The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 16

For an hour or more, he sat on the wall of the Pont d’Artigues, staring down at his feet and the River Os below.  Green fronds of lily floated in patterns on its silted surface.  Black dragonflies flitted across the reflecting water, occasionally landing on some flower head.  A group of barefoot children passed across the bridge behind him.  ‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ they said politely.  But when he didn’t reply, they collapsed into furtive giggles, collecting their louder outbursts in cupped hands.

Julian was fascinated by the darting insects.  They were what they were.  He wasn’t so simple.  His mind swirled in little whirlpools, deep and opaque, in an effort to understand.  His stomach churned, his whole body ached, his fingertips and toes were in constant pain from the curling of his claw-like nails.  His skin didn’t feel like his own.

He inhaled the scented air, closed his eyes and slowly slid forwards into the river.  Toppled like a rotten fruit from a tree.  The passing children couldn’t say if he fell or jumped, but they immediately called for help.  They caught the attention of some approaching pilgrims, who abandoned their sacks and walking sticks, clambered down the bank, and hauled the young man free of the entangling river weed.

 It had taken some time for Holger and Birgitta to realise their son was missing.  By the time they had retraced the grooves and furrows of their caravan wheels and reached the bridge, they found their son huddled on the bank.  His rescuers had tried to remove some of the mud and weed from his face, but he had coiled up in a ball, his hands covering his face.  The pilgrims stood in a circle round him, not knowing what further help to give.

Julian felt no gratitude towards them.  He found it difficult to speak.  He had already forgotten why they were there.  He had one thought and that was to hide the scales that were covering more and more of his face.   

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 15

‘All right,’ said Clarice.  Julian felt the stab in his ribs and watched them out of the corner of his eye but didn’t move.  ‘Go up to the bars, Ysabel.  Go on.  I dare you.’

‘You too, Clarice.’

Cautiously, they drew closer and closer.  ‘What kind of man lives in a cage?’ said Clarice and they took turns with the stick.  ‘Put your hand in, Ysabel.’

‘Only if you will.’

‘Leave him alone,’ said some passing stranger.

But they carried on.  Abuse rolled off their tongues as they continued to torment him with their prodding.  ‘Monster.  He’s a brute.  A beast.  An ugly, oversized toad.  Look at his skin.  Like a slimy creature.  He’s a fiend from Hell.  An ugly, dirty…’  That was the moment Julian grabbed both their hands, pulled them hard up against the bars, then got them by the necks.  The breath had almost left them before he let them slump to the ground.  He stretched his shoulders, turned his head from side to side, clicking the joints in his neck and sat down again, the entire episode already beginning to fade in his memory.  The girls scrambled to their feet, stumbled and staggered home in shock.

There were different accounts from witnesses of the incident, but the family trundled out of town, the father of the girls hurling abuse and rocks after them.

Larressingle had been a happy place.  Pilgrims on their way to Santiago passed through, warmed by the sun, freely picking fruit from the wild apricot and peaches trees, and waving to the harvesters, bent-backed, their scythes sweeping back and forth like clockwork.  Despite his state of confusion, Julian was drawn to it.  As the caravan pulled out of sight of the castle and out of earshot of the villagers, Julian took hold of the bars of his cage and wrenched them apart.  As they crossed the river, he slipped out of the back of the caravan.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 14

‘Look at all those people,’ said Birgitta, optimistic as always.  ‘We can make some money here.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Holger.  ‘But is he ready?  Is he to be trusted?’

Julian wasn’t entirely sure what was happening to him in his drowsy, drugged state when they threw a blanket over his green dragon costume, consisting of fronds of fern tied to his arms, loops of viridian silk suggesting scales, a long, arrowhead tail and a carved, wooden dragon mask.  Nonetheless, once he reached the well, he got the general idea.  If anyone had noticed the three figures by the well, then turned and blinked, they would have been bewildered by the sudden disappearance of one of them.

The assembled crowd roared with laughter and applauded enthusiastically as the sun began to set, casting long shadows in the footsteps of Birgitta and Holger playing different roles: an old hobbling woman and a young maiden, an idiot boy and a dunderhead farmer, all trying to collect water from the well.  Two girls, Clarice and Ysabel, sat through the whole performance with their mouths wide open, shivered with anticipation when the booming roars of the dragon echoed inside the well, and almost fainted with relief when they saw the quaint costume.  Their sides ached with laughter when the knight was chased away by the dragon, who carried a bucket of water home, arm in arm with the fair maiden.

Unfortunately, their interest in the performance didn’t end there.  When Birgitta slipped the collar and chain over Julian’s head and led him to his cage, Clarice and Ysabel’s curiosity was not far behind.  They ran alongside at a safe distance.  Threw stones and veered past striking Julian with sticks.  Julian scowled but did nothing.

In the middle of the night, they crept from their houses down to the encampment of travelling entertainers, to the Dragonboy’s tent.   They found Julian in his cage, leaning forward, sitting on his small bench unable to sleep.  The mask, the tail, the looping ribbons of silk and the ferns cast to one side.  Without them, he was just a disturbed young man.  Too many pictures battling for supremacy, whirling around inside his head. 

‘Fetch a stick,’ whispered Ysabel.  ‘Poke him.’

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 13

Over the days that passed, he became more morose.  Sometimes the medicine made him too sluggish to take part in their performances.  Some mornings he would smile wistfully at his mother when she passed a cup of goat’s milk between the bars.  Other times, he would knock it flying out of her hand, taking some of her skin with it.  He spoke very little, his tongue having been charred so much by the fire-breathing.  he had a sickly, pale greenish tinge to his skin, bloodshot eyes and a weary, slack jaw.  He was becoming more and more unpredictable as the reptilian part of his brain gained increasing dominance over the human part.

‘We must travel west and north,’ said Holger.  ‘Through Gascony and further north.  We can make our way to England.  Maybe there, we can leave the past behind.’

It was in Larressingle, however, that trouble caught up with them.

They had joined jugglers and clowns, musicians and poets inside the castle wall of new yellow stone.  They pitched their tents – one for Julian and one in which Holger and Birgitta got dressed for the parts they were to play.  An old tale, much loved, about a dragon that prevented villagers from drawing water from the well.  Holger and Birgitta had taken a walk round the area.  It was warm, welcoming place, full of smiles and friendly people.  They noticed a sturdy fig tree that might be used in their act.  Also, a well, entwined with blackberries – the perfect setting.  Opposite the saddlery, there was a low wall and, in sheltered corners, the tall stems of hollyhocks swayed gently in the south-western breeze.  One of the prettiest places they’d ever come across.  

What could possibly go wrong?

A Grammar Guide for Year 3

I've just finished the final draft of this teacher's resource.  Should be out next year.  I'll give myself a little break, spend some time on my fiction writing, before starting on the next one for Year 4.  I've really enjoyed the planning and writing of it, as well as getting down to some illustration again.  Here's a taster of my illustrations - The Grammar Troll:

No Broadband!

For the last two or three weeks we've had no broadband.  Phone cables in the area have to be replaced.  We got a dongle but it worked only on a clear day when I leaned out of the upstairs front window with my partner hanging onto my legs.  It's still not sorted.  Somehow, by some esoteric means, I have rigged something up.  Can't tell you what it is.  Hush, hush!  I hope to get back to blogging, once I've waded through over 900 emails.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 12

Birgitta blanched at the connection being made between her name and Durnstein.  Mistress Rimbaud shook her head and placed a reassuring hand on Birgitta’s arm.  ‘This tea is for you.  But you want something for your son.  I have seen him acting in the square.  The fire, the painted face, the dragon scales – not all actors’ props.’

