Into Spirit…

Sue Vincent

14th September 1958 – 29th March 2021

R.I.P

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An Unexpected Encounter…

We took to the backroads again, nodding to Drake’s statue as we passed through Tavistock once more, climbing up towards Dartmoor. On our way south, the mists had closed around us completely and we had seen little more of the wild beauty of the moors than the first few yards and the tarmac in front of the car. This time, the skies were clear, and the few miles over the moor looked like taking a while, as I could not resist stopping at almost every possible place.

Dartmoor is an ancient and unspoiled landscape. Once, long, long ago, it was forested, but our early ancestors began creating clearings to attract game. That worked so well they no longer needed to follow the herds, but settled down, forming the communities that left behind them a landscape rich in archaeology. A landscape we would not have time to explore on this trip, sadly.

Rocky tors crown the peaks where heather, gorse, and bracken rule over almost three hundred and seventy square miles of moorland. There are innumerable stone circles, settlements, cists, cairns, standing stones and stone rows… I think you could spend a lifetime up on the moor and never fail to marvel at the richness of its history or its bleak beauty. And if the archaeology were not enough, there are many legends and old stories to explore, from the Hairy Hands that grab a driver’s wheel, to tales of piskies for whom saucers of cream are still left at the door, black dogs, strange beasts and the occasional ghost.

And then there are the ponies. The pure-bred Dartmoor pony is now rare, with only a few hundred on the moor, where once there were thousands. The decline of the tin mines and the advent of mechanisation meant that the hardy, gentle ponies with their thick winter coats were no longer an economic necessity. The few that remain are kept in enclosed areas to prevent interbreeding with the semi-feral hill ponies that wander freely over the moor. It is these that the visitor is most likely to see and, thoroughbred or not, they are a delight. We were lucky to see many mares with tiny foals, some finding their feet and exploring, others just resting amongst the grass and wildflowers.

The relationship of man with these beautiful creatures can be traced back at least three and a half thousand years and their bones have been found in tombs on the moor. There is no way of knowing, without evidence, just how long ago man and horse began their symbiotic relationship, but one of the earliest artworks that remains in Britain, dating back around twelve and a half thousand years, is a carving of a horse that we had seen at Cresswell Crags, far away in the north. The ponies continue to play a critical part in the ecology of the moors, trampling down gorse and bracken, and at least one species of butterfly is wholly dependent upon their presence.

During daylight hours, the ponies wander close to the road, knowing full well that tourists are always good for a snack, even though it is forbidden to feed them. Stop the car to take photographs and you will not leave without encountering one of these friendly and curious animals who know nothing of the law and a good deal about how to convince tourists that they really need that illegal snack.

Sadly, though, the need for speed kills around a hundred and fifty animals on the moor every year. The open roads are too much of a temptation for ‘boy racers’ of any age or gender. Garden waste dumped by the side of the road poisons horses and money kills many more. The market for Dartmoor ponies is poor, with foals not even selling at market for £10… so foals are shot and sold to zoos as lion meat. Many of the farmers who keep Dartmoor ponies do so at great cost to themselves and various bodies are doing all they can to preserve and encourage the survival of the breed, including a controversial attempt to create a market for pony meat in restaurants. The hope is that if farmers can sell three-year-old ponies for the table, at least the foals will not be shot at birth, and the income would ensure their survival. That after thousands of years of living and working with these gorgeous creatures their survival depends on whether or not we care to eat them seems an appalling indictment of our society. Surely their presence in our lives and lands is worth more than that?

***

***

A thousand miles of history…

To be exact, that should be one thousand, one hundred and twenty four miles, but that makes for a bit of a mouthful… According to my navigator, on this road trip, half the roads we took are not even marked on the paper map we use, and we are pretty certain that many of them exist only as sunbathing spots for the local ovine, bovine and equine population. We began with a couple of places we wanted to see en route to Dorchester, for the workshop. Over the course of that weekend, we visited twelve historic sites spanning several thousand years. The next day we went west for moorlands, stone circles and a rather special church. And then we headed down to Cornwall and, with sacred and ancient sites around pretty much every corner, a misty, turquoise sea beneath fabulous cliffs and wildflowers everywhere, we were in our element. Without the camera, I would have no chance of remembering all the places we visited in any semblance of order! As it is, I came back with a couple of thousand photos, fair buzzing at the incredible places we had been… and even the long drive home held surprises. It seems incredible that we could see so much, and all without rushing either. Perhaps it was the mists… or perhaps the green wormholes through which we walked and drove that exploited a loophole in the space-time continuum but whatever the cause, I came home a very happy hobbit. And with so many places to write about…

Paperback now available at Amazon

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Hawk at Dusk

***

Since the birth of the Silent Eye, we have held regular workshops, including, for the past seven years, an annual residential weekend of ritual drama in Derbyshire. We have had a huge amount of fun with these weekends over the years, in spite of the months of writing, work and preparation they entail. We have made some wonderful friends and seen our companions rise above the challenges to create pure magic within our place of working.

