Tag: fiction

This is too good not to post the full text.

Conan the Barbarian is my go-to Christmas movie, and some new things really stood out to me at this year’s viewing.

I want to talk about this moment and this guy.

This is the story of Red Hair.

Red Hair isn’t much present—and that, quite different—in the latest script draft I can find, which is the John Milius third….

The final film is another story: he’s huge.

It’s Red Hair who chains Conan to the Wheel of Pain, who turns him into a pitfighter, who educates him and uses him as breeding stock, and who finally, unexpectedly, sets him free.

This is a man who matters enormously in Conan’s life, and in the story.

For Conan, who makes no decisions in any part of this sequence, this part of the film is a series of barely-connected experiences. For Red Hair, it’s a complete narrative arc in a chunk of the picture that you could legitimately argue is a standalone short film about him.

So who is Red Hair?

To understand that, you first have to understand where he comes from, which requires revisiting the raiding scene at the film’s opening. The raid on Conan’s village is carried out by three different kinds of people.

The first kind are the cultists of Set, led by Thulsa Doom, whose flunkies are Rexor (big mustache) and Thorgrim (big hammer). These guys are easily distinguished because they are a) in charge b) all about snakes. They put snakes on everything: armor, helmets, shields, weapons.

The second kind of people at the raid are Picts. These are the guys with painted faces and/or tattooed bodies, as seen in the background here and in closeup in the form of Arnold’s friend and fellow bodybuilder Franco Columbu as a Pictish scout.

The third kind are Vanir. These are Red Hair’s people. They’re a northern people, like the Cimmerians, but they wear furs where the Cimmerians wear skins, and fight on horseback while Cimmerians fight afoot.

Note that the Picts and the Vanir are doing their own thing, style-wise. They’re not all about snakes. Meaning they’re not in Thulsa Doom’s cult.

This makes sense. Remember, “two years ago it was just another snake cult.” So in Conan’s boyhood, Thulsa Doom’s set must have been even smaller.

Which raises the obvious question: what are the Picts and the Vanir even doing there?

The Wizard’s voiceover says that no one knows why the raiders came, but later in the picture Thulsa Doom tells Conan why: in his youth, he was mad for steel, and fought to get it.

Given his then-paltry followers, to fight for steel, Thulsa Doom would have needed allies. And to get allies, he had to give them something. We don’t know what he gave the Picts, but the Vanir got slaves: the children of Conan’s village.

Red Hair isn’t in on the raiding of Conan’s village. He’s just a boy himself, a few years older than Conan. The first time we see him is as part of the small group of Vanir riding off with the slaves afterward.

He goes with them all the way to their destination. Note that Red Hair is the only one without a helmet. Milius wants you to see that mop of hair. He’s marking that character.

Digression: marking a character is a film technique that isn’t talked about much but is used a lot; and feels like it’s become almost obligatory in the last couple of decades, if there’s a chance of the audience not recognizing a returning character who is important.

For example, if the character is one of a number of similar-looking characters/creatures, or is played by multiple actors because the story makes a time jump. Think of Lurtz’s big palmprint makeup in Fellowship of the Ring (2001) or Amleth’s necklace in The Northman (2022).

The first time we get a really good look at Red Hair, and see his face, he’s securing the chains binding twelve-year-old Conan to the Wheel of Pain that Conan is going to push for at least a good ten years. Maybe more.

There’s a reason both kids get closeups. They’ll meet again.

But in the intervening decade plus, this is Conan’s office.

The movie never gets into what the Wheel of Pain is actually for, but it’s clearly a mill, probably for a salt mine; in closer shots there’s some scattered white powder around the base, and if you look to the bottom right of the frame there are some additional facilities.

And the mine is not a very productive one, because over the course of Conan’s tenure slaves reassigned, sold off, or deceased don’t get replaced. By the end of his time there Conan is the only one pushing it.

The garrison is drawn down, too: by the end of its run it’s literally one guard and Conan, which sounds like a premise for a bizarre sitcom.

This is when Red Hair returns.

Again, that’s what the big bushy mop of red hair is for: telling you this is the same guy. He greets Conan’s one guard with respect, but also warmth. Then he leads Conan away, and the wheel stops. Probably forever.

Why Red Hair matters: long involvement with the Wheel of Pain and evident closeness to its personnel suggest that the facility is part of his family concern.

Red Hair isn’t buying Conan; he already owns him, and he’s repurposing a small asset, part of a failed larger asset.