Birgitta hung her head.  ‘What can we do?’   ‘We don’t have much money.’

The old woman looked Birgitta straight in the eye.  ‘The cheapest solution…’  She paused, turned her back, rearranged some of the potions on her table, and went over to a chest.  She took out something wrapped tightly in waxed linen and place it in Birgitta’s hands. 

‘No!’ cried Birgitta.  Although the object was completely covered, its weight and shape was unmistakable.

‘No ordinary knife,’ said Mistress Rimbaud.  ‘Something special.’  Birgitta shook her head.  ‘Before it’s too late?’

‘My son,’ said Birgitta, pleading desperately.  The old woman nodded thoughtfully, spat on the floor and replaced the knife in its chest.

‘I have something that will help.  For a while.  Mandragora root, wild garlic, valerian, nightshade.  I will show you how it is prepared.  Then you can make your own.’  Birgitta fell to her knees, sobbing into the old woman’s skirts.  ‘What your son suffers from can only be cured by the grave.  In the meantime, this will help to keep him calm.  Help him to sleep.’

Holger was angry when he heard what Mistress Rimbaud had said.  He slapped his forehead in frustration.  ‘We have been so careful.  How has the news reached here?  Hundreds of miles, months on the road.  How can people know about our son before we even arrive?  People and their stories.  I expect they have you riding a broomstick and me shaking hands with the Devil.’

Julian opened the door of his cage and stepped inside.  

Badgers

If you want to know more about the badgers story, how I camped out all night to get background information, and slowly but surely began to feed them by hand, let me know.

Badgers

Just managed to finish a story for children about badgers: 13500 words in 8 days.  Very good for me.  I wouldn't say 'it wrote itself.'  If it had, my RSI wouldn't be acting up.  But everything fell into place very easily.  Just need to find someone to take it now.
Ten days was all I allowed myself between finishing the draft of the new grammar book and working on amendments and changes.  Must get on with that now.  It's not a trial.  I am enjoying the writing, as well as an opportunity to do some illustrating after a long time away from it - apart from drawing animals on the school whiteboard.

Apologies

Apologies to everyone for neglecting my posts.  I've been working on a grammar resource book for teachers of 7-8 year olds.  First draft just completed, so I hope to get back on track in the coming days.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 11

'A cage?' said Holger.  'For you?'  He shifted his feet and rearranged the fire's ember with the end of a stick.  Birgitta pushed her knuckles into her mouth and sobbed quietly.  Julian placed his hand over hers.  There was no mistake.  A pattern like the scales of a snake had formed on the back of his hand.

'Julian,' she said, lifting his hand up to her lips.  'You are our son.'

'Make me a cage.  Soon I won't be able to ask.  And find something.  Some berries, leaves or root - some mixture to help me keep these impulses under control.  The pictures in my head, the iron in my muscles and bones, the serpent in my heart.'

They trailed through the night across the red earth of the Luberon, and, in the little French town of Cucurun, Holger found a blacksmith.  Curiosity accompanied every clang of his hammer.  'Do you have a dancing bear, Monsieur?  This would contain a very strong animal.  Yes?  Or perhaps contain some valuable treasure?  Lots of treasure.  A prisoner perhaps?'  Holger gave nothing away, though none of his questions were far from the truth.

In a different part of the town, Birgitta was directed to Mistress Rimbaud, who made her own medicines for women in childbirth, old men who couldn't sit comfortably on their backsides, and children whose cough foretold imminent death.  She was paid well for her potions.  Advice, on the other hand, was handed out freely in exchange for gossip.  When Birgitta eventually found the bolted door down a dark, narrow alleyway, she was invited in by a suspicious old creature, bent almost double, shrouded in long, silver hair that touched the hardened-earth floor.

'You are one of the troop who arrived before dawn,' she said, removing from her mouth some vine leaves she had been chewing.  She didn't spit them out; instead, she wrapped them in a fig leaf, added a drop of pale yellow liquid, tied it with grass, and placed the parcel carefully among the myriads of bottles, ramikins and packages on a round, marble table.

'Yes, Mistress, I've come...'

'I know why you've come, Birgitta of Durnstein.'

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 10

The purse bulged with gold.  Holger was mesmerised by the way the rim of one of the coins peeked out above the drawstring closure.  As he imagined the weight of it in his hand, his heart pounded.  Like a drumbeat so loud he wondered that no one was alerted to his intentions.  No more thinking.  The gentleman blinked and the purse was gone.  A second later, Holger was standing in front of the entire assembly, rescuing the fair maiden from the terrifying monster to great applause, when the cry, 'Thief!' went up.  'I've been robbed!  There is a thief amongst us!'

The confusion was useful.  Not only was Holger's alibi secure, but there was something else.  Karl, the gypsy, had shown Julian how to take a mouthful of plum brandy and spit it out while lighting it with a tallow candle to create a fire-breathing effect when challenged by the brave knight.  It was only after they left the outskirts of the town that Holger remembered he had meant to replenish the supply of brandy.  But he'd forgotten.  The jar had been empty for the last fifty miles.  Julian could charred the bark of a tree with his own breath.  The cry of 'Thief!' had been a distraction.  No one had thought to ask the obvious question.  At least, almost no one.

This wasn't the only change in the young man.  He was becoming quick to anger, so that Birgitta had to learn how to use great diplomacy when asking him to do things.  Collect wood, mend the wheel of the caravan, water the horses.  When he wasn't raging around their overnight campsites, he looked exhausted and frequently fell into deep, dark pits of depression.

One evening, an innocent remark - 'My darling, please light a fire' - caused him to grab his mother and bellow into her face.

'Julian, light a fire.  Julian sweep out the caravan.  Julian fetch a bucket of water.  I am not your slave!'  A soon as the words left his lips he felt distressed, so sorry for his actions.  He ran off into the forest and didn't reappear until the following evening, his clothes ragged, his face, shoulders and arms a patchwork of scratches, the skin on his elbows peeling and the bones protruding.  He sat down between his parents, the colours of the blazing fire reflected in their anxious faces.  Birgitta and Holger glanced sideways at each other.  At last, Julian began to mumble.  'Make me a cage, Father.  Make it strong.'

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 9

The misshapen story - as if the truth were not bad enough - got bigger and bigger, invited Satan in, introduced him to howling blood-lipped wolves, involved witches and all manner of hideous demons, as it lumbered along from village to village.  Fortunately, the River Danube meanders through a varying landscape of dialects, and the three fugitives had been given a head start.

Passing through farms and villages, they exchanged their labour for food, doing anything and everything that was asked of them.  On the road out of Linz, however, they met a band of travelling gypsies, who entertained the crowds with their sword-swallowing, juggling and fire-breathing.  They made friends with Karl and Magdalena and spent a week with them learning the tricks of the trade.  Holger perfected his knife-throwing skills.  Birgitta saw how to dance with grace and charm, hailing the onlookers to come and watch and part with a few coins.  But Julian was the one who could leave an audience with mouths hanging open.  He could leap higher than anybody had seen before.  Scale a tree in no time. Pluck a knife out of the air, even as it flew towards his heart.  So by the time they waved goodbye to Karl and Magdalena and took to the roads of Bavaria, they had transformed themselves into performers, engaging the locals with singing, dancing and stories of brave knights and fiercesome monsters.

Things might have settled into a comfortable pattern, but for two events which changed their lives forever.

