exactly what he said. The friend said that he was being haunted – haunted by a wraith.

Sasha thought she was cured. She thought that being on the frontlines fighting had cured her, or would cure her, of this fear. This overwhelming panic that had begun to consume her, eat away at her center. In fairness it worked for a while. The cold, the adrenaline, and the pain came to the forefront of her mind, pushing all other thoughts promptly aside. But the fear is back, pounding at her rib cage with every heartbeat, and for obvious reasons. The commissar was happy with her report. Well, about as happy as he could be considering he doesn’t like her very much (the traditionalists never do), but the problem is with what came after, this is what made the fear once again most prominent. It’s bad enough that, despite her having more than proven herself on her own, Sasha is once again assigned to a mission with her spotter, but she is also assigned to the blocking detachment, effective immediately and until further notice. They appear to be short-staffed, and this is a fairly simple mission anyway. This situation not usual, or anything she would ever do by choice, but orders are orders are orders. She gets orders, she follows them, that’s the way it works. Apparently a sergeant in their infantry has deserted, he was last seen heading to join the German encampment. Sasha, along with her spotter, is now supposed to hunt this man down, and kill him.

Hans stares into the darkness. He’s not sure, but he thinks he sees movement in the distance up ahead. Night has fallen, the cold increasing exponentially. The snow still dances in the wind, and he blinks slightly into the dark before looking away – it would do him no good staring at shadows. But then no, he’s sure he heard something there. Yes, definitely somebody shouting into the wind. What were they saying?

“Don’t shoot. Please don’t shoot.” The sergeant forgoes his panicked sprinting for sobbing. They almost gave up hope of finding him in the dark, before stumbling upon his fleeing form. Only a few feet from the German camp, Sasha worries the soldiers will hear him. Her spotter stands off to one side being useless, and she is there, in perfect sight of the sergeant, swinging her rifle over her shoulder and into the ready position. She looks down the sight. The sergeant’s final pleas die down as he closes his eyes “Please…please…”

Hans jogs forwards quickly, as he gets within sight of the sobbing man he flattens himself to the ground and crawls forward, a rifle in his hands. He stays motionless just behind the man, as he sees two figures a couple of meters away. One is standing off to one side, looking away. The other – Hans stifles a gasp. The other is holding a rifle, but that’s not all. Despite the multiple layers of heavy winter gear, it is fairly clear. This is The Wraith.

Time slows to a sickening crawl as Sasha looks down the sight of her rifle. This is all too similar to her dream, to her nightmare. Maybe this is a nightmare, she thinks idly. Her mind’s wandering, scattered. She should pull the trigger, has she taken too long already? How much time has passed? The man still hasn’t moved from her sight, tears are streaming down his face out of closed eyelids, she can see them crystallizing, freezing as frost on his face. “Right between the eyes.” Who said that? It’s a memory. Her father, from when she first took up shooting, “Right between the eyes, that’s where you want to aim for,” It was a warm summers day outside of their house, she was holding the rifle awkwardly in her arms, she could feel the sweat accumulating on the tips of her fingers, making the trigger slip slightly. The straw face of a dummy stared accusingly back at her “Just pull the trigger Sasha.”

Hans crawls slightly closer on his stomach. The man in front of him has seized up now, waiting for his executioner to shoot. Hans is close enough to touch him, but he only has attention for one person, the object of his fear for so long, The Wraith. He lifts his head slightly, propping his chin up with the butt of his gun as he stares.

“Just pull the trigger,” Sasha thinks desperately to her fingers, but they won’t act. Paralyzed in inertia she stands there, as her thoughts flow to their inevitable destination, her dream, her nightmare. The sergeant’s face becomes another, much more familiar face, who also pleads for his life. Killed by a sniper, branded a deserter, her husband stands before her in fear. She can see every line of his face through the sight of her rifle.

“Just pull the trigger Sasha,” Her father says in one corner of her mind “Right between the eyes, that’s where you want to aim for.” But she can’t, she can’t. And then suddenly, inexplicably, as if a weight has been lifted, she can. She puts the pressure on her index finger, but not before swinging the barrel just slightly. The sergeant, reacting on instinct alone, turns and runs the last remaining yards into the enemy camp, as her spotter curses behind her.