This is how Conan’s new career as a pitfighter begins: either Conan’s a winner, or he’s one less mouth to feed. (Red Hair evidently doesn’t much care which, as he doesn’t even bother explaining to Conan that Conan is about to be in a deathfight.)

But Conan wins.

And wins.

And keeps winning.

“In time, his victories could not easily be counted.”

Red Hair is making bank. Conan is, surprisingly, a profitable asset. So what do?

Red Hair chooses to reinvest in his asset. Conan goes east to learn from the warmasters.

This is a sensible choice. Conan is a great pitfighter. If he learns to fight with battlefield weapons, he’s got some new career options. Maybe a gladiator, fighting for big bucks in actual arenas. Maybe even a soldier, to win real gains for Red Hair’s family and people.

Conan surprises again. He impresses the warmasters. The instructor corrects him, slaps him around a bit, sure… and nut-kicks the other guy. It’s a hard school, but—as a watching Red Hair sees—Conan is a hard worker and a good student.

And Conan learns well.

Very, very well.

So Red Hair invests further. He takes his biggest step yet.

He teaches Conan to read.

Why teach a pitfighter, a gladiator, even a soldier to read? Why give him access to “the poetry of Kitai, the philosophy of Sung?”

It shows Red Hair has started to dream big. He realizes Conan isn’t just a fighter. He’s potentially an officer. A captain. Maybe even a general.

Red Hair lives in a martial society, and he has found himself, quite by chance, the manager of a remarkable martial talent. (One he is breeding “to the finest stock,” probably [because] all of this talent development far from home is expensive and Conan’s stud fees are supporting them.)

But then Conan meets the Turanian Khan, and Red Hair—who has been making money off of Conan and reinvesting that money back into him—suddenly decides to sacrifice any hope of profit, to write entirely Conan off his balance sheet, and to send Conan off to make his own fortune.

Why does a shrewd investor like Red Hair do that?

The answer lies in the scene everybody remembers in Conan the Barbarian. Because Red Hair is in it, and it’s important that he is.

So let’s talk about the khan scene.

People forget the first line in that scene, delivered by the khan: “My fear is that my sons will never understand me.” Or treat it like it’s a dubbed-in joke.

It is not a joke. It is not a bit of goofy ADR.

That line is the reason the scene exists.

The khan announces his fear that his sons will never understand him. He mentions some names, evidently a couple of sites of victory: “We won again!”

Everyone cheers.

“This is good,” says the khan. “But what is best in life?”

One of the younger men answers, “The open steppe. A fleet horse. Falcons at your wrist. And the wind in your hair.”

The Khan bellows: “Wrong!!!! Conan, what is best in life?”

Whereupon Conan answers: “To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women.”

“That is good!” cries the Khan.

The talk about that scene tends to focus on Conan’s answer. Here’s what that overlooks:

Why does the scene open with the Khan worrying his sons will never understand him?

Because that’s how you know the guy who gives the wrong answer is the khan’s son.

And it is not on its face a terrible answer! Imagine doing that! Falconing on the open steppe from horseback, wind in your hair? That is actually pretty freakin’ boss!

But that is not a khan’s answer.

That is a nobleman’s answer.

And here’s the thing: Red Hair is, in his rough society, a nobleman.

I bet the khan’s son’s idea of the good life sounded pretty reasonable to him. It sounds pretty good to me. But if you are a khan, this is wrong.

Khans do not make war so that they may live. They live so that they can make war. Hearing of victories is not great in the way that winning the victories for yourself and being there at the victory is great.

So consider how this scene unfolds from Red Hair’s perspective.

Red Hair has gained an audience with the Turanian khan. (This is a feat!) Conan is seated higher than everyone else, in a central position. He’s on display.

Red Hair is pretty clearly looking to impress the Turanian khan with Conan.

Red Hair’s goal in this is probably either 1) an alliance, with Conan leading Vanir troops in alliance with Turanians, or 2) selling Conan’s services or Conan himself to the khan. And so far, things are looking good.

But then the khan worries his son doesn’t understand him. To test his fear, he asks a khan’s question of his son, and gets a nobleman’s answer. The khan is disappointed.

So he asks a slave.

Asked a khan’s question, Conan gives a khan’s answer.

If you’re Red Hair, this poses a bit of a problem: what do you do when you realize that you’re holding as a slave a man who is, by the dictates of your society, your unquestioned better?

