Time for another Friday doodle. (I know, I know, it's nearly Saturday before I got it posted.)
This one executed with that underappreciated artist's tool, the ball point pen.
Enjoy.
A look at the past, current, and future work by Duane Spurlock, writer, editor, and illustrator. At large in the world of genre.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Friday Doodle
I know it's Thursday evening as I post this, but by doing so you'll have a doodle all day Friday to visit and waste your employer's bandwidth while you're at work.
I haven't posted a Friday doodle in many moons, so it seemed time to hop to it.
Today's doodle has several action-type violent events going on.
"Hasan Chop!" came to mind from the Looney Tune Bugs Bunny/Daffy Duck short, "Ali Baba Bunny." But perhaps I misspelled Hassan/Hasan.
Anyway, enjoy: for your Friday.
I haven't posted a Friday doodle in many moons, so it seemed time to hop to it.
Today's doodle has several action-type violent events going on.
"Hasan Chop!" came to mind from the Looney Tune Bugs Bunny/Daffy Duck short, "Ali Baba Bunny." But perhaps I misspelled Hassan/Hasan.
Anyway, enjoy: for your Friday.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Work in Progress: Evening Wolf
A new Thor movie is on the way. Long before Chris Hemsworth swung his hammer onscreen as the God of Thunder, I
was fascinated by Vikings and Norse mythology. The Icelandic sagas are filled
with vigorously descriptive narratives, interesting poetic turns of phrase
(particularly those known as kennings, such as “slaughter dew” [blood], “spear
din” [battle], “whale road” [the sea], “Ymir’s skull” [the sky]), and
understated (sometimes deadpan) passages detailing power grabs and
double crosses that may be so subtle the reader is unaware of an incident’s
significance until a scene of violence suddenly erupts.
The best-known of this sort of tale is Beowulf. Indeed, my introduction to the Viking narrative was Beowulf. It’s a remarkable tale of heroism and monsters, and if you haven’t read it, let me encourage you to do so. There are many translations into modern English available, and you can choose from prose or poetic versions. A very nice one is that by the late, great Irish poet Seamus Heaney.
The best-known of this sort of tale is Beowulf. Indeed, my introduction to the Viking narrative was Beowulf. It’s a remarkable tale of heroism and monsters, and if you haven’t read it, let me encourage you to do so. There are many translations into modern English available, and you can choose from prose or poetic versions. A very nice one is that by the late, great Irish poet Seamus Heaney.
But there are many great sagas. For instance, in recent years,
J.R.R. Tolkien’s version of The Saga of the Volsungs was published. Tolkien
fills in some of the blanks for modern readers by including related scenes from
other works, and so the title of his translation is The Legend of Sigurd andGudrun.
That all may be a long-winded way to get to my point, which is to
introduce the passage below, part of a work in progress from my own Viking
tale, Evening Wolf. The title character, Kveldulf (whose name translates to
Evening Wolf), actually appears in one of the original Norse tales, Egil’sSaga, a famous saga about a black-hearted warrior-poet named Egil Skallagrimsson.
Kveldulf is Egil’s father. A few hints about Kveldulf’s youth are mentioned in
the saga, but no specific details. I use those few clues to build my story
about Evening Wolf. On with the tale . . .
Chapter
One
Osvif
Knifetongue was awake and up before the day to see the sun burn off the fog
that had separated them from the other ships they traveled with. Last night, quickly
reaching the point they would be unable to see or hear, the longship turned
closer to the coast as the stars appeared and then disappeared in the building
haze. The thickening dark of night had moved them to cease seeking the rest of
their pack and to anchor in this cove.
Someone of
the company stirred the embers of the fire into life behind Osvif. Already the
water and the fog had shared their last kiss, and the cloud’s belly rose to
show the pink sea surface.
“What’s
that?”
The
vanishing haze and the rising sun revealed a skiff out on the water.
Thorolf Gellison
was at Osvif’s shoulder now. The two had been companions since they were
youthful playmates. Thorolf was bigger and usually won whatever physical game
the boys played. But Osvif was more thoughtful, smarter in ways Thorolf
couldn’t quite manage, and Thorolf had recruited Osvif to lead this raiding
party.
Thorolf’s
sight was sharp as a [raptor’s]. He peered at the skiff. “Someone’s aboard,” he
said. “But he’s not moving about. Not coming in.”
Osvif
gestured with his head. A smallboat was put out, oars shipped, and he was rowed
to the skiff.
