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there, and he had no need of court hairdressers to make his hair curl close to his skull. Although he was only seventeen he had long been the favourite athlete of the crowd. He was called The Egyptian because he had been a slave in the kingdom of the Nile. His mastery of the bulls had won him admiration throughout Crete. He was agile, cool-headed, wise in the ways of these creatures made mad by darkness and blinding light, and starved to make their tempers sharp. The mark of Piros fame hung around his throat, a chain of gold supporting a disc engraved with the head of a bull. It had been awarded him, at the request of nobles and court ladies, by the man he now approached. Nickname The Bull for his powerful and frightening appearance, Prince Tauros looked older than his twenty-one years. He sat with his mother, the Queen, and his two sisters. Queen Pasiphae was a disdainful woman with arched brows, thin features and shrewdly intelligent eyes. Princess Ariadne, a girl of sixteen, also had a nickname, but one given her in admiration. She was called Princess Fairlocks. It was claimed that the Earth Goddess, as a birthday gift, had once brushed her hair with enchanted silver. Ariadnes younger sister was Princess Phaedra, dark and solemn At the rasping summons of a conch horn, the painted gates opened. The bull stood motionless in a cloud of dust and sand, dazzled by the light. Its head swayed heavily, tail flicked. Its hooves stamped impatiently on the hot ground. A roar from the crowd broke over the bulls head, confusing it, filling it with panic. It tried to halt the noise by wheeling round and snorting, only to discover that the sounds had swelled in volume. They had become united and were advancing to torment the bull with invisible thrusts. Across a golden distance immediately ahead, a figure moved forward. All the noise and light seemed to concentrate in it. The figure danced, arms waving, and the voices seemed to burst from it, growing louder as it approached. Head down, blood pounding behind its eyes, the bull began to trot. It fixed the position of the black shape. Sand rose. The light was blocked by a swift shadow. There was a sudden pressure around the horns, a weight on the head that forced it downwards. Then a soft touch on the hind quarters, and beyond the settling dust there was nothing, only a yellow mist and specks of light. The shadows came fast now, one after another. The bull tossed its angry horns and struck nothing but air. It felt the weight again and again, the strange final touch on the hind quarters, followed each time by the triumphant shouts and the sounds of hands beating together. Despite its rage, the bull recorded the habits of its attackers. It knew their direction; that a shadow left the ground and a moment later there was the weight on its lowered horns. With every sortie the bull proved a more
formidable adversary. It learned to raise its head as the shadow left the ground. Then there was a more rewarding encounter, with the impact of flesh and a cry different from the others. The light touch of hands on the hind quarters did not come. Above its own stormy breath, the bull sensed a change in the noise. It was less certain, less triumphant. The creature spun around. Instinct was beginning to dispel its earlier desperation. The taunting had gone wrong. Something white and low moved close by, not dancing now, not waving, its head bowed. The bull stood with sweat steaming on its shoulders and back, no longer terrified but filled with eagerness for the attack. The voice, a few strides away, was human, and in the whiteness there were eyes. Out of line of the bulls vision, it sensed a flickering of shadows, but it had seen enough of its target to make no mistake. The weight on its horns was immense, uneven, then fell away, leaving spurts of hot liquid that coursed into eyes and nostrils. The bull knew victory. Spattered with the blood of the young leaper, it now came straight for Piros. The Egyptian danced right up to the moment the horns were an arms length away. Then he was in the air, searching confidently past the blooded points to clasp the horns from each side. The bulls head jerked upwards violently but Piros was already plunging forward, body straightened to the horizontal, legs beginning to bend at the knees. He touched down on the slippery hide, rose again slightly, then brought head and knees tightly to his body. He sprang and landed on the balls of his feet. Momentum carried him a yard farther where he was checked by his team mate, Chronakis. Yet the bull had measured another pattern. Instead of continuing its run as it had before, it halted and turned about. Shadows scattered. A white low form raised itself feebly. Horns were lowered to kill when all at once a weight came, not from the front, not in the form of a shadow. It was on the bulls back. There was pressure about its throat as though ropes were being tightened. Its eyes wrenched from the target and held square into the sunlight, the bull stumbled and tripped across the white shadow. Quickly! yelled Piros. Get him away. Theseus, the Athenian, enters the tale and adventures race through labyrinths of intrigue.
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the Imperial War Museums Spanish Civil War exhibition, Dreams and Nightmares (2001-2). Capa was killed in 1958 photographing the Vietnam War. I reckon Ill opt for that cartridge belt and harness as likely authenticators until evidence stronger than a black-and white background shifts my faith in this amazing picture.