This is not about anti-slavery enlightenment, with Red Hair seeing himself and Conan as moral equals. Red Hair is a man who lives in a society of power, hierarchy, and honor. Conan thinks about these things the way the most powerful men of this society think. And Red Hair does not.

There is absolutely no way that Red Hair can keep such a man as Conan as a slave. He couldn’t look himself in the mirror, if he had one.

More: it’s not just about how Red Hair sees himself. There are real practical problems here.

Red Hair is keeping a natural king as a pet, and the only reason he can get away with it is that the king hasn’t realized that he is a king…yet.

If Conan realizes he is a king in waiting, Red Hair is dead.

If Red Hair sets Conan up with the planned Turanian gig, the khan’s son is certainly not going to be pleased to have around a man who understands his father better than he does.

If not murdered, Conan and Red Hair could be swept up in a Turanian civil war that they caused.

If Red Hair tries to kill Conan himself—and good luck with that; he’s totally physically overmatched—he’s looking at either his own death at Conan’s hands, or incurring the ire of a khan who now likes Conan better than he likes Red Hair.

If Red Hair frees Conan and keeps him in company, the best-case scenario is that Red Hair will in short order become a man following his own former slave.

So Red Hair does the only thing he can do: he strips Conan of his pit-fighter’s headdress, cuts his chain, and boots him out into the night.

Given sudden freedom, Conan doesn’t know why. But Red Hair does, and he trusts that a man who is obviously a misplaced king will find his own way.

As he does.

Look how much that character accomplishes, how important he is, how many meaningful choices he makes, and how much meat there is to talk about when it comes to this guy.

In Conan the Barbarian, the sum of Red Hair’s spoken dialogue comes to less than twenty words.

— @hradzka – Twitter

Author’s emphases.

Training as a Jedi is often a series of brief bouts of working apprenticeship. Everything your master can tell you, she can tell you in a few days. What she can show you, she can show you in weeks. It’s only when you have to put the lessons into context in a real situation that you truly start to learn. A new apprentice Jedi often spends the longest with the first teacher, learning and adventuring until he or she can feel the call of the Force without aid. The mentor then suggests some other Jedi that the student might seek out that can impart different lessons, and new understanding of the Force. On the way to the next master, the student suffers through a series of interesting events, better putting training to practice. And new teachers demand their own quests before imparting their wisdom. Life as a Jedi is the life of a questing knight, forever in motion. A Jedi does not crave adventure, knowing that adventure will find her, regardless.

— Alternate Clone Wars, Part 3 – System sans Setting

This comes from a series of posts where the blogger reimagines the Star Wars universe based upon the premise “nothing is canon except the original three movies.” I like this premise, and the entire series it inspired.

Morwen Eledhwen remained in Hithlum, silent in grief. Her son Túrin was only in his ninth year, and she was again with child. Her days were evil. The Easterlings came into the land in great numbers and they dealt cruelly with the people of Hador, and robbed them of all that they possessed and enslaved them. All the people of Húrin’s homelands that could work or serve any purpose they took away, even young girls and boys, and the old they killed or drove out to starve. But they dared not yet lay hands on the Lady of Dor-lómin, or thrust her from her house; for the word ran among them that she was perilous, and a witch who had dealings with the white-fiends: for so they named the Elves, hating them, but fearing them more….

— The Children of Hurin, Chapter 4

When Dardalion joined him Waylander blinked in mock disbelief. A white horse-hair plumed helmet was buckled at the chin, and the leather-trimmed cloak lay over a shimmering breastplate embossed with a flying eagle. A leather kilt, studded with silver, protected Dardalion’s thighs, while silver greaves were buckled to his calves. By his side hung a cavalry sabre, and on his left hip a long, curved knife sat in a jewelled scabbard.

“You look ridiculous,” said Waylander.

“Most probably. But will it serve?”

“It will serve to draw the Vagrians to you like flies to a cowpat.”

“I do feel rather foolish.”

“Then take it off and find yourself something less garish.”

“No. I can’t explain why, but this is right.”

“Then keep away from me, priest. I want to stay alive!”

“Will you not get yourself some armour?”

“I have my mail shirt. I don’t intend to stand in one place long enough to be cut.”

“I would appreciate some advice on swordsmanship,” said Dardalion.

“Gods of Mercy!” snapped Waylander. “It takes years to learn and you have an hour, maybe two. There’s nothing I can teach you—just remember throat and groin. Protect your own, slice theirs!”

