Peter Alan Orchard: 'The Painter of Lemnos'

Time for another excerpt from my take on an episode from the Bronze Age. The painter Kindulos, blasted out of a quiet life on a Greek island painting mythical and rural scenes on rich men's walls by being selected as a human sacrifice, breaks with age-old tradition by running away:

EXCERPT:

It was not Kindulos's duty to escape. No-one ever escaped. It was the duty of the chosen one to be caught running to the mountain, to be bound and carried back to the village, borne high like the hunted animal he was. The last sound in his ears would be the keening of his mother, his last sight the painted face of a grinning village woman, priestess for the day, driving a spear into his throat. Then the smith-god would surely be content and the dreadful roaring and bucking of the island would stop, but the victim would know only the darkness and the fluttering unseen wings of dead souls.

Save me!

Panicked, Kindulos began to run again, behind the hill and into a gully sheltered by shrubs and the roots of acacia and tamarisk. He fell, his thin chest heaving, and lay waiting for the women. Voices pierced the air beyond him, the terrifying ululation of women preparing to shed blood - his blood. Kindulos clasped his arms around his head and shook with horror.

The screaming rose and fell away. There was a querulous tone now, the uncertain, indignant sound of hounds that have lost the scent. The women were further away, down the hill. Kindulos lay still, as a snake does when a hawk is hovering, and wondered, Am I the first to escape the women? And if I do, what of the mountain?

The cries of the women floated up the hill again, insistent, desperate, but far away, the crying of seabirds over a fishing boat. The earth settled and lay calm.

Kindulos lay in the gully until the sun died over the sea, and thought, What now?

He woke with a cry, itching from insect bites and ashamed to have slept. It was dark still, but lightening faintly into a grey dawn. Dew hung in the air, chill and sweet, scented with herbs. Slowly, afraid, Kindulos peered over the scrub and saw only the fingertips of moonlight on the sea, felt only the breeze on his face.

Hanging from his narrow waist, a leather belt carried his brushes and sponge in a leather bag, with powdered rocks and bones for pigment. A jar stoppered with a rag held his precious blue, a blend bought from an Egyptian trader.

'I'm alive,' Kindulos told himself with wonder. 'The island is resting again, all of itself. No need for death.' He patted himself down. 'I must work. I have a painting to finish.'

He set off down the hill until he reached a track beaten by goats driven to pasture. As he crossed it he heard the scuffle of hurrying feet. He froze and waited. The women were long gone, but what was this? A ghost? A god?

Out of the grey sky a small figure formed and hurried towards him. Kindulos breathed out deeply, relieved. It was a boy, the son of the trader whose wall he was painting, searching for him in the night.

'I'm safe,' Kindulos said, smiling into the darkness. 'I can start again.'

Paos waved Kindulos away, his thin arms whirling. 'No, Kindulos, you cannot! You must not!'

'But my family - '

'Your family must never find you. Never come back here. Go!'

Unfortunately, the only way of escaping the island is on a merchant ship carrying supplies for the Trojan War...

'The Painter of Lemnos' is available at Amazon, Amazon UK, Barnes and Noble, Smashwords and all the usual outlets.

Lindsay Townsend - Prehistoric Romance and a Sacred Site

TV series about the early pre-history of Britain always bring back memories for me of stone circles. Not of Stonehenge, however, but of Avebury, where my husband and I spent some time when I was writing Bronze Lightning. I took my heroine Sarmatia to Avebury and used the powerful setting for important scenes in the story.

As a place Avebury remains impressive and intriguing, despite the ravages of time and the deliberate vandalism of some of the huge stones. It’s older than Stonehenge and much bigger, incorporating several circles, avenues and barrows. The ditch was dug by red deer antler picks and was 30 feet deep. Its proximity to the West Kennet long barrow and Silbury Hill, the largest man-made mound in Europe, has led some archaeologists to speculate that this is a vast ritual site.

I've noticed, though, that the star status of Stonehenge has tended to put Avebury a bit in the shade. Is it because the massive stones don't have lintels? Or because the tiny village of Avebury has grown up within the site and so it doesn't appear as broodingly untouched?

Anyway, when we were there, it seems ages ago now, there was a white pheasant squawking in the village, a flight of old Lancaster bombers flew over to mark a wartime anniversary and the chimney of the cottage had a birds' nest in it. I have a soft spot for Avebury.

