One of the problems – or, perhaps, the best things – about Gothic Horror is that it does tend to be sad. Usually, there are at least one or two characters who don’t deserve whatever is happening to them, or who have done something which is being punished in a way which does not in any way fit the crime. M.R. James’s writing is perhaps a constant reiteration of the old proverb, “curiosity killed the cat”, but curiosity in itself isn’t a bad thing; while Jonathan Harker in Bram Stoker’s Dracula finds himself in the initial dangerous situation through no fault of his own. Perhaps the saddest story in this anthology is The Lady Who Dances in the Ashes , which was first published by Sley House in Tales of Sley House 2022 . Here is the story of a man who is facing professional and financial ruin as a result of suggesting that mental health patients can be treated in the community rather than institutionalised. He is one of the most sympathetic narrators you will find in the book, but he bad...
Continuing from last week's post which explored Artwork as Inspiration (the starting point for Proof of the Old Faith) I'm sticking with Norse culture. Here is The Weave of the Norns, a poem I wrote a few years ago about these three frightening women.
Enjoy!
The Norns by Arthur Rackham
Beneath the threat of utter doom
he sought them at their fabled loom.
The king searched on until he found
them on the morrow’s battleground.
The tallest worked the wheel alone;
the next, a shuttle made of bone;
the shortest bore a silver sword
with which she severed each loose cord.
What pattern spun these women three,
dictating mankind’s victory!
“I come to beg you demonstrate
a gentle weaving of our fate.”
“Then know you this, oh man of peace,
we weave the thread and cannot cease.”
“Weave us an ending to this war
and grant us threads of peace once more.”
“What cost would such a wise man pay
for us to change our weave this way?”
And now he saw the bloody thread,
time’s fabric dripping crimson red.
As though she took him in her hand
he felt her pull aside one strand.
“You have forgone your chance to leave.
Your life is foretold in the weave.”
The sword cut clear, the thread hung down,
the mediator lost his crown.
For Fate demands a sacrifice
to cast aside her weighted dice.
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