“What was that?” He asks furiously, the shot went wide, slicing into the darkness just behind the sergeant. Sasha doesn’t respond, she just stands there, staring through the sight of her rifle. She takes a few long steps forward, hardly knowing whether what she sees is real or just another messed up daydream.

There’s a German soldier lying limply in the snow in front of her, with a bullet between his eyes.

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Hazel Kevlihan is an Irish-American writer with a strong interest in World War 2. She enjoys exploring different perspectives throughout history and researching for her next project.

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Historical Fiction, According to The Copperfield Review

By Meredith Allard

What is historical fiction? As the executive editor of a literary journal of historical fiction, I get asked this question a lot. Part of the problem with trying to define historical fiction is that there are as many definitions of historical fiction as there are people who write and read it. That is a good thing because it means that there is no right way to write historical fiction.

However, since The Copperfield Review is a journal of historical fiction, there are a few elements of the genre we look for when we’re considering submissions. If you’re looking to publish your historical fiction or poetry with The Copperfield Review, you might want to take these ideas into consideration before you send off your submission.

  1. First of all, make sure your submission is actually historical in nature. We receive so many submissions from authors who blindly send off submissions without realizing that The Copperfield Review is a journal of historical fiction. If your story is set in the present day or has no recognizable historical period, save yourself the unnecessary rejection letter and send your submission elsewhere.
  2. Be sure that your fiction or poetry submission is clearly set during an historical period. We’ve received many submissions that name a date at the top (1872, for example) but then there are no historical details within the story itself that help us place the story in that year. When we read historical fiction here at The Copperfield Review, we look for historical details that could have only come from that era. Typing an historical year at the top of a submission but not bringing that year to life through vivid details is not a submission that will appeal to us.
  3. Be aware of dialogue. Wordy, unnecessary dialogue is a frequent problem we see in submissions. When we’re writing historical fiction, it isn’t necessary to try to perfectly mimic the way people spoke during whatever era you’re writing about. You want your dialogue to reflect elements of the era but at the same time it needs to be readable to 21st century readers.
  4. Also, beware of writing in dialect. We see this a lot in the Old West or World War II stories sent our way. This is strictly my own taste, but I find having to decipher dialogue written in dialect a pain. My main man, Dickens, wrote a lot of his dialogue in dialect, and I don’t like reading his dialect any more than I like reading it from anyone else. Try to find the rhythm, the cadence of the speech patterns without making the dialect read like a puzzle. If you’re looking for examples of how to write historical dialogue, there are some wonderful historical novelists out there who do it very well. Look around for some examples written about the era in which your story is set.
  5. Again, this is strictly personal taste, but we are not overwhelmed by pieces that claim to be historical fiction but are really present day stories with someone having a memory about the past. We’ve been getting a lot of submissions like this lately. Really, they’re present day stories, but one character, probably someone older, has a memory about something that happened in 1962, and then it goes back to being a present day story. Other journals may love such stories, but here at Copperfield, where we’re looking for historical fiction, this type of memory piece is not likely to work for us.
  6. Keep in mind that we receive many submissions set during World War II, the Old West, and the American Civil War. These are fascinating historical subjects, but because we receive so many submissions set during these eras we’re unable to publish too many of these stories. Sometimes a submission will catch our attention and be published for no other reason than it’s set during a time we haven’t published before. This is where becoming familiar with the journal you want to be published in can come in handy.

Remember that these are just our thoughts at Copperfield. If you go back through our archives, you’re likely to find stories that don’t meet all of the above criteria; however, for the most part these are the criteria we use to determine if a piece is something we’d like to include in our journal of historical fiction. The point is to make sure that the work you send us is clearly historical in nature through events, characters (real or imagined), dress, dialogue, and descriptions. If your submission seems like it could take place anywhere at any time, it’s probably not right for us.

There are literary journals that publish various types of stories, so just because something isn’t for us there’s likely another journal that will love it. Keep on keepin’ on. Continue sending out your work until you find the right home for it.

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Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review. Visit her online at www.meredithallard.com.