On the final day of their stay in a small, wealthy town on the border of Austria and Switzerland, Holger was walking behind the circle of onlookers attracted by Birgitta's sweet rhapsodies.  Holger stopped.  Fixed to the spot.  A pouch of coins hung from a gentleman's belt.  He looked at the owner up and down - a rich man, judging by the neatness of the periwig, the gold stitiching of his jacket, the fine cut of his breeches, the silk of his stockings and the shine on his shoes.  A man such as this, thought Holger, with so many similar pouches of gold at home, could surely live without one of them.  Birgitta's eyes darted around the audience.  She wondered why her husband was not appearing.  Black lines of paint exaggerating the shape of his eyes, and a long arrow-shaped tail trailing behind him, Julian was already drawing near, playing out the drama they had devised.

Holger couldn't take his eyes of the purse of gold.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 8

Julian took a deep breath.  He gave a muscle-tensing jerk to test the strength and commitment of his captors, but they held on, screwing their eyes shut when the oaths and curses continued to spew out of his mouth in wailings and screechings.  'Julian, your brother lizard, comes before you, is on this Earth before you, predates you, slithers on the ground before God and Satan sit down to conjure you out of water and clay.  Water and clay!  But I am the fruit of the fire!  The fiery demon!'

At last, Fra Johannes was handed the holy water.  He took the silver chalice and splashed the purifying liquid over Julian.

'I am Hellfire!' he roared and spat into the priest's right eye.  Instantly, blood dripped from his eye-socket, staining his white robes.  There was a gasp from the crowd.  The muscles in Julian's arms and neck hardened like the stone wall at his back.  He writhed and twisted, throwing his captors in every direction, hissing, and lashing out with his sharp claws at anyone who tried to retake him.  Leopold the Drunkard was a big man, but he stumbled around with lines of ripped skin across his face and chest.  Then Julian leapt over Fra Johannes.  He ran and tumbled through the vines.  He didn't look back.  If he had he would have seen that no one was in pursuit.

He skirted the banks of the Danube, past the monastery, increasing his speed until he was able to climb onto the back step of Toma's caravan.  There he clung all night, dosing until the trundling rhythm of the wooden wheels stopped and the silhouettes of Birgitta and Holger appeared, their backs to the rising sun.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 7

Birgitta and Holger drew closer.  Out of breath, they found Toma barring the way.  Toma was now a tall, well-built young man, a lifelong friend of Julian's.

'There's nothing you or anyone can do, Holger.  They are past listening.'

'Please, Toma, please!'  Birgitta's pleas almost broke his heart and his determination, for she had been like a second mother to him for as long as he could remember.

'No, Birgitta.  I'll do what I can.  Take my caravan.'  He pointed down the valley.  'The horses are hitched up.  There is some food inside.  You must go.  They will turn on you next.  You know they will.'

Julian eventually climbed down the wall.  At first, the unruly mob to a man was speechless.  He peered round at them all, a smile wrinkling under his eyes and a snake wriggling in its final death throes dangling from his mouth.  With the bright innocence of a child, he said, 'Brother snake didn't recognise a member of his own family.'

'Julian.'  Fra Johannes spoke softly, offering his open palms in sympathy and friendship.  But as soon as Julian placed the dead viper in the priest's hands, the other men, fear in their cold eyes, grabbed him roughly by the arms, shoulders and neck.  They were all too aware of his strength.  A hundred blasphemies immediately poured out of their captive's mouth in a terrifying array of demonic voices - some as deep as the black abyss of Hell; others high like the shrieking of a thousand banshees.

'The Serpent is my Protector.  Its lair in the shade is my Heaven.  Its blood is my blood.  When the sun is on my back, its skin is my skin.  I see what it sees.  We are all the servants of the Serpent.  The original One who brought man and woman together in Eden.'

The men gasped in horror and tightened their grip.  Fra Johannes crossed himself and sent a small girl running pell-mell to the monastery for a chalice of holy water.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 6

Lighting torches as they marched along the river bank to the monastery, mad Leopold the Drunkard in the lead, they pushed the heavy door aside and, from the middle of the flagstoned courtyard, called up to the priest.

'Johannes!  Your presence is needed.  Father!  Brother Johannes, we need a man of God.  Julian, the Devil's spawn of Birgitta and Holger, needs the ministry of the Lord!'

'Or else Satan!' cried another.

'Come, my friends.  It is late,' muttered Johannes, rubbing sleep from his eyes.  'Let the clear light of morning and the clear minds of day decide our actions.'  But they would have none of it.  They would deal with the young man with or without him.  Each man, he thought, might listen to reason - well, apart from Leopold, reason not being one of his strengths - but not now that they were ensnared by the wild-eyed ravings of a drunken mob.

Julian saw everything from his perch up on the Catle wall.  There was no risk of falling.  For the past few years, his fingernails had grown claw-like and lodged perfectly securely into the crannies and crevices between the stonework.  He watched, with an idle curiosity, as the mob marched up between the rows of vines, torches held high, Fra Johannes at the centre. He'd helped them all in his time, always willing to lend a hand with fetching and carrying at harvest time.  What was there to fear?  Especially with Fra Johannes there, still in his white nightgown, his cross hanging on his chest, his white beard and long hair unconstrained by his priest's cap.  He could also see, at some distance, his parents, roused by the noise, running from their home trying to make sense of the sounds of anger, so out of keeping with life in Durnstein.

At the foot of the Castle wall, Fra Johannes turned to the crowd and, staring directly into the mad eyes of Leopold, suggested that they all return to their homes, he understood the situation, and he would deal with it.  Leopold grunted his disagreement and pushed the priest aside.

'Get down here, Lizard Boy!' he snarled.  'Get your skinny backside down here!'

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 5

This was the beginning of the end.  People began to respect the old stories.  They stopped whenever Fra Johannes passed by, but he knew very well what they were talking about.  It was said that one of Julian's long-dead ancestors on his mother's side had an encounter with... remember these were very superstitious people... an encounter with a dragon.  'What are you going to do, Father?' 

To begin with, Fra Johannes just shook his head and smiled.  'What am I going to do?  Well, first of all, I'm going to see if Michael's widow needs any words of comfort.  After that, I might ask Julian if he'll help me mend a wall.  Such a strong, willing young man.'  He was a reasonable man, an educated man, and not easily put under pressure.  He believed that God had given humanity the ability to make rational judgements when called upon to do so.  He tolerated local superstitions because these were the people he lived amongst and he loved them.  And since he preached tolerance and forgiveness, he felt obliged to tolerate and forgive the wilder imaginings, myths and supernatural tales of his flock.

One night, after much drinking of beer and wine, a muttering, carousing bunch of men staggered out of the inn, glanced up at the Castle.  By the light of the full moon, they saw the dark figure of Julian.  He was stretched out against the pale stone of one of the towers.  Twenty feet off the ground.  Something they had considered to be a trick, a piece of gravity-defying acrobatics, suddenly seemed wrong, abnormal, inhuman.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 4

Childhood pranks were one thing.  But by the time he reached the age of sixteen, Julian was talked about, discussed furtively in corners, whispered about behind hands.

One evening, the inn was rowdier than usual.  No surprise.  The first barrel of wine of the season was being opened.  A small group of swaggering young men were challenging each other to the knife game.  In turn, one of them would spread out his hand on the table and stick the knife between his fingers, one space after another, building up some speed.  The rhythm - one, two, three, four - one, two, three, four - got faster and faster.  Fearing to lose face, Toma took a turn, but stopped abruptly, squealing when he nicked his thumb.

Without saying a word, Julian took the knife from him. He faced his audience.  Didn't even look at his hand or the knife. The speed was mesmerising and each stab of the blade perfectly aimed.  Until... yes, until... quite deliberately, with the usual thin smile and big round eyes, he jabbed the final thrust through the back of his hand, pinning it to the table.  There was a cry of sympathy, a groan of imagined pain on the part of his onlookers, and a rush to his side.  But Julian showed no concern.  Slowly he pulled out the knife and, quite innocently, held up the wounded hand for everyone to see.