Here is an excerpt from Bronze Lightning my historical romance set in prehistory in Bronze Age Britain and Europe. In it, my heroine Sarmatia, a Kretan bull leaper, has been captured by the evil ruler Carvin and prevented from joining her betrothed, Fearn, who is now king of  the Atterians to the north. Sarmatia sees and walks amidst the stones of Avebury. To her and the people who live there it is a sacred site, a fertility site they call the Making Way. The other two places mentioned are the Hill of Earth (my name for Silbury Hill) and the Hag Mound (my name for the West Kennet long barrow.)

Excerpt:

Sarmatia poured the frothy beer from the jug, an evil suspicion growing in her mind. She did not look at Carvin as she handed him the first beaker.
'When can you leave?'
'Today, Lord, if you wish.'
'You know what to say?'
'I remember.'
'Tell me again, to be sure.' Carvin sucked in a mouthful of beer, motioned for more.
Sarmatia refilled his beaker, slopping the dark liquid into the cup as she heard her own name. The rider was quickly-spoken and his speech was formal, but the phrases that she did catch increased her alarm. For something to do, she started to pour the rider a beer, dashing the lip of the jug onto the tall drinking vessel with a clash.
Carvin smiled. 'Let us drink now to a fruitful conclusion of our work. And to your safe journey. It's a long ride to the Atterians!'
Sarmatia clenched her teeth, willing herself to be silent. Pleading would do no good here. Better to remain quiet and try to remember that the rider was taking nothing north but words. No proof. She moved and steadily filled the second beaker to its brim, but when she offered the rider the cup Carvin grabbed her wrist, pulling her down onto her knees.
'Give that shepherd-boy king back his trash, too,' he said harshly. 'No bitch of mine wears another man's token!' And though Sarmatia tried to stop him, Carvin ripped the leather thong from her throat in one searing tear, tossing Fearn's ring to the booted messenger. 'Here.'
Sarmatia started up, but the rider had been waved away and Carvin had his hands in her hair. 'I'll take these, too!' He wrenched the seal stone which had belonged to Sarmatia's mother from her wrist and dragged the Egyptian crocodile torc from her neck. 'No—' Carvin laughed as Sarmatia grabbed for the seal stone and struck her across the face with the torc. 'You have them back only when you've pleased me.'
Sarmatia fell against the bed, clutching her bloodied mouth. Carvin's face hung above hers. 'You're mine! I spun your shepherd-boy a pretty tale: said you'd fallen into my bed for the price of an earring. What do you think he'll make of that?
'That foul ring would convince any man,' he muttered tonelessly, lashless eyes widening, 'And even if the fool guesses you're my slave, what can he do? There are more sheep than men in his patch of dirt!' Carvin's voice grew shrill. 'His kind were eating grass when mine were ruling!'
Carvin rasped on and Sarmatia buried her head in the bearskin covering the bed and tried to shut him out. This was the end. Fearn would see the ring and perhaps even believe the messenger's story. He would despise and then forget her—forever. She would grow old as the slave of Carvin.
Sarmatia choked and pushed away from the bed, but as she tried to rise, Carvin caught her hair again. 'No tears?' He yanked her cold face into the light from the door. 'No touching scene? Don't you want me to recall that rider? No, it's too late now!' The man laughed and stifled Sarmatia's plea with a perfumed hand. 'Guard!'
A bronze-covered soldier strode into the hut and stopped at the other side of the hanging, staining the cloth black with his shadow.
'Lift back the covering!' Carvin ordered.
Momentarily, Sarmatia was aware of daylight again, but then was blinded by cold, green sparks of fresh pain when Carvin's fingers slithered round her jaw and squeezed. He spoke to the guard without taking his eyes from her.
'I wish to prepare for the feast, tonight,' he said. 'This piece can earn her bread by cooking it. See to it!' Carvin released Sarmatia with a spiteful push that sent her skidding along the chalk floor. Then, as though he had forgotten her existence with his dismissal, the man absently thrust out his tongue and licked the blood from his fingers. Her blood.
Revolted, Sarmatia found she could not stop looking until he had swallowed, then she lurched to her feet and stumbled outside with the guard.
Gradually, the relief of her temporary escape pared some of Carvin's misery away, and Sarmatia became aware of a world outside herself. This older guard, Riard, was one of the better ones. He might even allow her to visit Bride.
'Riard, I'll need some rowan berries for the sauce.' This was a lie. She would do no more than was demanded of her, but rowan trees grew close to the lean-to forge.
'Right. Let's get off this hill then.'
Relieved it had been so easy, Sarmatia picked up an earthen crock. Clutching it close, she drew a comforting warmth from its sun-glazed sides. Whether Riard saw the gesture or whether he too breathed freer away from Carvin, Sarmatia never knew, but the guard began to talk to her as they tramped away from the hill-fort.
'People might call me daft, but I always think this place is the oldest in the whole of the world.' Pointing out across the open countryside, Riard traced the long line of the horizon with his spear. 'Everywhere you look is holy. The Hill of Earth and the Hag Mound and the Making Way, where my wife and I walked to get our second child.'
Where Fearn and I will never walk, thought Sarmatia, her eyes picking out the granite sarsens of the Making Way that ran through the small oak wood of the valley and up and over the gently sloping meadows. She sighed and rubbed as much of her arms as she could without dropping the basin. Whenever she had dealings with Carvin, it set her skin on edge. Taking a chance on the guard's good humor, she asked, 'Where's the stud field, Riard? Can we go there?' It was important that she see Gorri, make certain the horse was safe. Up in the hill fort with Carvin, there was not so much as a shrew. Carvin kept no pets. Except her.