At the same time, we have also been pioneering a new kind of workshop, set within the living land. It is not enough to follow a spiritual path within the confines of a hallowed hall. Spirituality must be part of everyday life and must move in the world before it truly comes to life.

With this in mind, our landscape workshops visit ancient and sacred sites, right across the country, in varied and beautiful places, allowing the land and its history to illustrate and reveal the heart of the spiritual principles we explore.

Last year, we took the decision that we would follow the call to move all our workshops out into the landscape, with this year being the last residential weekend for a while. At our last monthly meeting, with confirmed bookings not meeting the necessary criteria, we decided that, rather than risk being unable to deliver a well-rounded weekend for our companions, we would move this event too out into the landscape.

And, as soon as we made that decision, the details and structure of the weekend fell into place.

Sometimes, you simply have to listen to what the winds of change whisper… and when you do so, magic happens…

A New Beginning… – January 21st 2020

*

***

Hawk at Dusk

Selected SE Writings 2018 – 2021

Sue Vincent

*

Sue Vincent was a Director of the Silent Eye School of Consciousness, from its inception in 2012 until her untimely death in 2021.

This book is a collection of her writings during her final three years in that role.

In these monographs, originally published as blog-posts, her unique and unmistakable voice relates the trials, tribulations, challenges and joys attendant upon the setting up and successful stewardship of a Modern Mystery school – it’s birth on the inner planes, and its pioneering work which ultimately led it from the safety of the traditional indoor temple and out into the wild and rugged landscapes of the Blessed Isles of Albion.

Amusing, inspiring, and enlightening, in turns, these stories relate above all else what it is to be truly human in an increasingly dystopian technocratic age.

Available now in paperback from Amazon

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Hawk at Noon

***

The cult of celebrity seems to have run mad over the past few years. Anyone can have their fifteen minutes of fame and if they can be sufficiently outrageous, outraged or enraging, may find themselves with a career in the limelight. At least for a little while. Some, however, have a real and enduring talent… and amongst those who touch the hearts and minds through music and the arts, some will find a lasting stardom.

Some notable stars died this week; the inimitable David Bowie, Alan Rickman, better known to a generation as Severus Snape and Dan Haggerty of Grizzly Adams fame. The world paid homage in recognition of the gifts they had brought to stage and screen and many have mourned their passing.

It is a strange relationship we have with those whose talents bring them fame. Sometimes, we almost think we know them, even though their personae change with every role… and none knew how to reinvent themselves better than Bowie. We do not know them, we see only those facets of the public and private faces they choose to show and the occasional and often misconstrued intrusions of the paparazzi. Like Severus Snape, they assume a public persona and live the visible part of their life to its rules, whilst beneath the mask they are as human as the rest of us, just as complex and contradictory, with the same human hopes and needs.

Yet for those of us who grew up watching their rise to stardom, the passing of such stars is often said to mark the end of an era… perhaps because it also marks the ticking clock of our own lives and realising our own mortality in theirs… the era we see ending includes our own youth…

*

***

Hawk at Noon

Selected SE Writings 2015 – 2018

Sue Vincent

*

Sue Vincent was a Director of the Silent Eye School of Consciousness, from its inception in 2012 until her untimely death in 2021.

This book is a collection of her writings during her second three years in that role.

In these monographs, originally published as blog-posts, her unique and unmistakable voice relates the trials, tribulations, challenges and joys attendant upon the setting up and successful stewardship of a Modern Mystery school – it’s birth on the inner planes, and its pioneering work which ultimately led it from the safety of the traditional indoor temple and out into the wild and rugged landscapes of the Blessed Isles of Albion.

Amusing, inspiring, and enlightening, in turns, these stories relate above all else what it is to be truly human in an increasingly dystopian technocratic age.

Available now as an Amazon paperback

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Labour pains…

hawk pic

***

The clock is ticking, time inexorably moves us closer to the launch event of the Silent Eye… in a little less than three weeks… We are flat out getting everything ready… and of course, this is precisely when I am taken inconveniently, ingloriously and un-glamorously ill, dangling out of my car in a lay-by, writhing in pain and losing my marbles.

Even so, laid in the ambulance, when they asked me to rate the pain after the second dose of morphine, on a scale of one to ten, “with ten being labour pain”, I had to chuckle… inwardly at least. Because that is precisely what it feels like.

Call me odd, but as the mother of the School about to be born, the past nine months, Oh yes, I had noticed that coincidence… have been very much like a pregnancy to me. From the first fluttering of possibility, barely felt, to the growth of something that fills my life, taking on depth and character, growing into itself. Very much like a pregnancy.

As to me, well I am a little slower for a few days, perhaps, a little more careful as to how I move, in spite of regular painkillers and I have an eye to how low the blood pressure drops. I am tiring easily, and resting more, like it or not. Meantime, I have had to move with all the grace of a beached whale twice before. And it was worth it then too.