An intake of breath and then a heavy blanket of silence, as all the drinkers at the inn watched the blood instantly dry up and the wound close.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 3

Holger kept quiet about his anxieties for some time, not even mentioning it to Birgitta.  But then Birgitta, too, was fearful and silent.  Julian understood the look of dismay that creased his father's face, the disapproving turning of his back.  So he stopped.  For a while.  After all, he was doing only what came naturally to him and he brimmed with health.  Though there was the skin that peeled from his elbows, the transparent film that grew over his eyes like a second set of eyelids, and the scaly rash that spread across the backs of his hands.  But nothing especially surprising among all the ailments of a 13th century Austrian community.  Everyone had been exposed to the Great Pimple outbreak of 1215.  As well as the spread of bloated belly a few years later at the end of the rotting turnip season.  Since being thrown into the River Danube was considered the best cure for anything and everything, Julian soon grew used to a regular soaking.

Durnstein was a quite place.  It hadn't always been so.  Forty years before, caught up in the Crusades, Durnstein Castle was known throughout Europe, and particularly in England.  For it was here that Richard the Lionheart was imprisoned on his way back from fighting in the Holy Land against Saladin.  When that period came to an end, Durnstein slowly reverted to its old ways of peace and neighbourliness.

That is, until Julian reached the age of thirteen.

'Catch the lizard, Julian!' Toma shouted, as a gang of ten or so teenagers gathered at the foot of the Castle wall.  Winters were harsh when the cold air travelled south, but the summers were warm.  Little green lizards sunned themselves on the Castle's south-facing wall, soaking up the heat.  'Catch the lizard!  Catch the lizard!'  The chant would get louder and louder.  So off Julian would scurry this way and that, fingers and toes splayed out against the stonework, finding every chink and rough edge.  Never faltering, never slipping, in defiance of gravity, as if he were glued to that wall.  He'd catch one after another, before letting them go.  The kids would sing his name, but some older people found this alarming.  Even the genial Fra Johannes looked thoughtful.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 2

On those slopes, he developed superior strength in his limbs.  At the end of a day's harvest, most grown men were ready to straighten their backs in front of a jug of ale in the inn that sat at one corner of Durnstein, directly opposite the monastery.  Julian, on the other hand, could have started on another vineyard.  And so you can imagine he became very popular.  Especially with the other children.  He had a keen eye and fast reflexes.  He could pluck two mosquitoes out of the air, long before they were aware of death lurking in his lightning grasp.  His behaviour could be mystifying.  He might sit motionless for long periods, surrounded by expectant friends willing him to entertain them, then burst into life, scale a tree in seconds and steal some pigeon eggs before the mother bird had time to blink.  He might also catch the hapless pigeon too if it were slow to flutter off and if the mood took him.

'Do the eyes, Julian,' said Toma, his best friend.  'Please do the eyes.'  Julian always obliged, sending everyone into fits of laughter.  For as he got older, the big eyes began to bulge more, making his ability to move one eye at a time, independent of the other, a trick worth seeing.  All the children would cheer when he sat bobbing his head up and down, waiting patiently with a smear of honey on his nose for a fly to settle.  Then his tongue would dart out and catch it.  Sometimes he spat it out.  Great applause would erupt, however, if he let it buzz a while in his mouth before swallowing it.

His friends may have laughed, but Holger, his father, found it disturbing.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville - Page 1

The twisted life of Julian the Dragonboy didn't turn out the way his mother, Birgitta, would have wished.  Even his wordless father, Holger, could never have contemplated the cruel, final encounter with someone from the future.  Not a good end to a young man's life.  And who could have predicted the nightmare that was Julian's path to adulthood?

Barely a year after Fra Johannes stepped out of the monastery and recognised the marriage of Birgitta and Holger, they were blessed on Christmas Day in 1223 with a son.  Born with big, round, unblinking eyes, a pale, delicate face, with a thin smile on his lips as if pleased to have arrived, Julian was admired by everyone.  Held tightly in the cradle of his mother's arms, he stared out at the world, satisfied that his home was to be the delightful little Austrian town of Durnstein.

And why shouldn't he?  Durnstein, they said, was God's own town - a patchwork of vineyards sloping down from the Castle to the River Danube, overlooked benignly by the monastery and the jovial Fra Johannes.  Three years, no more, had passed when Julian was running up and down between those rows of vines, helping to produce the family's grape harvest.  He had an amazing capacity to learn quickly.  Not only trailing after his mother and father, picking bunches of ripe fruit and dropping them carefully into the basket on his back, but also, quite soon, acquiring the know-how to prune the vines within an inch of their lives, ensuring an abundance for the following year.

Life should have been perfect.

Back home from Turkey - Istanbul and Cirali

So sad to leave Istanbul, followed by 33 degrees on a beach on Turkey's mediterranean coast.  Swimming in the clear blue, warm sea.  Reading Hilary Mantel's Wolf Hall  on a sunbed under a bamboo sunshade.  Drinking raki and beer - though not at the same time.  We stayed at a hotel consisting of 5 luxury, en-suite, wooden cabins in an orange grove, 50 steps from the beach.  In the evening we walked to various retaurants with delicious, freshly caught fish.  We cycled then climbed up a hill to see the Chimaera - an area of hillside where flames come straight out of the ground.  If I'm making it sound too good to be true, then it was better than that.  (Feel free to ask me more about the place if you're interested.)  In the next few days, I'll try to get back to reality and put up some pictures.

Istanbul and Cirali

Off to Turkey, so no posts till mid-September.  Details of new short story when I get back.  Mrs. Rimbaud says that she has someone in mind to help her look after my allotment.  No idea who she can mean!  As long as the greenhouse is watered regularly, I don't mind.  Bye!

Poltergeist

Mrs. Rimbaud says she's getting fed up of the poltergeist.  'Keeps bringing stuff in,' she says.  'Doesn't even put it in the right cupboards!  Just leaves it lying around.'  I ask her what kind of stuff.  She complains that when she gets up in the morning after being kept awake half the night by this poltergeist wheeling stuff into the downstairs rooms, she finds it all over the place.  'Look,' she says, pointing at the TV.  'Where did that come from?  I've never had a TV.'  You need to know that Mrs. Rimbaud lives alone and is getting on a bit.  'This morning I came downstairs, the muesli was in a bowl and there was carpet on the floor.'  I suggest that I thought I saw a carpet there last time I came.  'Not this colour,' she says.  I also suggest that, if there is a poltergeist - and I'm a rationalist, by the way - and if it's bringing all these things into the house, maybe, in this time of economic hardship, it's not such a bad thing.  'I'm getting the priest,' she says, ignoring me.  'At the weekend.  Saturday.  On his day off.'  Does she mean the priest's day off or the poltergeist?
I nod, tell her I'll come by on Saturday to help out and open the front door to leave.  She shouts after me.  'A drawer full of pants!  Where'd that come from?'

Monsters, Angels, Dragons and Dark Matter

Are they all the same?  Monsters, angels and dragons.  Just debris at the edge of the imagination?  Or are they at the centre of a child's wonder at life?  Are they the dark matter that scientists spend their lives searching for?  All the while, it is created by a child's scribble on a page, chalk on the pavement, a knife scratch underneath the kitchen table - a visual representation of a need to hold back an intruding reality.  Yet at the same time creating all the hopes and fears of the world.