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Eve Brackenbury

Forgive Me, Mother. My Heart is Blue.

 

My Dearest Mother, forgive me,

for today I stood before God

and swore loyalty to mine enemy.

My sons and husband are dead,

and I am asked to bury my hatred.

I have done so and I have begged

that I might return home to you.

 

Forgive me, Mother,

my heart has turned cold and Blue.

What was not burned has been picked at

by packs of wild dogs. Full of mange,

full of rage and madness, they took over

looting  after Ewing’s dogs left.

And now these dreaded dogs,

they plunder our fields for bones.

 

The murderous rage of those bent on abolishing

all we had has taken all from me!

 

I returned to what has been called a vast cemetery.

It seems to me a generous assessment,

for even our graves were turned out.

Snow and ash cover what few stones remain,

a Grey reminder. And in that respect,

a vast cemetery indeed.

 

Mother, I beg for your forgiveness,

for I buried your Bible next to your bones,

thinking you might keep it safe.

And the silver comb Father brought back

from the old country to give to his bride.

I knew not what else to do;

we were given only a fortnight to flee.

We have been punished for our honor,

most severely and without mercy.

 

Mother, forgive me if you can find it in your heart,

for I have chosen to marry a Union man.

He carries a Bible close to his breast

and has offered absolution for my sins.

His very dog he pledged to me for protection.

A silver comb, his bridal gift to me.

* * * * *

 

An historical footnote about The American Civil War’s General Order No. 11:

This poem is about a fictional woman who suffered during a very real and very devastating consequence of the Border Wars between Kansas and Missouri during the Civil War. Brig. Gen. Thomas J. Ewing, commander of the District of the Border issued the infamous General Order No. 11 on August 25th, 1863. It was in direct response to the raid on Lawrence on August 21st, 1863. In the order, Ewing banished the citizens from in the border counties—Jackson, Cass, and Bates Counties and part of Vernon County in Missouri . It was assumed the citizens, most likely so, in these counties gave support to the guerrillas. Those who swore allegiance to the Union were exempt from the order. Yet, loyal or disloyal, the citizenry suffered under a ruthless execution of revenge. Buildings and homes were burned, livestock and possessions were taken, people were murdered even while trying to evacuate and follow the order. Many buried what possessions they couldn’t take with them and later returned to find them dug up and burned. The land was completely desecrated. The area became a wasteland. It is estimated that 25,000 people were displaced.  In January of 1864, those who swore loyalty to the Union were allowed to return. Two years later, a minister named George Miller returned to the area and noted, “For miles and miles we saw nothing but lone chimneys. It seemed like a vast cemetery — not a living thing to break the silence … Man no longer existed here.”

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Eve Brackenbury, Missouri bookseller, poet, and history interpreter. Author of A Companion of Lesser Brilliance(with Paul McGlamery), The Lennox Garden: Pressed Between Pages (with Phillip King), and Shadowed Grounds: Poems. Also, published in two weighty anthologies, and a smattering of journals, etc. Although much of her work is found in print, she prefers spending time with her audience. She’s a frequent guest and host for poetry readings and public speaking engagements.

“Forgive Me, Mother. My Heart is Blue” was originally written for the Blue Springs Historical Society, and performed for a 2013 commemoration of the 150th anniversary of General Order No. 11. It is published in Shadowed Grounds: Poems, a self-published chapbook.

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The Song of Achilles

Written by Madeline Miller

Published by HarperCollins Publishers

Review by Meredith Allard

 

This is simply an outstanding piece of literature. Miller’s simple yet lyrical style pulls you effortlessly into the poetry of the Iliad. Here we focus on Achilles through the eyes of Patroclus, the young prince who is banished from his land for accidentally killing another boy and he is taken as a companion for Achilles. Patroclus and Achilles become partners in every way, and the Song of Achilles is really a love song between the two men. This isn’t simply an attraction between Patroclus and Achilles. This is a deep, abiding love that transcends death.