— Waylander, Chapter 7

The Ancient One:

We are protectors not warriors.

— “Doctor Strange: The Sorcerer Supreme” (2007)

Hunter #1:

I mislike the feel of these woods. Creatures that live in a unicorn’s forest learn a little magic of their own in time—mainly concerned with disappearing.

Hunter #2:

Unicorns? I thought they only existed in fairytales. This is a forest, like any other. Isn’t it?

Hunter #1:

Then why do the leaves never fall here? Or the snow? Why is it always spring here?

I tell you there is one unicorn left in the world, and as long as it lives in this forest we’ll find no game to hunt here.

Hunter #2:

Let’s turn around. Hunt somewhere else.

Hunter #1:

Alright.

[Turns and calls out to the unseen unicorn.]

Stay where you are, poor beast! This is no world for you! Stay in your forest and keep your trees green and your friends protected! And good luck to you, for you are the last!

— “The Last Unicorn” (1982)

Syrio Forel:

Do you pray to the gods?

Arya Stark:

The old and the new.

Syrio Forel:

There is only one god…and his name is Death. And there is only one thing we say to Death:

“Not today.”

— “A Golden Crown” – Game of Thrones, Season 1 (2011)

Timo Cruz:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you.

We were all meant to shine as children do. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsiously give other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

— “Coach Carter” (2005)

That autumn, when the weather finally broke toward winter, Blaise and I returned to my long-abandoned lessons. I studied with greater intensity now because I had the hunger, and because I so wanted to make up for lost time—committing the stories and songs of our people to memory; sharpening my powers of observation; increasing my store of knowledge about the Earth and her ways, and those of all her creatures; practicing the harp; delving deep into mysteries and secrets of earth and air, fire and water.

But it soon became apparent that in the realm of things men call magic, my knowledge outstripped his. Gern-y-fhain had taught me well; what is more, the Hill People possessed many secrets even the Learned Brotherhood did not know. These I possessed as well.

The winter proceeded, one cold leaden day following another, until at last the sun began to linger longer in the sky and the land to warm beneath its rays. It was then that I reached the end of Blaise’s tutelage. “There is nothing more I can give you, Hawk,” he told me. “On my life, I cannot think of another thing to teach. Yet, there are many you might teach me.”

I stared at him for a moment. “But there is so much—I know so little.”

“True,” he said, his lean face lighting in a grin. “Is that not the beginning of true wisdom?”

“I am in earnest, Blaise. There must be more.”

“And I am in earnest too, Myrddin Bach. There is nothing more that I can teach you. Oh, a few of the minor stories of our race perhaps; but nothing of import.”

“I cannot have learned it all,” I protested.

“True again. There is much more to be learned, but I am not the one to teach you. Whatever else there is, you must learn it on your own.” He shook his head lightly. “Do not look so downcast, Hawk. It is no disgrace for pupil to leave master behind. It happens….”

— Merlin, Chapter 14

News of [Prince] Elphin’s astounding prowess in the battle with the cattle raiders spread quickly throughout the six cantrefs. His kinsmen greeted him respectfully when they saw him and told one another once and again about the uncanny change in the king’s son.

He was bold, they said, and brave; the soul of an ancient hero—perhaps the very one whose torc he now wore—animated him. The lumbering Cuall, formerly one of Elphin’s harshest detractors, became overnight his greatest advocate.

Elphin enjoyed the praise and his increased status in the clan but did not make too much of it, preferring to minimize his role in the remarkable series of events that seemed to be clustering around him since his discovery of the babe in the weir. And Hafgan [the druid], whose prophecy had foreseen the change, appeared to view the young man in a different light. Clan members saw the two talking together frequently….

With no shortage of eager volunteers, work [on Elphin’s house] was progressing quickly: timbers were cut, shaped, and erected around the perimeter of the excavated hole and connected with beams and rafters; walls of split logs had been lashed into place and the chinks were being filled with clay; soon reed thatch would be laid and trimmed for the roof….

…Then there came the sound of hammering. Elphin looked back toward his house where Cuall, having prepared the heads of the two raiders slain by Elphin’s spear by dipping them in cedar oil, was now nailing them to the doorposts of his nearly-finished house. “This is a warrior’s house,” he said, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Now everyone will know it.”

“A warrior’s house,” muttered Elphin, shaking his head. “It was luck, not a warrior’s skill that felled those two.”