Dragonboy - Project Gutenberg

I'm a page away from completion of The Dragonboy of Regnaville - a short story based on one of the characters from The Dragonscale Blade.  The idea for writing these short stories was partly for me to find out a bit more about the backgrounds of these characters.  ( I have a queue of dodgy characters waiting to be written about and they're in danger of turning into an ugly mob!)  But also I was hoping to give the stories away for free.  With Amazon, that's only possible for 5 days out of 90.  I've not had the time to explore other outlets, but I now know that Project Gutenberg specialises in giving away free books.  So that might be my first option.  If any of you have had experience of Gutenberg or any other ebook outlets, I would very much appreciate your comments.  Thanks.

Book Barn

I'm just back from a trip to the Book Barn at Hallatrow, a small town 30 minutes drive from Bath.  They have a million books.  It's all second- or third-hand and nearly everything is a £1.  A lot of dated stuff, but a fascinating place with everything from a Serbo-Croatian Grammar to The Naughtier Side of Rupert the Bear.  With so much choice, naturally I came away without buying anything.  I almost bought Swordfish Fencing for Beginners.  That looked interesting.  In one dark corner, I found Fourteen Things to do with a Paperclip.  In the children's section, there was the cover only of Fartingdog Annual 1999.  I wonder what ever became of that 90s masterpiece?

Tree House

A tree house conjures up a wonderful, peaceful escape from everyday, adult worries.  My friends and I made one in the woods when we were angry kids.  It helped a lot.

They're not all like that.  On a walk, just up the hill about half a mile from our house, I came across some haphazard accumulation of branches, corrugated iron and other debris that was clearly an attempt to build a tree house.  The odd thing about it was the lack of low-down branches or any other means of clambering up there.  I was out collecting sloes for my gin at the time; not, I hasten to add, drinking it.  It starts to get dark around 8:00pm.  As I was leaving the field, some strange, stooping creature shambled across from the opposite direction.  I stood perfectly still against the hedge and watched.

Such an odd climbing style.  He (or it) must have had something metallic and sharp that clamped to his elbows - something that dug into the trunk of the tree.  Either that or something sharp protruded from his bones.

Mystery - Water Creature

There's a big pond near here.  Not very deep.  I've seen it empty in dry weather.  It feeds the canal lock as narrow boats pass through.  As I walked past yesterday, a young man was watching an expanse of bubbles on the surface, the mud was churned up.  I watched from some distance and followed his gaze as whatever was creating the disturbance was clearly about the size of a human being and was moving slowly across the pond.  The water is too murky to see anything beneath the surface.  But to me, it looked as if this thing was crawling along the bottom.  The man glanced sideways, removed the cigarette from his mouth, smiled and shrugged his shoulders.  We stood for a minute and turned to go our separate ways.
That's when there was a splash and a roar.

Medieval Fantasy - Free on Sunday

The Dragonscale Blade is free on Sunday, 19th August.
Click here for the USA - here for the UK - here for Germany.

Vinny Balfour is thrown back to the 13th century, where he is mistaken for Vincent of Baalfire.  But not by everyone.  Here is a taster:

One of the wardogs, a heavily-built mastiff, trained by an irritable, old farmer to chase people off his land and bring down hot-tempered steers, suddenly pulled free from the rope held by its handler.  The poor old wretch, rivers of sweat running down his face into his grizzled beard, beat it with his cudgel.   Then, without warning, the animal lunged wildly at the fetlocks of Zel.  The stallion reared, nearly hurling Radulph and Vinny to the ground.

As the hooves came down, they lashed out at the mastiff.  Radulph whispered in Vinny’s ear.  ‘You are not my son.’  Vinny strained to listen and hold onto the reins and Zel’s mane at the same time.  The wardog persisted.  Snapping.  Snarling.  The stallion reared again.  And came down again kicking furiously.  ‘My son, Vincent, is dead.’  The growls of the mastiff fired up the savage blood-lust of other wardogs, who added to the frenzied yelping.  ‘Of this I am sure.  You have fooled my wife.  Impostor.’

A third time, the horse reared up and its hooves came down hard.  This time solidly on the animal’s skull.  ‘I know this,’ said Radulph.  ‘For I killed him.’  There was a moment of silence.  The beast slumped to the ground.  For a few seconds, the hind legs twitched.  Then it lay still.  Forever.  A jagged crack across the skull.  Pink saliva trickled from its mouth.  Blood mingled with the dust.

The Dragonscale Blade - Free on Sunday

Burn it down, Vincent!  Burn down the house.  Burn the whole thing down.

Vinny ran around in the dark on the vast lawn in front of Balfour Manor.   Like a wild dance.  Danced by some crazy kid.  ‘Aargh!’ he screamed, holding out his hands to let the stinking petrol evaporate. 

If you’re reading this letter, then it’s too late for me.  So, burn the place down.

You can dowload your free copy of The Dragonscale Blade (UK) or here (USA) or here (Germany) this Sunday from Amazon straight to your Kindle, PC or phone with a free Kindle app.  Do let me know what you think.  This is my first full-length YA fantasy novel, with grown-up themes.  A review on Amazon would be very much appreciated.  I hope you enjoy it. 

This is my 25-word 'elevator pitch'................ 

21st Century fast-food eating, guitar-playing teenager, Vinny Balfour, propels his motorbike through a stained-glass window and gatecrashes the 13th Century reptile Wars.

Dragon Dentist?

At one end of the waiting room there is a deep red, velvet curtain, open an inch to allow a stifled breath of hope - no more - to enter the window.  Three other clients are reading magazines head down, mustering their courage.  The nearest, I notice, is fingering the contents of a Mensa magazine, no doubt wondering whether coming here was a smart move.  The room is thick with fear and some guilt - all those sticky sweets as a child, the loss of adult willpower when faced with decisions about chocolate.

But it gets worse, of course.  The receptionist enters the room.  We all try to avoid her eye.  She takes her time.  Taking pleasure in the moment, tasting it on her lips and tongue.  Thin smile.  'Mr. Cain!'  In unison, my companions sigh with relief.  The crazy notion I had of a last-minute reprieve entirely misplaced.

The stairs are long but a fiercely bright light from an opening surgery door blinds me as I approach the landing.  The silhouetted shape of the dentist stands waiting, a dazzling halo of brilliance plays with his distorted outline.  One thing is certain: beyond his shoulders there is the suggestion of wings.  Angel wings?  Dragon wings?  A few more steps and I will know for sure.  At the last moment, before entering, I spot something else.  Something in his hand, or maybe part of his hand, growing out of his hand.  He tries to hide it, to act nonchalant, but when I hold out my own hand in greeting, he peers suspiciously at me and turns away.

'Sit down, Mr. Cain.'

The Dragonboy has Reached Avignon

The Dragonboy and his family are on the run.  Catching flies with your tongue and being able to scale perpendicular walls are not normal activities, even for an active, growing boy.  What therapy would be suggested in the 21st century?  Prozac, psychoanalysis, cognitive reconfiguration?  In the 13th century, burning or drowning was the preferred, failsafe medicine.  Still, the three suspects managed to get away, left the wine-growing region of Durnstein, where Richard the Lionheart was once imprisoned, passed through the German states and into old France, where they like a trick or two.  Stories have quicker legs than runaways, however, and news may beat them to the English Channel.  We'll see.