Lindsay
http://www.lindsaytownsend.co.uk
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Lindsay Townsend: 'Bronze Lightning'

My mainstream historical novel 'Bronze Lightning' is now half-price at Bookstrand until Feb 2012. Please see below for details of the novel.

'Bronze Lightning,' historical romance, Winner, Christmas Award 2009 for Red Roses for Authors


Blurb: Ancient Krete, 1562 BC.

Sarmatia is a trainer for the Bull Rite, the dangerous, glamorous ceremony of bull-leaping that gave a young Kretan entry into adulthood. Fearn is healer from the distant northern Isle of Stones summoned for his skills to the sick-bed of Minos, the Kretan king. They meet on the dusty flagstones of the palace courtyard and both save a life.
A year passes. They are betrothed, but Fearn has returned home and is chosen king of his small northern country. As king, master of storms, he cannot return to Krete. Fearn writes to Sarmatia releasing her from her vows - but is this what they really want?
Sarmatia leaves Krete to search for Fearn. Many months and life-and-death adventures later, she is reunited with him. She and Fearn are still deeply in love but there is an unknown enemy working against them, one who will stop at nothing, even murder.

"In Bronze Lightning I wanted to show ancient Krete, ancient Egypt, Stonehenge and Avebury as they might have been when people lived and worshipped there, the magic and beliefs of Bronze Age Europe, and two young lovers, Sarmatia and Fearn, who are driven apart by fate but who both fight to be reunited." ~ Lindsay ~

A BookStrand Mainstream Romance : Lindsay Townsend

4.5 RED ROSES: "This is a remarkable book in that it takes you back in time. It is well written so that you get a glimpse of the world at that time and it gives you a wonderful mystery as to who is behind the attacks and keeps you guessing as to what will happen next. The many twists and turns keep you engrossed as you try to figure out who is behind all the mishaps that keep happening." -- Linda Sole, Red Roses for Authors

4 STARS: "Bronze Lightning transports readers back in time. I felt as though I was watching the ancient rites into adulthood. I felt the fear of the young initiate fear and triumph. Bronze Lightning is beautifully written. Fans of historical romance will enjoy Bronze Lightning." -- Debra Gaynor, Review Your Book


EXCERPT:

Sarmatia spun away and was gone, somersaulting over her hands and landing with a soft clash of gold ankle bells. Their meeting of eyes had lasted no more than a breath, yet it kept returning to haunt her as the music shrilled to a climax and the piebald bull was let into the court. Even as the flute players left and the Bull Rite began, her gaze was drawn to the back of the courtyard.

Three of the seven had completed their Passage and two were gone: the fourth initiate should have been ready. As the bull came to a jolting stop at one end of the court, pawed restively and licked the painted flags, Sarmatia motioned to a creamy-skinned, gray-eyed girl. The youngster backed up a step. The bull raised its head, its horn scraping against a pillar. The girl blanched and looked wildly about, ready to run. In three strides Sarmatia made up the space between them and gripped her arm. Unseen by the families, she pressed the flat of her dagger into the initiate's side. Cruel to be kind, she threatened.