“Do not mock the faith of simple men,” replied Hafgan. “Luck in battle is a thing of power, for whatever men believe they will follow.” He paused and pointed at Cuall. “I spoke of the future. There is yours.”

“Cuall?”

“And men like him. A battlechief must have a warband.”

“A warband! Hafgan, we have not maintained a warband since before my grandfather was a boy. With the garrison at Caer Seiont there has been no need.”

“Times change, Elphin. Needs change….”

The druid turned and walked away. Elphin watched him go, and then went back to inspect his house. Cuall was lingering nearby, and Elphin realized with some surprise that the man waited for a look or sign of recognition from him. He stopped and studied the heads nailed to his doorposts and then directed his gaze to Cuall.

“I am honored by your thoughtfulness,” he said and watched a huge grin break like sunrise across Cuall’s crag of a face.

“A man should have renown among his people.”

“You have earned the hero’s portion often enough yourself, Cuall. And I have heard your name lauded around the feast table more times than I can count.”

Elphin was amazed at the impact of his words. The hulking Cuall grinned foolishly, and his cheeks colored like a maid’s when her clumsy flirtation is discovered.

“I would fight at your side anytime,” said Cuall earnestly.

“I am going to raise a warband, Cuall. I will need your help.”

“My life is yours, Sire.” Cuall touched his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I accept your service,” Elphin replied seriously. The two men gazed at one another and Cuall stepped close, taking Elphin in a fierce hug. Then, suddenly embarrassed, he turned and hurried away.

“You will make a good king.”

Elphin turned to see [his recently-wed wife] Rhonwyn watching him from the doorway. “You saw?”

She nodded. “I saw a future lord winning support. More, I saw a man putting aside the hurt of the past and reconciling a former enemy, raising him to friendship without rancor or guile.”

“It is not in me to hurt him. Besides, he is the best warrior in the clan. I will need his help.”

“And that is why you will be a good king. Small men do not hesitate to repay hurt for hurt….”

— Taliesin, Chapter 13

Nicodemus:

[gives Mrs. Brisby an amulet with a large red gemstone.]

Courage of the heart is very rare. The stone has a power when it’s there.

— “The Secret of NIMH” (1982)

Egg Shen:

Time for the medicine!

[pours smoking potion into cups]

Cheers!

Jack Burton:

This does what again, exactly?

Egg Shen:

Huge buzz!

[drinks smoking potion from his cup]

Oooh, good! Can see things no one else can see! Do things no one else can do!

Jack Burton:

Real things?

Egg Shen:

As real as Lo Pan!

Jack Burton:

Hey, what more can a guy ask for?

Egg Shen:

Oh, a six-demon bag!

[shakes the bag slung around his shoulder]

Jack Burton:

Terrific, a six-demon bag. Sensational. What’s in it, Egg?

Egg Shen:

Wind, fire, all that kind of thing!

— “Big Trouble in Little China” (1986)

Party buff!

Jack Burton:

That is not water.

Egg Shen:

Black Blood of the Earth.

Jack Burton:

You mean oil?

Egg Shen:

I mean Black Blood of the Earth!

— “Big Trouble in Little China” (1986)

Something a mega-dungeon should have. 😀

Sarah:

Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the Goblin City to take back the child that you have stolen.

For my will is as strong as yours, and my kingdom as great.

You have no power over me.

— “Labyrinth” (1986)

Conan:

It’s the leader. He’s a wizard!

[touches his empty sheath.]

My dagger’s gone. You kill him!

Malak:

Not me! It’s bad luck to kill a wizard.

— “Conan the Destroyer” (1984)

Thereupon Elrond paused a while and sighed. “I remember well the splendour of their banners,” he said. “It recalled to me the glory of the Elder Days and the hosts of Beleriand, so many great princes and captains were assembled. And yet not so many, nor so fair, as when Thangorodrim was broken, and the Elves deemed that evil was ended for ever, and it was not so.”

“You remember?” said Frodo, speaking his thought aloud in his astonishment. “But I thought,” he stammered as Elrond turned towards him, “I thought that the fall of Gil-galad was a long age ago.”

“So it was indeed,” answered Elrond gravely. “But my memory reaches back even to the Elder Days. Eärendil was my sire, who was born in Gondolin before its fall; and my mother was Elwing, daughter of Dior, son of Lúthien of Doriath. I have seen three ages in the West of the world, and many defeats, and many fruitless victories.”