Wizards in India

Are there wizards in India?  I mean of the Wizard of Oz variety. 
Something that used to scare the living daylights out of me as a kid watching that Judy Garland film was the sight of those flying monkeys.  I could cope with the wicked, green witch, but those monkeys - Google-map the toilets!
After visiting one of the schools north-west of Bangalore, our group was taken to a Hindu Temple high on a hill with breathtaking views.  Driving up the winding road, we passed a few monkeys and were advised to keep the windows closed.  When we arrived at the temple, there were lots of oohs and aahs upon seeing the cute baby macaques clinging to their mothers.  All gentle enough.  As soon as we left our vehicle, however, we were immediately surrounded by about a hundred that appeared from different parts of the ancient building.  They walked beside us, behind us, in front, and overhead on some of the stone beams outside the temple entrance.  They came running, looking for food, cameras, phones, water bottles, anything they might get their hands on.  One grabbed a colleague's bag and wouldn't let go.  It bared its teeth and screeched menacingly.  Others jumped down from the overhead structures.  I was reminded of another film - Hitchcock's The Birds.
Fortunately, we were rescued by some workmen doing some repairs to the building.  They shook their sticks which was enough for the marauders.  But before we entered the temple, I'd noticed something odd.  When the monkeys jumped down from their higher perches, there was one that seemed to glide through the air a bit more slowly than the others.  Something protruded from its back.  Some deformation I didn't get close enough to examine. 
So, with great humility and respect, we entered the darkness of the temple, appreciated the solemnity of the place and began to leave wondering if we would have to face the same gauntlet run once we were outside.  But the macaques had all gone.  All but one.  It sat on a low wall and looked me straight in the eye.  I think it could tell.  It knew what scared the living daylights out of me.

Angels and Dragons

Madame Rimbaud lives close by.  But you have to go down a narrow lane, sometimes ignoring the little scurrying noises in the messier corners.  She has a cure for everything.  She is very old - refuses to divulge her age to anyone.  Makes the health care workers, social services people, etc. who drop in guess her age.  'Put down what you like,' she cackles, witch-like.  'Why do you need it anyway?'  She's bent almost double with long grey hair almost touching the grimy floor, and followed at every step by a herd of stray cats.  People with strange, unnamed illnesses go to her for unnamed remedies.  Bad knees, flat feet, depression, hair loss, hair gain, short-sightedness and allergies galore.  She has something for them all.  What she doesn't have, she once confided to me, after beckoning me to a dark corner of her one-roomed apartment, is the special root that can change a dragon into an angel.  And, if I were ever to come across it, would I please let her know.

Free Books this Weekend.

If you're interested in medieval fantasies with a lot to say about the contemporary world, you might find The Dragonscale Blade and The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape interesting.  They're both free this weekend.  And when they're not free they're very cheap.
What I'm finding, however, is that the longer I'm in this world of Crusaders, warlords, Malsaurians and people with reptilian tendencies, the more I see them around me.  There is a bridge across the river near where I live and some trees inside a high fence on the bank.  There was definitely a strange movement down there the other night.  It's a place that has no access.  Not unless you glide down, angel-like, or else explode out of the river itself.  The air was strangely hot around there too even though everywhere else was quite cold.  It is summer in Britain after all.  I know what you're thinking - could have been anybody or anything.  An old tramp, some kid fooling around.  But would a tramp have two, burning red eyes and tear at a raw fish, the light glinting off enormous fangs?  No need to answer.

India - Bangalore (Bengaluru) Schools - Children's Stories

Wherever I am, I try to look for inspiration.  It could be anything.  Some scenery, a phrase somebody uses, the physical shape, size, appearance of someone I see in the street.
When I was in and around Bangalore in India, visiting some schools with other teachers almost two years ago, I was expected to teach a science lesson on rock formation to very young children.  This expectation was a complete surprise to me and I'd come unprepared.  But given a couple of days' notice, I managed to pick up a chunk of granite on a visit to a vast granite quarry.  So instead of going straight for a lesson involving the comparison of different rocks and their proerties, I made up a story called The Stone Princess.  The kids loved it. 
Also, on the same visit, I bought a chowkabarra board game.  It's a bit like ludo.  That led me to write a story called The Giant Babala in which the game appears.  As well as those two, I did another called The Indigo Jinni involving two characters called Sontash and Priti, the names of people I met there.
Needless to say, and not just for the sake of my writing, the entire Indian experience was inspiring.

Writer's Block

What writer's block?  Does such a thing exist?  If it does, it goes hand-in-hand with displacement activity - you know what I mean - you sit down to write and you suddenly realise you'd better make a cup of tea, do the hoovering, re-lay the stair carpet, scratch something, or take up the bagpipes.  All perfectly admirable activities.

One way round this is to have two or three writing projects on the go at once.  This is what I do.  Currently, I have three fiction projects and some teaching resources I'm working on.  So when I start to slow down on one project, feel like a break, or have an idea for one of the others, I can switch without any feelings of guilt, failure of frustration.

Another way round it is just to get on with the hoovering!  Then you can always escape to your writing chair  if you have  Hoover's Block or Bagpipe Fatigue. Turn the tables and treat the writing as if it were displacement activity.

Conventional tips, of course, talk about establishing a writing schedule, an organised place and pattern of work.  Perhaps it depends on your own personality or your writing style.  But I'll write anywhere and everywhere.  I never start with a blank piece of paper in front of me, because I have notes and ideas in books, pieces of scrap paper, my phone, the shelf in my greenhouse, a plank of wood in my shed, the backs of cheques, everywhere.  So I always have something started.  Nor do I ever begin at the beginning.  I leave that blank first page for later when everything's sorted out.

BUT THERE IS ONE ASPECT OF WRITING THAT CAN SLOW ME DOWN.  The decisions I make about my characters, the paths I choose for them, the events I describe around them - these things fill me with something I can only describe as regret.  In choosing one road for them, I'm very aware of closing off others.  And that's hard.

Writing Everywhere

I keep notebooks in my greenhouse (as well as just about everywhere else!)  I also write notes on my mobile phone.  So today, in the middle of pruning some apple trees, I had to write down something about an idea I have for a future book.  Pruning shears in one hand, misspelling everything on my phone with my other hand, when a caterpillar falls down the front of my shirt and David from Seattle (I don't know anybody in Seattle) gives me a call to see if I've thought more about some software I downloaded last week.  Did I download software last week?  Luckily, although I didn't have my glasses on to check the caller, I didn't automatically say, 'Hi Baby!'  Wouldn't have mattered.  He would have thought, 'Aren't all those Brits real friendly.'  Which we are.  He says he'll call me next week.  Should have found the caterpillar by then.

Short Stories

Embarking on a series of short stories connected with The Dragonscale Blade has been a such a good idea.  Better than I imagined.  So far, of course, I've completed just one, The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape.  But another is on its way - The Dragonboy of Regnaville - and may be finished in a week or two.  It's given me the opportunity to explore the possible formative experiences in the lives of particular characters.  Or at least that's what it feels like.  I'm aware that what I'm talking about is just fiction.  I'm making it up.  But, given the need to make their behaviour and their responses to particular events consistent with who they are, there are some constraints on what I feel they are likely to do and say.  So, even though I am making it up as I go along, it feels as if they are the boss and they are revealing more of themselves.

Do leave your comments on this or anything else about the blog.

The two books mentioned above are free on Amazon today.  Please help yourself.

The Reptile Inside Us All

The reptilian part of our brain is the primitive part that induces us to fight or take flight.  It's about survival.  But it's also the more aggressive, territorial part of us.  Vinny Balfour's father knows about these things - he's a scientist.  Vinny has to find out the hard way!
How does he cope?  Indeed, does he cope?
The answer may be found in The Dragonscale Blade.  There are also clues in the short story, The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape.  Both ebooks are free from Amazon on Sunday.
I hope you find them entertaining.