If you’re familiar with the Iliad (which you do not need to be to enjoy this book), then there are few surprises here except perhaps for the scope of the relationship between Achilles and Patroclus. There is no twist-filled ending here: the fate of the two men has been sung about throughout the ages. Still, Miller ends this tale in a way that is perfectly heartbreaking, but in a good way. Despite war, broken promises, and the loss of all one holds most dear, there can be peace in the end.

This is not a retelling of the entire story of the Iliad. This is one version of one story as told through the eyes of the man who knew Achilles best. I’m looking forward to reading more from Madeline Miller.

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Meredith Allard is the Executive Editor of The Copperfield Review. Visit her online at www.meredithallard.com.

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The Poet’s Wife; The Mistress’ Sister

By Gina M. Bright

León, Spain 1387

So this is how it ends. The body stops working long before the mind. There is much time to think, indeed. At least I have time to write—well, in between the cramping and letting go. The black liquid comes pouring out and soils my bed now more often than filling my chamber pot.

I wish Geoffrey were here. I have my son though. When John gathered his men for this action to be taken in Spain, Thomas did not have much of a choice in going, nor did I. My son has served John of Gaunt, the Duke of Lancaster, for many years now. And not because John is his father, a loathsome rumor spread by those who cannot accept my sister’s position in his bed.

Katherine never could escape the will of her heart. When we were girls back home in Hainault she took in every little kitten found wandering in our garden. She fell in love with John the first time she saw him look at his wife, Blanche. By my faith, angels must have swathed her in their light. Blanche’s beauty did not belong to this world. Perchance Katherine found celestial comfort through John’s adoration of Blanche. She has always been faithful to our Creator. Or perchance Katherine could not resist John’s Plantagenet charms, his solid stature and stormy eyes.

When Blanche was plucked from this world by the dreaded pestilence, they at least waited some time to fulfill their mutual desire. Unfortunately, their secret union happened just as Katherine’s husband, Hugh, perished in France serving our Black Prince and John was betrothed to Constance, the Castilian beauty I have served ever since John brought her to England as the second Duchess of Lancaster.

John was always seeking power and what better way to get it than to marry one of the daughters of the recently slain King of Castile, Pedro the Cruel. Alas, the gallant Gaunt did not assume that title then or now. His ambition though is the reason we are here in León and I am dying from dysentery, along with many of his own soldiers.

I regret that I cannot serve my Duchess Constance. She has her ladies, certainly, but she needs me. She has always felt as long as I tend to her, my sister cannot move too close to John. It is no wonder Constance was so worried when I spent a few years with Katherine at her Kettlethorpe manor almost ten years past. My husband was away once again and Katherine needed me.

Katherine missed John to the brink of madness. When he did visit, their nightly cries of ecstasy spilled over into the light. But then he was gone again and Katherine retreated to her chamber for days without any sustenance.

And my poor Duchess! I could just see her at Hertford, her beloved castle, sipping wine through her sighs of despair as her ladies tried to comfort her during John’s absences. At least her quarters there contained the largest hearth that always managed to defeat our English dampness that she hated so much.

I took the time I had to myself at Kettlethorpe to write, not something that is becoming to a lady in waiting to the Duchess of Lancaster, nor to the wife of a poet with a bit of fame. John so admires Geoffrey’s work and rewarded him with his Aldgate apartment in London. It provides a quiet space for his craft.

John had begged him to write something, anything, to relieve his great sorrow after Blanche died. The Book of the Duchess was the result of a few years’ labor written during his visits to France and Italy for our old King Edward. Geoffrey shared those woeful words with me before he gave them to Gaunt.

“Dear Philippa,” he said through my tears, “your response means more to me than John’s and even the court’s. You know what it is to write.”

Indeed I do but only Geoffrey knows my work. For the world thinks women are not fit for writing. We are creatures, so they say, with humors not in balance. Perchance another age will see us otherwise, as my dear husband does.

Before my long visit to Kettlethorpe, I spent time with my husband in his apartment above Aldgate where the rabble entered the city during our Great Revolt six years past. Geoffrey said it was thrilling to watch so many commoners march into London to get some justice. What they did to our city, though, perhaps shifted the scales in the other direction. I wish I could have seen them though.