— The Lord of the Rings, Book Two, Chapter 2

[Set sometime in the near future.]

Next morning, after the King’s staff assembled for their daily meeting, James announced his intention to host a slap-up Hogmanay celebration. “I want it to be a New Year’s Eve bash to end all bashes—sit-down dinner and entertainment laid on. Spare no expense. I’ve drawn up a guest list.” He slid sheets of paper across the table to Shona and Cal. “I want everyone on the list to get an invitation.”

“Mind if we invite a wee friend or two as well?” asked Cal.

“Got someone special in mind?”

“If you remember,” replied Cal, “I invited Izzy and her family up to the estate to go riding.” At James’ blank look, he said, “Isobel Rothes, remember?”

“Isobel, sure. Why not? Let’s cast the net wide,” said James. “The more the merrier.”

“Would I be right in thinking you had an ulterior motive for hosting this party?” asked Embries. He held his head to one side, regarding James shrewdly.

“All will be revealed on the night,” James told him. Eager to end the scrutiny, he rose abruptly. “Right! Everyone get busy. We’ve got a party to plan.”

James, like many Scots, considered Hogmanay the great event of the calendar, and the only fitting and proper way to usher in the New Year. Throwing open Castle Morven for a royal gala celebration—the first since Scotland reclaimed the throne—would, he thought, provide the perfect opportunity for the future royal couple to announce their engagement.

Cal and Gavin undertook the cleaning and furnishing of the great hall; Shona spent hours closeted with Priddy in the cook’s pantry, poring over the old Duke’s favorite recipes and drawing up a menu. Rhys, along with Mr. Baxter and anyone else who happened along, was press-ganged onto foraging and decorating crews.

A truck was driven up into the forest, and a load of fresh greenery cut and brought back to deck the hall. The Duke’s fine bone china—which hadn’t seen the light of day for thirty years at least—was uncrated, washed, and sorted into place settings; likewise the silver and crystal. Assorted salvers, bowls, tureens, and decanters were removed from display cases, polished, and brought back into service. Some of the pieces, so old and eccentric their uses could only be guessed at, provided a few good laughs and were swiftly snatched up for decorative purposes.

As the short winter days moved swiftly on, arrangements steamed ahead; everyone became caught up in the fizzing spirit of the occasion, and a harried conviviality set in. The night before the party, James went to bed exhausted, and with a mountain of chores left to do, but feeling that if this was to be the last royal Hogmanay ever to be celebrated, at least it would be one to remember.

On December 31, Jenny and her cousins, Roslyn and Cara, arrived in the morning to help with the final preparations. The Rotheses appeared just after lunch; Caroline and Isobel came bearing gifts, and Donald a briefcase full of unfinished business. “An MP’s work is never done,” he explained. “But I promised the ladies I would not keep my nose buried the whole time we’re here.”

Introductions were made all around, and Jenny, Caroline, and Isobel settled down to making one another’s acquaintance….

“We’ve got all night ahead of us.”

“Speaking of which…” Cal said, glancing at his watch. “You’ll have to excuse me—I’ve a few last-minute chores.” He grinned suddenly and confided, “Actually, I was thinking of maybe getting Isobel to help me raid the Duke’s cellar. How about it, Your Highness? Fancy a posh tipple for tonight’s revel?”

“I expect nothing less,” James replied with regal aplomb. “Those bottles have been gathering dust long enough. Bring ’em out, I say. High time they did some good for King and Country….”

Talk turned to other things then; tea arrived, the afternoon fled, and before long it was time to get dressed for the party. Jenny, aided by her cousins, arrayed herself in a long, low-cut, blue satin gown with long blue gloves; with a length of Ferguson tartan over one shoulder, and her long dark hair tied in a blue velvet bow, she looked every inch a Celtic queen. James dressed in his best kilt and jacket—complete with the Duke’s old belt with an enormous silver buckle, and his father’s sgian dubh tucked into the top of one wool sock.

As the clock struck seven, James took his place in the castle foyer to greet his guests. Besides Jenny’s immediate family and relations, numerous local friends had been invited: drinking buddy Douglas; the Reverend and Mrs. Orr and their daughter Janet; Malcolm Hobbs, James’ longsuffering solicitor, and his wife and children; Calum’s parents; Shona’s boyfriend; Gavin’s girlfriend; along with the rest of the castle staff and their families. It must have amounted to nearly half the town and surrounding countryside. They all came dressed in their finest: the men in kilts, for the most part; the women in ball gowns, many with gloves, and most with traditional tartan shawls secured at their shoulders with jeweled brooches.