As they
approached, Thorolf swore. “It’s not a man.”
Then Osvif
saw with his own eyes. What they had thought was a man was simply a man’s skin,
wrapped about a frame of sticks to approximate a man. It sat upright in the
skiff. A bear’s pelt was draped over its shoulders to complete the illusion.
“It’s a
witch’s boat,” one of the crew said.
Osvif
nodded.
“Burn it,”
Thorolf said.
“It might
carry treasure,” Osvif said.
“Burn it,”
Thorolf repeated.
Osvif felt
the same chill as the rest when he gazed at the craft as it swayed on the
water. He agreed with Thorolf, but some contrary twinge made him say, “We’ll
bring it with us.” The hairs rose on the back of his neck even as he spoke.
He heard
Thorolf growling deep in his throat. The sound was nearly inaudible, but Osvif
caught it. He turned to Thorolf.
“We won’t
bring it aboard,” he said. He refused to go that far with what even he
recognized was an irrational decision. “Tie it aft. We’ll tow it until we find
someone who’ll know what to do with it.” He turned away from Thorolf to look at
the skiff again. “We’ll find someone.”
Thorolf
rubbed his palms on his thighs. He continued to growl.
+ + +
Two days
later.
Osvif
Knifetongue leaned forward as the longboat approached another dragon ship. It
lay still on the water. It had the same graceful lines as his craft.
“Slowly,”
he ordered. The crew complied. Osvif was surprised at their continued loyalty.
Or at least their compliance. He wondered why they had not yet pitched him overboard
and cut loose the skiff. Was it merely Thorolf’s presence? Or something else?
How far would Thorolf go before he, finally, refused Osvif’s commands?
They came
alongside the other ship. The thwarts touched, and Thorolf led the men in
securing lines between the two craft.
The ship’s
fine workmanship was marred by cuts and gouges made by swords and axes. Claws
had apparently splintered the surface of the central mast. Below those marks
sat one man huddled in a robe of wolf fur. His interest in the newcomers seemed
hardly aroused.
“Where is
everyone else?” called Osvif. He saw streaks of blood on the deck.
“Left me
behind,” the stranger answered.
“Who are
you?”
“Ulf Bjalfason. My mother is Hallbera, daughter of Ulf the Fearless. I am called Kveldulf.”
“I’ve heard
of him,” Osvif replied. “You don’t seem very interested in whether you float
alone here or get taken aboard.”
Kveldulf
shrugged. “Someone will come along. You came along.”
“You may
not want to join us.” Osvif nodded toward the stern. “We’re towing some
bewitched thing, not sure what to do with it.”
Kveldulf
raised his head and peered. “Let’s see.” He arose, nearly naked beneath the
robe. He strode leisurely to where he could see Osvif’s tow and stared long at
it. Osvif noted the long, lean muscles that wrapped the stranger’s frame and
stretched and knotted as he moved.
He came
back to the central mast. “I know that man.”
Osvif heard
one of his men mutter, “Od’s blood,” while another shushed him: “Odin’s fickle.
Best not call his name, or he’ll make matters still worse.”
“A man no
more,” Osvif said. “A skin sark warming sticks.”
“I’ll take
it,” Kveldulf said.
Osvif
peered at this stranger. He heard the crew whispering behind him.
“Give me
the skiff,” Kveldulf said, “and you can have this boat. I’ll take some
provisions, what I’m wearing. You can have the rest.”
Osvif
wondered if this was some pirate’s trick. He turned to Thorolf, who frowned and
nodded. He then saw the jittery mass of men on his own deck and recognized how
worn thin was the strand that held them in check: ready to part, sending them
into some blood fury that would likely lead to his own death.
He turned
back to Kveldulf. “We’d be off roaming and raiding. We’re to meet up at the
Orkneys, drive south to Francia. We’ve fortunes to make. It’s yours.”
+ +
+
The
transfer completed, Osvif watched Kveldulf paddle the skiff toward the south.
The skin still sat upright on its frame in the bow.
Thorolf led
the men in shifting goods from the abandoned longboat. They had found no sign
of another person. There were a few weapons—an axe, two knives, and a sword.
The men kept these. But four mail shirts were turned up and then tossed into
the deeps. One of the men muttered, “I’ll not wear the armor of ghosts.”
Thorolf had not scolded.
They set
fire to the empty ship. Osvif and his men turned their craft to the west. The
smoke of the fire smudged the sky behind them for hours.
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