Geoffrey had collected nearly sixty books for his library there. I visited Aldgate as much as I could and spent hours turning the leaves of parchment. I found a story by one of our French writers, Chrétien de Troyes, who I think got it from the Roman poet, Ovid. I was so moved by this tale of two sisters I could not return the book to the shelf.

Philomena and Progne were separated when Progne married a lord who took her to a land far away from Greece. As the years passed, Progne asked her husband to bring her sister to her so she could see her once again. Alas, lust reigned in this lord’s heart when he returned with Philomena. He placed her in a cave and robbed her of her purity. He could not silence her screams and so he cut out her tongue.

What was to be done with her now? This brutal man kept her in one of his castles. Certainly she would be safe from the world there. Philomena did not want for anything in her prison, including a loom and thread. Day after day she weaved the words of her story into a large piece of cloth. One of the servants took pity on her and fulfilled her request to deliver the tapestry to her sister. When Progne read the words in the cloth, she left for the castle and was reunited in sorrow with her dear sister.

I carried this story with me to Kettlethorpe and felt compelled to write it in my native tongue. Philomena’s story spoke to me. My own sister has been mistreated by a very powerful lord. John displayed her as his mistress that one Spring a few years past at his Leicestershire estate. Thank goodness my Duchess Constance was not there when John led Katherine’s horse by the bridle for everyone to see. Evermore, my sister has been called “whore.” Evermore, John continues to be called “duke” or “my lord.”

My tongue has not been severed but I cannot speak out loud about their affair. The customs of the nobility silence me since I am lower in status. Yet I write about these matters now, just like Philomena did, as I lay dying in León.

Geoffrey was so pleased with my Philomena poem he included it in his present work, The Legend of Good Women. It’s a shame really that people would scoff at my poem if it bears my name. I will be pleased though if people admire it as one of Geoffrey Chaucer’s own.

Perchance the Duchess will be pleased with this “legend” when she hears it because Philomena gets her revenge, after all, on the lord who befouled her. Heaven knows Constance has endured a good deal of abuse from the Duke, but never in public.

I remember that magnificent dinner for the boy king’s soon to be new wife at the Savoy in April of 1381. It was the last one there for the palace was destroyed by the rebels in June of that year. No more Gascony wine flowing from the spigots and no more shrimp, eels, or bream served to perfection at that feast!

John of Gaunt was the host that night for Anne of Bohemia, her family, so many courtiers, and King Richard himself. And Constance was the hostess, the respected Duchess of Lancaster, and John’s adored wife. John always made sure Constance was treated that way at this event and all others. But when the Duchess was not in the court’s eye, she was not in John’s either.

The truth of the matter is Constance despised the Savoy because she knew Katherine spent most of her time there. John always ordered the servants to move my sister’s belongings before his wife arrived. Gaunt’s bedroom had two cabinets of clothing and Constance always placed her garments in the smaller one. After she arrived for the Bohemian event, she looked in her cabinet for just the right bejeweled tunic to wear. In there, she spotted an emerald one with a weasel collar, far too small for my Duchess’ curved Spanish body. The servant who removed Katherine’s garments was a bit too hasty in her work.

Constance at once commanded all of her ladies to move her to another room. The next day she returned to Hertford Castle. But she felt compelled to leave there after a few months when she got word that the Savoy had been burnt to the ground. Her reply to the messenger had a feigned sense of concern for my sister.

“Dios mío! Espero que la puta fugado.” I had learned enough Spanish in my service with her to translate thus, “My God! I hope the whore escaped.”

I prayed Katherine did. Thinking of her perishing in the flames made my skin feel hot all over. Fear then set into my Duchess’ heart after she expressed her hopes for my sister. She asked to move the household far away from these troubles in London and, as we heard, in the nearby counties of Essex and Kent. And so we set off for John’s Pontefract Castle, quite a bit north in Yorkshire.

After several days’ journey, we arrived there near eventide, thank goodness because Constance did not have good vision at dusk. Constance took the candlelight she saw within as a good sign the servants were ready for us. I knew though that they were serving my sister. I could see Katherine’s favorite destrier in the stable. Troilus’ blue-black hue and that gold and blue ribbon, Plantagenet colors, she always tied around his tail were not to be mistaken as anyone else’s horse.