James stood for over an hour greeting them all, and watching the foyer and corridors fill up. He had given instructions that the great hall was to be locked and no one allowed in until the dinner bell had been rung. The delay served to heighten the anticipation; unable to help themselves, the children took turns trying the door handles every few minutes to make sure the doors were still locked.

When the last guest had arrived, James signaled Rhys to sound the bell, whereupon the King announced that it was his very great pleasure to extend the hospitality of Castle Morven to all his friends. “Embries,” he called across the crowd, “open the doors and let the festivities begin!”

 

The two huge doors were opened to reveal a room fragrant with the scent of peat and pine, and glowing with candlelight and hearth fire.

Artificial light had been banished. Massive iron candletrees—rousted out of the stables and reblacked—were stationed in every corner, each bearing a score of candles; there were candles all along the center line of the tables and also in the high, deep window wells all around; huge cathedral candles and slender tapers. A log and peat fire burned lustily in the enormous fireplace, taking the chill off the vast, high-roofed room.

The old oaken floor had been washed and waxed, and the two long medieval banqueting tables as well; every surface gleamed with a dull, ruddy luster. Every knife, fork, and spoon, every salt-cellar and sugar caster had been polished; every plate, goblet, cruet, and bowl gleamed in the soft lustrous light. Ivy trailed in long garlands from the stag heads and ancestral portraits on the walls. Boughs of spruce were piled heavily over the mantel. A low stage had been set up at the far end of the room, and this was all but covered in ivy and spruce.

To step across the threshold was to step back in time. Simple, elegant, and inviting, the hall looked very much as it would have looked during the High Middle Ages.

The old Duke’s armor-wearing ancestors, my ancestors, would have seen the hall just this way, James thought.

A trivial thing, perhaps—the modest festive decoration of an old room—yet James did feel that in some way he was connected with his ancestry and lineage; he felt rooted. No longer a usurper playing laird o’ the manor, he was the laird. He was the King and, for the first time since assuming the throne, he actually felt regal.

This realization produced in him a peculiarly intense longing; the fiosachd tingled, and he glimpsed, like the ghosts of Christmas past, the images of all those lords who had preceded him. They filled the hall, welcoming him with satisfaction and approval, raising their bowls to drink his health. The phantom image faded as quickly as it had arisen, but the effect lingered long, lending the festivities a mellow, golden glow. Calum and Isobel had masterfully plundered the old Duke’s wine cellar, and the resulting treasures were lined up like soldiers the length of the two great tables; reinforcements stood at the ready on improvised sideboards around the room. There were other choices as well, from heather ale to sparkling apple juice, and as they entered each guest was offered a glass of whatever they fancied. Cal and Izzy drafted Gavin and his girlfriend, Emma, to help with the drinks, and all four worked the crowd with bottles in both hands, priming the celebration pump.

Children flitted around the room like fairies. Dazzled by the candlelight and medieval ambience, they darted among the tall folk, their eyes wide with delight. The girls in their satin and tartan dresses and velvet hair bows and the boys in their diminutive kilts and high socks looked like miniature, less-restrained versions of their elders, racing from one end of the hall to the other, hooting and giggling.

When everyone was assembled, the bell sounded again and the guests were invited to find their places at the table. Shona and Cal had worked hard on the seating arrangement, and their ingenuity took some capricious turns. Embries, for example, was paired with Malcolm Hobbs’ nine-year-old daughter, and Mr. Baxter was placed between Caroline Rothes and Gavin’s girlfriend. James could not help notice that although he had not been allowed to sit with Jenny, Shona had managed to save a place for herself next to Rhys, and Cal was pleased to find himself next to Isobel.

No sooner had the last guest taken his seat than the first course appeared: Priddy’s champion oak-grilled salmon with peppercorns and cream. A smallish sample only, James was resisting the temptation to lick the plate when someone at the end of the table set his crystal goblet ringing with a spoon.

The guests looked up to see Sergeant-Major Evans-Jones standing at his place. “There is an old custom in the valleys where I was born,” he announced, “that on gala occasions such as this, the chaps help out with the serving so the dear ladies are not left with all the chores.” He paused, and added with a wink, “It’s a long, long night, after all.”

Looking up and down the room, he called, “Are ye wi’ me, lads? Say aye!”

