Monthly Archives: January 2017

Raven’s Run 71

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They could not help me. There was no regular route to be followed. What Davy called the circuit was more a web than a path. From Montreaux, there were certain cities which were logical destinations and others which were not, but I could figure that out for myself with a map. Eventually they should reach Oslo. Oslo was a good gig for street musicians and Eric was Norwegian. But by the same reasoning, that should be one of his last stops for the summer, and I needed to find them now.

“Look, Ian,” Colin said, “I really would like to help, but this isn’t the way to do it. What you need to do is go back to Montreaux, find a xerox machine and make up a hundred copies of those pictures. Dave and Kristin and I will take them with us and pass them around. You put that phone number you gave me right on the copy. Eventually, someone we know, or someone who knows someone we know, will see Eric or Raven. They can pass on a message or call your friend in Marseille.”

I was moved by his simple acceptance and willingness to help.  He waved my thanks aside, and we moved on to other subjects.

The next morning I caught the first westbound steamer for Montreaux. I walked the early morning streets for two hours before I found a place to make copies. On the master copy I wrote Will’s phone number at the consulate, along with the message, “Raven, I need to talk to you about the men who came on board the Wahini in Marseille. Call Will for details.” Then I called Will. He was out, so I left a message and caught a steamer back to the campground. Colin was gone already, and Dave and Kristin were breaking camp. They said they would see Colin again in Locarno and would pass his half of the copies on at that time.

I broke camp myself, took a steamer back to Montreaux once again, and called Susyn. She was out, but she had left a message for me saying that she had had no luck.

I went to the youth hostel and hit paydirt. Sort of. Eric and Raven had been there while I was camping at Villeneuve, but they had checked out. They hadn’t said where they were going. It took all morning to find someone who had talked to them, and she didn’t know where they were going to go next. Then came the midday lockout. I walked the streets of Montreaux, frustrated, looking for street musicians, but none of them knew anything. Most of them were suspicious. It takes time to gain rapport as I had with Colin, Dave, and Kristin. Time and patience, and I was in a mood to pound walls. I called Susyn. She was still out. 

Finally, the youth hostel opened and I checked in. I doubted that I would be staying the night, but checking in gave me a right to be there. By five that evening I had as close to a lead as I was going to get. Eric had mentioned going to Salzburg, and Raven had wanted to go to Venice. more tomorrow

280. Menhir, a winter’s tale 1

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This is one installment of a twelve part excerpt from Valley of the Menhir. Check December 29 for an introduction to the novel.

The first blizzard of winter moved in, and for a week Marquart stayed close to home, studying maps, records and journals. He had a banner made with the sign of the striking hawk in black on a field of blue, and set it flying above the manorhouse. It was the first time his kladak had been used for anything but marking his personal goods, and it gave him pleasure. The Valley of the Menhir might be small, backward, and forgotten, but it was his.

The Valley was roughly round, roughly forty miles across. The River Gull divided it in two, flowing in through a gap in the western hills, picking up half a dozen minor tributaries and debouching through a wide, low gap on the east.  It was navigable only for nine miles, from the sea to the place where the menhir lay. On the coast was a small seaport, Port of the Gull, through which the valley’s exports passed, when there were exports.

The Weathermistress must have been in a nasty mood the day the Valley was created. When protracted winds from the west brought in hot, dry air from the Dzikakai plains, there was drought. When spring rains rode the seawinds from the south or east, there were floods. In all seasons, there was uncertainty.

On the north side of the Gull were Marquart’s direct holdings. To his east was Jor’s land. Technically, it was Marquart’s; if he ever chose to give it to another warden, it would be his right. But Jor had lived there all his life, and had the use of the land from his father, who had it from his father, who had originally been granted wardency by some lord whose name Marquart did not even know. So Marquart had decided to leave him in place, at least for now, and see if he had learned a lesson. Marquart’s soldier’s instinct said that Jor had not, but there was nothing to gain in precipitate action.

There were four other wardens, each with land and a fortified house. Wardency was a normal and reasonable way of distributing responsibility for the valley, but there was a catch. Like Jor, they had all lived for generations on lands they thought of as theirs. After generations of peace, every warden’s family was bloated with useless uncles and aunts and nephews and cousins. The serfs could not produce enough to feed them all.

“What this place needs,” Marquart said to himself, “is a good war to weed out the warrior class.” But he didn’t mean it. He had seen too much of war to want it visited on his new home. continued tomorrow

Raven’s Run 70

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”I saw your Eric several times last year when I was making the circuit alone.”

”Circuit?”

“What I call it. It works this way: in winter, when you are going crazy studying for exams and wondering if the sun will ever shine again, you plan your summer holiday. You know you can go on the cheap, but even if you hitchhike and sleep out, it still takes a bit of money. Not much, but a bit. So you see who you can put the bite on, or what you can do to earn your way. If you play and sing, all’s well. You take your guitar, or bagpipes, or whatever, and set out to earn your way through your holiday. But its not an easy life. Half the holiday makers you see won’t give you the time of day; even if they sit for an hour listening, they only drop shillings. Cheap bastards, most of them.

“This year, its different. Kris and I are in love, and that helps; but what we really found was that if we let it show, people pay better. It’s like they’re buying a part of our happiness. We are living well this year, where last year I nearly starved, and my guitar playing hasn’t improved that much.”

“Image,” I said.

“Exactly. Image. Like Colin and his bagpipes. He doesn’t rake it in like we do, but he does all right. But if he didn’t wear the kilt and all that other shit, and march around like he was going off to fight the Boers, he wouldn’t make a penny.”

“I saw a girl playing flute in Lausanne,” I said. “She was good, but she wasn’t making any money.”

“I saw her. Pretty girl; pretty sound; no gimmick. She doesn’t stand a chance. In two or three weeks, she’ll go home beaten. Or some guy on the circuit will pick her up and teach her the ropes. The latter, I’d say, considering how good she looked.”

Kristin clouted him in the head, knocking him off balance. He said, “Hey!” and she said, “Don’t you go noticing so many good lookers, Davy, or you’ll lose your gimmick.” He grinned back at her, unperturbed.

Colin said, “Eric’s gimmick is his fiddle. It catches the tourists’ attention because it is exotic, and then he has the skill to hold them. I saw him once at L’orient, playing on the fringes of the international Celtic festival. I didn’t remember him before, because you asked about this year. I saw him two, maybe three years ago.”

“Can your Raven sing?” David wanted to know. I said I had no idea. “If she can, it would be a great draw. She looks great, and she is exotic.”

“Exotic?” Raven’s beauty was like a thousand other Hispanic girls I had seen. It was not unique, except in its perfection. Then I shifted mental gears. Hispanic features – that particular blend of Spanish caballero and Indio – were not to be found in Europe. To these people, Raven would be as exotic as a devadasi in Cleveland. more tomorrow