'This or the bull if you show your back, Pero!' she whispered, turning the blade for the girl to feel its edge. 'The only way out is through the horns.' Whatever Sarmatia's private disgust and unease, custom and the crowd demanded it. They would not forgive Pero if she failed.

'I can't!' Pero was shaking and near tears. A low murmur ran around the watching crowd like a wind through barley: the mob and the bull would not wait much longer. Pierced by pity, Sarmatia squeezed the girl's thin shoulder. 'Do you want to be a child all your life?' she asked gently.

'Sarmatia, I can't! Those horns, they're like knives, and the bull— Oh, Mother!' Pero's voice cracked. 'It's looking for me!' The bull had trotted out of the shadows at the back of the courtyard.

Sarmatia stepped in front of Pero, shielding the girl. 'Look, it's nothing.' She ran forward, clapping her hands.

The bull halted and its head slewed round towards them, a brown forelock covering one eye. 'To me!' she shouted.

The beast dropped its great horns. She heard the people applaud. With an explosion of dust the bull charged. She felt its hot, closed mind surrounding her. For an instant skill deserted her. She remembered she was too old for the Bull Rite. A blaze of gold spilled from the bull's horns, instinct returned and with it sureness. She caught the horns and let herself rise. Time and the horizon fell back, she could see the blue vault of heaven, the red-mouthed 'O' of the crowd, a flash of red-gold hair as Fearn turned his head, following her descent. Her feet touched the bony rump of the bull, she tucked in her arms and somersaulted off, running forward as she landed.

Behind her the beast gave a sulky grunt, swept this way and that with its horns and lashed its tail. Pero worked her way into its sight, swaying her hips to keep quick and supple. The piebald ambled off in the opposite direction then suddenly spun about and bore down on the girl in another burst of speed. Sarmatia moved to cover Pero's tumble and signalled to the remaining initiates to do the same. She heard the girl seize the bull's horns, with a great smack on each palm, and saw her tossed, arching like a dolphin in mid-air and rising clear of the deadly gilded horns. The time of peril would be when the girl landed. If Pero caught an ankle or winded herself, Sarmatia knew she would have to be in quickly to distract the beast.

There was a shower of dark hair and Pero touched earth to a roar from her family. Sarmatia grabbed her arm and pulled her clear, but was not fast enough: already the bull had skidded round. Too late, Sarmatia realized what the beast had seen. A child had kicked a hole in the fencing and was running out into the turbid afternoon light. No time to draw the bull off— all she could hope for was to reach the boy first.

Sprinting, her insides turning to water, Sarmatia rushed for the child. As her hands closed round his tiny—so tiny!—body and her cheek grazed the stones she thought, with terrible clarity: I promised they would be safe. I've failed.

For a second, a dark breathing shadow hung over her. Then came pain, the slow tearing punch of the horn.

                                                                  * * * *

She came awake suddenly, crying out. Firm hands kept her flat against the stones.

'Peace, Kretan,' said the man crouched beside her, pressing a cloth onto the spurting wound in her side. 'There's nothing to fear.' In the sun his hair framed his broad-featured face like a nimbus, yet there was darkness behind him. The bull was still free in the courtyard.

Sarmatia wet her lips with her tongue. 'The child?'
Fearn jerked his head to one side. 'Ramose has taken his son. He's safe.' The initiates were also gone, the crowd hanging back, uncertain what to do.
They were alone in the court, except for the bull. Fearn pressed on her side again then withdrew the cloth. A dark spiral of blood pooled under Sarmatia's ribs; blood no longer pumped from the wound. She scarcely felt it as he bound the gash with a bandage made from his tunic. 'You must leave, Sir, the bull—'

She broke off, eyes widening, and Fearn whipped round. Ready to gore, the bull was lowering its huge head, its face so close that its breath stirred the bristles of Fearn's beard. Fearn threw up an arm to fend off the horns and drove a fist into the face of the beast. 'Get back!' He hit the creature a second time. 'Learn your lesson!'
The bull snorted and the healer shifted, covering Sarmatia completely with his body. He stamped the stones and shouted at the beast. ‘Go on! Go on!’
As Fearn's boot hammered the flags, there came the rumble of a distant storm, like the muffled roar of a lion. The beast started back and with a bellow turned tail and ran.

'Bronze Lightning' links to all sellers, including Bookstrand, here.

Best wishes, Lindsay

Lindsay Townsend http://www.lindsaytownsend.net/