There came a chorused Aye!, and, the Sergeant-Major cried in his best parade-ground bellow, “On yer feet, men! Let’s show ’em how it’s done!”

The menfolk rose and began clearing the first course plates and carrying them to the kitchen, where a very surprised Priddy protested that she didn’t want a lot of clumsy men tromping through her kitchen—but Owen wouldn’t hear of it. In no time, the two of them had the next course dished up and served: haunch of venison, roasted with fennel and herbs.

Among the castle’s tableware, Priddy had found a half dozen silver platters large enough to hold an entire haunch, and these were carried out, with great ceremony, three to each table. Bowls of steaming vegetables followed: potatoes roasted in dripping, braised carrots and parsnips with coriander, and apples baked with cloves, brown sugar, and rum—all filling the hall with a magnificent aroma.

Six stout and trustworthy men were given the task of carving the haunches. The bowls were taken place to place, and plates were filled. The next hour was presided over by the clink of cutlery and the happy murmuring hubbub of conversation punctuated by bursts of laughter and much passing of bottles. Could the Duke of Morven’s worthy claret ever have been put to such a noble purpose, James wondered, or enjoyed half so much?

Cal and Izzy had plucked the best vintages from the cellar, and made sure the glasses were generously and regularly supplied. Once during the meal, Isobel appeared at James’ side with a bottle in her hand. “This,” she promised reverently, “is going to be magic.”

Gathering the attention of all the nearby guests, she proceeded to uncork the bottle. “Now, you’ll have to drink this right away,” she said, pouring a small amount into each glass. “It won’t last long, but it will be amazing.”

As soon as she finished pouring, she raised her glass. “Slainte!” She tossed it back in a single gulp, rolled the wine around in her mouth, and swallowed. “Oh, that is good.” Her smile was dizzy with rapture.

All followed her example, and drank it down.

“Well? What do you think?” she asked.

“It is”—James searched for the right word, the flavor still alive on his tongue—”utterly divine.” Others volunteered other words: rhapsodic, ethereal, bottled light, glorious, sublime.

“What is it?” someone demanded.

Lifting the bottle, she presented the label. “It’s a Château Lafite-Rothschild”—she paused, drawing out the suspense—”of the year 1878.” There were gasps of astonishment all around. “When I found this, I knew we had to have it tonight. Isn’t it spectacular?”

There was half a swallow left in James’ glass, and he took it. But the flavor enjoyed only seconds ago was gone. It was as if the liquid in his glass had turned to ashes—flat, muddy, dank ashes. He swallowed with difficulty. “Extraordinary,” he remarked. “It’s gone. Vanished.”

“I know.” Izzy sighed in commiseration. “Wine that old only survives a few seconds once the air touches it. But isn’t it a miracle while it lasts?”

Isobel moved on to delight some more guests. The glow of that rare magic remained, however, and those who had tasted it were warmed to their very souls. James exulted in die revelry. Everyone was happy and talking, life’s cares and burdens forgotten for a while. This was, he reflected, how a holiday was supposed to be celebrated but rarely was: friends and loved ones gathered around die table for a little foretaste of heaven….

— Avalon: the Return of King Arthur, Chapters 32-33

Auda Abu Tayi:

I carry twenty-three great wounds, all got in battle. Seventy-five men have I killed with my own hands in battle. I scatter, I burn my enemies’ tents. I take away their flocks and herds. The Turks pay me a golden treasure, yet I am poor, because I am a river to my people!

[His tribesmen cheer.]

— “Lawrence of Arabia” (1962)

Seth:

We are…pilgrims on our way to worship at the Temple of Ar.

Dar:

I’ve never seen a…pilgrim…who could use a staff the way you did.

Seth:

Ah, but, sir! All pilgrims share a deep love of life—especially their own!

— “Beastmaster” (1982)

“Your fief is increased from five hundred koku to three thousand. You will have control within twenty ri.” A ri was a measure of distance that approximated one mile. “As a further token of my affection, when I return to Yedo I will send you two horses, twenty silk kimonos, one suit of armor, two swords, and enough arms to equip a further hundred samurai which you will recruit. When war comes you will immediately join my personal staff as a hatamoto.” Yabu was feeling expansive: a hatamoto was a special personal retainer of a daimyo who had the right of access to his lord and could wear swords in the presence of his lord….

— Shōgun, Chapter 6

Emphasis mine.