My lady was impatient to enter the castle. I told her I would declare our arrival and return at once. The servant who opened the door revealed my sister had arrived with haste two nights ago after the Duke gave her word from Scotland to flee London because of the rebels who hated him so. Thank goodness she received his order before the rebels made it to the Savoy.

Now what to tell my Duchess with my sister safe inside? The servant said we should travel even farther north to the vacant Knaresborough Castle, another night’s journey.

“My dear Duchess,” I said with the utmost sadness when I returned, “there are no proper provisions for our stay here. There is no meat to be had and no wine. The rebel army has hindered the arrival of many goods.”

“No vino! Dios mío,” she replied. And then with tears in her eyes she asked where we would go. I explained we could travel a bit farther north to one of her husband’s other castles arriving at day’s break.

Our journey here to León now was much less difficult for my lady. She did not want for anything with her husband by her side. John filled one carriage with wine and another one with cheeses, meat, and fish, if we were close to the coast.

Before I contracted this malady and became chained to my chamber pot, I got to see my Duchess experience some joy with John, as he did with her. Constance was ready to give birth. The castle was filled with anticipation for the baby boy’s arrival. John and Constance loved their young girl, Catalina, but they just knew they were having a son who would maintain the Castilian line.

I labored hard with my Duchess. I applied cool cloths to her brow and told her when to push. A beautiful boy entered the world, but only to take two little breaths. Then he was gone. Constance never seems to hold onto happiness for very long.

I cannot hold onto much of anything at the present time. My son, Thomas, visits me daily and brings me water and small plates of cheeses and fruit. None of it stays with me though.

I miss our home in Rotherhithe. How glorious to step into our garden with the fierce Thames felt in the morning air. There’s something about living on the water that makes me feel like I too am always going somewhere. We moved into that home after Geoffrey became Justice of the Peace for Kent. The pay is not worth the effort it takes to sit in the session court issuing fines, hearing pleas and what not, but it gives him much time to write.

He has begun work on a simply wonderful idea. Geoffrey met the Italian poet Boccaccio when he visited his country many years ago. Boccaccio’s book of tales told by nobles who escape the pestilence in Florence inspired my Geoffrey to create his own book. But Geoffrey will have stories told by people from every station in life as they travel from London to Canterbury to honor our slain saint, Thomas Becket.

He has set himself quite the task! Geoffrey wants me to write the tales told by the women on the journey, but I do not think this undertaking will come to pass. I barely have the strength to move from my bed to my chamber pot. When Thomas comes to visit me tomorrow, I will give him what I have written here, and this last letter to my dear husband.

Dear Geoffrey,

My father warned me when I met you in the Countess of Ulster’s household—you a page to Edward III’s second oldest son and me a personal demoiselle to his wife—about my happiness being compromised by someone lower than me in status. I knew you were the son of vinters, but your mind, your view of the world, and your love of books drew me to you. I knew no one else would have satisfied me as you have done for a lifetime.

I have never wanted for nice food, wine, or tunics. I have never wanted for children. Our three have been a blessing and no mum could be prouder. I have never wanted for a husband who treats my sister as his own in spite of her transgressions.

My dearest husband, you have never failed to respect me as your equal and encourage my own habit of writing in spite of my sex.

I so wish I could see you one last time for some more talk and a read together, but my passage through this world has sped up quite a bit. I have been forced into a lane going elsewhere. I pray it is a good place. Please make your tales one for the ages, Geoffrey Chaucer.

I love you so,

Philippa

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Gina M. Bright has a doctorate in medieval English literature from Lehigh University. She has worked as a registered nurse for more than 30 years, primarily in the fields of AIDS and oncology. Her first book, Plague-Making and the AIDS Epidemic: A Story of Discrimination (Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), reflects her passion for caring for underserved populations and for research and writing. 1381: The Forgotten Revolt is her first novel and was a 2016 First Place Category Winner (Dark Ages, Medieval, Renaissance) in the Chaucer Awards for Pre-1750 Historical Fiction sponsored by Chanticleer Book Reviews.

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