Harald the Merciless, Harley Davidson, Aragon - Free Books

What is it that connects dragons, a Harley Davidson, the land of Aragon, Harald the Merciless, and a case of mistaken identity?  Well, they, and many more elements, all come together in two books about the Reptile Wars that are available free on Sunday from Amazon.  Motorbikes aren't the usual method of time travel, but it's how Vinny Balfour inadvertently finds himself back in the 13th century.  And taking on someone else's identity offers him his best chance of survival.  A long journey is ahead of him.  And it's on this journey that he encounters, not only the bully nicknamed Harald the Merciless, but also a couple of homocidal maniacs and a giant poet.  The full length novel, The Dragonscale Blade, and its companion short story, The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape, are both available free this coming Sunday, the 5th of August.
Do let me have your comments.

More Free Medieval Fantasy Offers

The Dragonscale Blade and its sidekick - a short story called The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape - will be free from Amazon this weekend.  More details tomorrow.  Or subscribe free to email notifications of new posts.  Just type your email address in the box below.

Larressingle, Pont d'Artigue, Santiago

Just back from a week of much-needed 30+ degrees of sunshine in south -west France.  Great food, wine and company, as well as a fig tree under which to sit, read and write.  My ongoing short story, The Dragonboy of Regnaville, is nearing completion.  Quite by chance, I came across some interesting places I must incorporate.  The Castle of Larressingle, begun in the 13th century, oozes atmosphere and not far from there, the Pont d'Artigue, on Le chemin de Saint-Jacques de Compostelle (or the Camino de Santiago de Compostela) is the perfect place for a dramatic event in Julian the dragonboy's life.
Coming soon.

France - holiday

Now I'm retired, I should have more time to attend to my blog.  First things first, however.  I'll be on holiday in France until the beginning of August, so no new posts until then.  I'll take a bunch of notebooks and pencils with me.  I know there is a shady fig tree waiting, a deck chair, a bottle or two of red wine and great company.  I hope to finish The Dragonboy of Regnaville by then, but you never know.  A bientot.

Two Free Books Today

Just a reminder, because I don't want you to miss out, that both The Dragonscale Blade and its shorter sidekick, The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape, are both free today on Amazon.  If you don't download them today, if you keep returning to this blog or, better still, subscribe to email notifications (it's free, despite the word subscribe) then you'll be updated whenever I publish a new post, including free offers.
Happy reading.  Do let me have your feedback.

Young Adult Books Free on Saturday 21st July

Young Adult fantasy The Dragonscale Blade  and its companion short story The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape  are both free on Saturday.  I enjoyed writing the short story.  It gave me the opportunity to delve a bit deeper into Harald's background.  As you might expect, with all bullies, there are personal and sociological reasons why he is the way he is.  Of course, when he faces Vinny in The Dragonscale Blade, he isn't offered therapy.

The Dragonboy of Regnaville

Thanks to all of you who downloaded The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape at the weekend.  It's a quick and easy read.  I hope you found it entertaining.  Upstairs on the bus home today, I started work on the next of my series of short backstories about the characters in The Dragonscale Blade.  It's about the life of a boy who, with his parents, is forced to go on the road as an entertainer to disguise the special, disturbing abilities that he is developing.  His life begins happily enough in the small Austrian town of Duernstein and ends up in northern France.  Duernstein is a place I visited a few years ago, never suspecting that it would turn up in one of my stories.  What a surprise!  I'll let you know when The Dragonboy of Regnaville is finished.  Quite soon I hope.

Nicknamed: Harald the Merciless

My short story of Harald Ruffsnape, nicknamed The Merciless by those who suffered from his skills at kicking backsides and the use of the cowpat, is free on Sunday.  It provides a useful source of background information to The Dragonscale Blade, set in the 21st and 13th centuries.  Comments and reviews are always appreciated, whether they are critical or kind.  They all drive the storymaking process forward.

Mistaken Identity

Why is Astryd of Baalfire so willing to believe that Vinny Balfour, from the 21st century is her missing son, Vincent?  They may have a striking resemblance to each other, a family connection passing across hundreds of years, genes handed down from one generation to the next.  But a mother knows her son.  Reasons are hinted at in the short story (free this weekend) The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape.  Of course, there's more evidence to be found in The Dragonscale Blade.  Perhaps she knows more than she is prepared to believe.  If she were to face up to the facts of her son's disappearance, life might be unbearable.

USA-Saturday, UK-Sunday Free Short Story

Just realised, if you're hoping to download the free short story - The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape - it will depend where you are in the world.  So you may need to check both Saturday and Sunday just to make sure you do get it free.  If you live in the USA, you can get it here.  And if you're in the UK, it's available here.  Of course, if you live somewhere else, just get in touch and I'll sort something out.

Free Short Story

The Bullying of Harald Ruffsnape, available here will be free for the next few Saturdays.  It is the first of a number of short backstories covering further insights and exploits of some of the characters out of The Dragonscale Blade.  I think you'll find The Bullying entertaining in itself, but you may want to find out more; particularly how such an odd character as Harald - nicknamed The Merciless - plays a part in the ongoing series of Reptile Wars stories.

If you keep an eye on Harry's Word, you'll find information about forthcoming free short stories.  Alternatively, use the email box to have your name added to my list and I'll let you know personally. 

Always happy to hear your thoughts and comments and read your reviews.

Future of the Reptile Wars series

The Dragonscale Blade is only the first in a series of fantasies that begin with Vinny Balfour's gatecrashing of the 13th century.  Its follow-up should be written by Christmas 2012, with a third shortly afterwards.  A website is planned and should also be up and running before the year is out.  I have my own ideas as far as content is concerned, but you may also have some thoughts of your own.  Do let me know.  Quite soon, you'll be able to download free some backstories about the characters, containing information not necessarily in the book.

Dragon Fantasy Online

The Dragonscale Blade begins in the 21st century but quickly becomes a medieval fantasy of the human versus the reptilian: both in terms of a crusading war between Aragon and the Moors of Andalucia, but also in terms of the turmoil taking place inside the bodies of the hero, Vinny Balfour, and his enemies, Phar Lazar and Prince Ynyr.  There are a number of grotesques among the characters - Azenari the wolf killer, Gonzalo de Zanj the giant poet, and two homocidal maniacs, Mr. Luc and Mr. Rangel, given pardons to apply their special skills to the killing spree of the crusade.

Vinny Balfour - Hero or Misfit?

Vinny doesn't make too many decisions.  Things tend to happen to him.  But there are one or two key points when he instigates a series of consequences over which he has no control.  Burning the house down - yes, that's an important moment. Riding that motorbike is another one.  Going back into the house is another.  Much later, of course, as his character develops, he does stand up for himself and for those he loves and respects.  The Vinny we see at the end is quite different - transformed in more ways than one.  A lot depends on his decisions and his actions.  Perhaps the fate of us all.

Phar Lazar - Evil Monk

Phar Lazar is the source of evil in this medieval fantasy.  As with all villains, he seeks total power, but he also wants to cheat death.  More than anything, he wants to live forever, so that he can exert power throughout time. How many modern-day despots can you think of who still appear to think and behave in this way?  You might need the fingers of two hands.

Welcome to Harry's Blog -Teenage ebook Author

The Dragonscale Blade is an entertaining fantasy with a serious, underlying question about how much the ancient, reptilian brain of the human being - responsible for displays of ritual, dominance and territoriality - is the source of much war and aggression.  I'd appreciate reading your comments.

Poor Harald

Harald Ruffsnape, nicknamed The Merciless, is the village bully in The Dragonscale Blade. Most of the time, you hope he's going to get his come-uppance.  But is there a part of you that feels sorry for him?  The story doesn't go into his past life before he confronts the hero, Vinny Balfour, but there are a few things you should know about him.  When he was born, his mother took one look at him and ran off with a passing tinker.  His father would have run off to, but for the bad leg he had at the the time, plus the fact that most of the time, he was dead drunk.  When he was sober, he would beat Harald within an inch of his life just for breaking an egg or spilling a drop of goat's milk.  Harald soon learnt how to look after himself.  By the time he was about fifteen (no one ever kept track of his age) his father was a tired old man of 33.  Quite a good age in 1243.  Then there was the porridge incident described in the book and that was it.  Harald was on his own and left to his own devices... which weren't too clever.