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Poems of Place 4
DOLBADARN TOWER When stone upon stone This tower was built By hands untutored In the language of art; On this eminence: the hill peak With Lamberis lake beyond, And further still the mountains, The talk would never In a thousand years Have dwelt on myth or mystery, The quaint or the magical; and yet The Tower of Dolbadarn Placed by rude hands in raw clime Inspired constructions in oil-paint, Fabrications in delicate washes By masters such as Claude Lorrain And in consequence the mighty Turner As well as lesser daubers In search of style. Moses Griffiths painted here; William Jennings and Henry Gastoneau. Here sketched entranced Thomas Tutor, William Buttle and John Josiah Dodd. Here on damp grass under lowering skies Georges Salter, Campion and Barrett Defined the picturesque, And after brief dreams made way For Sandby, Paul and Thomas Smith Caf. On a special Sunday in Lent The humble masons left their shivering tombs For a private view Sponsored by the Arts Council of Wales Of tower and landscape framed, Of mists enticed, sun-streams captured,
Of light romanced, of meaning Delineated in golden (But also learned) hues. Hows it strike you, Dai? Enquiries the Curator with sherry poised, Of the master mason, disengaging him From his moss-covered huddle. Such artefacts, Dai pronounces (The rooms electric For art and life are truly met), Such artefacts show bravura, Indubitably sweet sensitivity, Unarguable skills, if not genius But and here the room grows cold As the myriad ghosts of artists past Rise up with dank breath And palettes colourless But I fear the secret message Of Dolbadarn eludes one and all. Aghast, the master daubers shiver. Their bones rattle like wild Welsh gales. Pray how, Dai, ashen tinctured Quakes the Curator, much deflated, Do you deny the vision Of sublimity, reject the judgment Of scholarly voices To arrive at such a conclusion? Dais words are winter leaves Crackling through frosted churchyards: The secret all probed for Lies not in the tower but in the stone, Not in the tree but the bark, Not in the leaf but the vein, Not in the lake, but the waterdrop For my parched throat; not In the sky but the air I can no longer breath. Though fading fast, Dai mutters on, Dolbarden shimmering, Llanberis aglow In his outstretched palms: Put them together, good Sirs, And what have you got? From their own cold beds In windswept heather and thyme, The geniuses of the sable
Cock fleshless ears and await The master masons divination. Alas dear readers, at this moment Another master the caretaker-in-chief Slams open the museum doors, and calls, Everybody out, smelly corpses first! For none high or low dare say him Nay. And that is the reason the Tower of Dolbadarn Retains its secret to this very day.
CORRESPONDENCE
Readers may recall correspondence the Blog has received from Ned Baslow of Derbyshire. In response to a NOTES IN PASSING feature on the ancient sites of Derbyshire, such as Arbor Low and The Bull Ring (Blog 15, 15 September 2010) Ned wrote to point out that he and his wife Betty did their courting on the hallowed site of the Bull Ring and later informed us of the super arts festival he was helping to arrange in his home village of Wickerstaff-cum-Fernhaven, though this has had to be postponed as a result of Councillor Stokoe, star of the musical dramatisation of The Adventures of Don Quixote, having suffered a fall resulting in the need for a hip operation. Councillor Stokoe very kindly wrote to Editorial recommending Neds Letters to Celebrities and we have permission to reproduce the councillors comments here:
least with a toehold in the land of the living. However, reading the first of Neds letters we acknowledge that, dutifully taken, the advice he gives could well have made a difference to a great deal that has happened in this country since, well, since 1066 and all that.
Watch him! That is my counsel; and if he tries on one of those canny feigned retreatswell, of course, you know all about that sort of thing; but if youre dog tired theres always the danger of forgetting the ABCs of combat. And you can be sure that Billy will have treated himself and his cohorts to a decent nights sleep and a fried breakfast. Attack? No. Your best advice is to play for time. Relax, the whole countrys behind you. Let old Billy fret. Let him worry about when his next meal is coming from; and as his line of advance begins to look like a line of retreat, when his cavalrys eating grass and wondering where all the signposts to London have disappeared to, then you strike. This time it will be you who have him by the short and curlies. I am of the opinion, Sire, that it would be stark, staring lunacy not to opt for defence by stealth on this occasion. Ignore the temptation to play two up front, leaving your centre backs open to counterattack. Those housecarls of yours are renowned for having more muscle than grey-matter, so keeping them on a tight leash should be a priority. Despite the doubts that have driven me to pen this message, I feel confident that even if my letter does not reach you before your departure, its recommendations will already have been anticipated and heeded. Sire, I can see 1066 being another triumphant year for Britons everywhere, and yet another affirmation of the English (I mean Saxon) way of life. Yours confidentially, Ned Baslow Yer Tis, Old Roman Road Wickerstaff-cum-Fernhaven.. Thanks, Ed. Theres nothing lost by trying. We hope to publish another of Eds Celebrity Letters in the next edition. NEXT MONTH: Bleakland Scenarios Notes on Nordic crime thrillers.
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