Harald the Merciless

It's 1243.  In The Dragonscale Blade, Harald is the village bully.  He doesn't like the look of this new arrival, Vinny Balfour.

‘Well, well, miracle boy.  So you got lost and you got found again.  Don’t know where you been for near ‘nough a whole year.  Maybe them wolves ate you up.  Then I reckon they spat you out again ‘cos you tastes like foul, nasty, foul stuff.  And then them twitchy little fairy elves got hold of you and dressed you up like a proper bluebell with twinkletoe shoes, you numkin.’ 

Excerpt from The Dragonscale Blade

An hour ago, he was on his back sprawled on the dining room table, big enough for twenty-four guests.  On his back, right there, in the middle of a selection of crumbs, plastic wrappers and half-eaten fast food from the fridge.  Three-quarters of a second pizza was balanced on his groaning belly.  He managed a lazy, sideways look at the letter.  ‘Ok, then!’ he groaned, snatching it, holding it up above him and tearing it open.  ‘What now?’

Vincent, there are things here in this house which no one should find.  No one.  Least of all the Malsaurians. 

Vinny grunted, propped himself up on an elbow and shook his head.  The pizza slid down the front of his grey hoodie.  It rolled across his jeans and onto the floor.  The words might have been all nonsense.  Certainly, it was all the usual, fancy, tricksy nonsense that his father came out with.

‘Malsaurians?’ he said out loud to himself.  He stuck his finger in his mouth and used his fingernail to remove a piece of olive from his teeth.  ‘Looks like Dad’s finally found a chair in the crackpot corner.  Well, at least he remembered my name.  That’s something, I suppose.’

But that was an hour ago, before the urgent tone of the text message.  Before he had admitted to himself that his father might be nuts, but he wasn’t stupid.  Before he’d stuffed the letter into the back pocket of his jeans without reading the rest of it and wheeled the Harley Davidson out to the safety of the driveway.  Before the sheer size of the place suddenly spooked him like it had never done before.  Before he’d fetched the petrol cans from one of the garages.   Dropped them onto the ground, hammered his forehead, repeating over and over, ‘Malsaurians?  Malsaurians?’  Before he’d run, looking over his shoulder, in a panic, splashing the stuff all through the ground floor rooms like some mad crazy idiot. 

The Hunger Games v. The Dragonscale Blade

As a new ebook writer, checking sales and checking out reviews on Amazon is a bit of a weekly, if not daily, habit.  Just curious, that's all.  Is there any significance, I wonder, in how quickly The Dragonscale Blade comes up in the search box as I type in each individual letter?  Of course, you can probably guess which title comes up as soon as I type in The....

Illustration

I must say I do miss illustration and graphic work in general.  Before teaching, I designed and made wooden toys and other sculptural stuff.  They sold all over the place:  Nieman Marcus and Bergdorf Goodman in the States, the Victoria and Albert Museum in England, Naef in Switzerland and many, many more around the world.  You may have one of my Animal Boxes at home, for instance.  I took part in exhibitions at the Barbican and the Museum of Childhood in London, and Le Galerie de Jouets at the Louvre in Paris, and again, many more over a period of about twenty years.  I designed pencil boxes for Stabilo, lighting for Quandt Originelle in Germany and children's quilts and bedding for Banian.
Then, or at the same time, I illustrated some children's picture books for Barefoot Books.  So now, I'm writing full-length fiction for an older age-group.  No pictures.  What am I going to do?

I've been watching some sparring going on in one of my linkedin groups recently.  The subject has been about writing.  In the blue corner, creative writing; in the red corner, the need to respect and adhere to garmmatical rules.  I think the war is a phony one.  Being in command of basic grammar is essential if creative writing is to take place.  Of course, you might break all the rules.  Why not?  But it's so much better if you know what the rules are in the first place.  Picasso, for instance, doesn't crash through all the leading art conventions by accident.  At least, you wouldn't think this if you've ever looked through his 'cahiers' - his workbooks - which show you just how much he planned those masterpieces that look so free and spontaneous.  In terms of rule-following and creativity, what's true for painting is true for creative writing.

The Dragonscale Blade cover

I haven't been happy with the pale green cover design.  It wasn't my first choice of background colours, but then the original one was so dark the red lettering clashed so much it made your eyes water.  Also there was nothing there that a reader might relate to.  No sign of life whatsoever apart from the rubbery-looking reptilian hand.  I tried a photoshopped face,but that turned out to look like a cross between Mr. Spock and the lizard man that I often see attending the men's toilets in one of the main London stations.  (If you're quick, you might just catch a glimpse of it - the cover, not the lizard man - on Amazon before I take that one down too.)  A third, simpler cover should appear in a day or two.  I'm not sure it says everything I want it to, but that's it now.  No more.  I've got other things to get on with, including figuring out who the real murderer is in my forthcoming sequel, The Book of Zanj.

Origins of the Story

Looking at my files, I dscovered the picture of al-Azraq was downloaded about 3 years ago.  The story of Vincent of Baalfire has gone through some transformations.
It started when I found out about this Arab leader called al-Azraq, but referred to by the local Christians as El Drac - the Devil or the Dragon.  I'd been to Andalucia a few times and was fascinated by the Arabic civilisation, its inventiveness and intellectual progress, that stretched at one point from Persia across northern Africa to Spain.
The Dragonscale Blade started as a tale about ordinary people in medieval times, and one boy in particular, being caught up in an act of aggression that had nothing to do with them. (Doesn't this happen all the time?)
I enjoyed all the minor characters in it.  They were all colourful.  The main character, however, didn't really come to life for me until I made him a kid from the 21st century.  Vinny changed everything.

The Reptile Wars

The Reptile Wars have begun.  A fantasy?  Or have they always been with us?  Vinny Balfour finds out the hard way.  The first book in the series - The Dragonscale Blade - pinpoints Vinny's entry into the ongoing battle.

21^st century teenager, Vinny Balfour, a guitar-playing, fast-food eating, good-for-not-very-much loner, with poor exam results, in need of a haircut and a good wash, crashes a motorbike through a stained-glass, octagonal window and lands in the 13^th century. 

His resemblance to Vincent of Baalfire convinces Astryd that he is her lost son.  Her real son, however, has been murdered by his own father, Radulph, convinced that he was the inheritor of dragon’s blood.

In this superstitious, medieval world, Vinny is persuaded to accept the identity of Vincent by his new ‘sister’, Ellyn.  But he has a lot on his plate.  There’s the local bully, Harald the Merciless, for example.  But the real evil comes in the shape of Phar Lazar, a Malsaurian.  He is the protector and controller of Prince Ynyr, who is slowly developing distinct reptilian tendencies.

There are those who are on his side.  Breandan the maker of Vinny’s dragonscale blade, Eneko Azenari, a wolf-hunting Basque, and Gonzalo de Zanj, a giant Bantu poet.  And those who are not:  Mr. Luc and Mr. Rangel, for instance, given pardons so that their homicidal skills might be put to good use in the Crusade against the Moors, specifically El Drac.  This Moorish warlord has been demonised by Phar Lazar, who is intent on destroying any hope of a truce between Christians and Moors. 

In the end, there is a dragon to slay.  The real enemy, however, is Phar Lazar.  Sorting him out isn’t so easy, but he may have the key to Vinny’s return to the 21^st century.