Through it all there has been this sense of expectancy, the birth date marked on the calendar while all is prepared to receive this child of heart, mind and soul into the world, knowing it will fill the remainder of our lives with its needs, joys, tears and triumphs. It will be hard work. It will be loved. We, like any parents, will have to learn as we go. Neither new Schools nor children come with instruction manuals and all we can do is give it our love and attention, nurture and care… and follow the inner voice of heart and intuition…

Continue reading at France&Vincent

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The Calling…

Because we had risen so early and wasted no time getting back on the road, we had several hours left before the ferry was to sail from Tarbert. We decided to use them seeing a little more of the island and set off back towards the tiny port. The morning was still clad in grey mists, but that took nothing away from the beauty of the hills, moorlands and lochs through which we passed. There were few places where we could stop to get pictures on Lewis, but it was enough to just drive through the wild majesty and to be there.

Seeing a sign for a café, we turned off the man road towards Ravenspoint… a name at which we smiled, given our associations with these birds… hoping to find coffee. The road took us along the shores of Loch Èireasort, an eight mile long sea inlet whose name echoes a time when the land was home to invading Vikings. We saw no sign of coffee for miles, so sat beside the shore for second breakfast from our supplies, watching the clouds, before turning back to rejoin the main road south.

We eventually found a small shop where we replenished our foodstuff before continuing southwards. The bleak peat moors had already given way to more mountainous country and was now changing yet again as we moved from that part of the island known as Lewis to the Isle of Harris. The rocky terrain and narrow road that snakes between the hills effectively hid the landscape ahead from view. We had no expectations, no idea of what we would find… until we turned a corner and saw paradise laid out before us.

The clouds broke, leaving a sky full of both drama and sunshine. The sea was a rainbow set in  turquoise crystal, ringed by dark hills, emerald lawns and silver-gilt sands. I have never seen a lovelier place… and it took my breath away.

Continue reading at The Silent Eye

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The Belcherman…

Sir Toby Belcher

*

With the vanguard of the Globotomists now fighting fervently on all fronts of the known world,

the homeland has been entrusted to the safe-hands of former men of substance and stature, a little

time-worn now, perhaps, but without doubt, staunch and doughty keepers of the faith of new science.

*

“Consternation… Consternation… Consternation,” beamed Sir Toby, “the nation is concerned.”

“Never a truer word,” sighed Teigue-the-Sage, “but don’t you think these three-fold repetitions are becoming a tad tiresome?”

“I know,” agreed Sir Toby, “but it’s the only way I can still garner any attention.”

“And attention is required, precisely why,” said Teigue?

“Because without attention one simply ceases to exist,” gasped Sir Toby!

“Then, perhaps, that kind of attention is not worth possessing,” mused Teigue.

“Possession! Possession! Who said anything about possession?”…

Continue reading at The Silent Eye

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Words matter

gardenand stuff 4701

Words matter to us. Those that are said, those that are not said. The precision of a phrase, the use of one word rather than another can make all the difference to how we feel about something or someone. Often they make even more difference to the way we feel about ourselves. Words can be a source of revelation or cause misunderstanding. They can give deep comfort and beauty and the lack of a word can cause just as great a pain as the wrong ones spoken. A thoughtless phrase thrown out in temper can stay with a child a lifetime, holding it back, just as the right words can inspire confidence. Yet most of the time we take them for granted and barely even notice them on a conscious level.

Yesterday a friend posted a story on Facebook. I have no idea whether or not it is true. I have no reason to doubt it. Some may say that these things don’t happen, but of course they do. It is often the case that we doubt that which falls outside our own range of experience. Just as we simply live and accept a normality others may see as incredible or unusual.

It has been suggested on many occasions that I should write my story. I who have lived it and have simply seen it as ‘life’. Apart from one or two events which were quite obviously outside of majority experience. And who would read it? My son’s story, that is different. Looking at the tales told by others, their adventures across the globe, their achievements, triumphs and encounters, my story, on the whole, seems pretty tame. Yet the suggestion keeps coming up. ‘What an interesting life’. Well, yes, I’d agree with that. But interesting doesn’t always mean happy or comfortable.

Yet when you think about it, the majority of people who write an autobiography after a long and rewarding life would probably say much the same. It is only in retrospect that their lives seem to take on new meaning and a glamour that we, the reader, find interesting. It is who they become, what they achieve in the realms of science or art, or simply in the art of living itself, that renders their story fascinating. It is their human legacy that makes their stories something special.

The tale I mentioned to begin with was what sparked this post. A legacy. Nothing world shaking, except to one woman. The simple story of a man who, after sending his wife a message and flowers for Valentine’s Day throughout their married life, arranged for them to continue to be sent after his death with a few words that mattered just to her. And it really doesn’t matter if this story is true or not. Somewhere it has happened,  some man will have loved and thought to do this.

Love eternal

How can I be so sure? Because I have a suitcase upstairs full of words  that mattered.

Many years ago when I first met my partner there were notes. Sometimes in the book I was reading, in the drawer with the cutlery, in the coffee canister… or sillier places like tucked in a shoe, or folded into the towel in the bathroom. I never knew where I would find them or when. I have opened my purse in a busy store and had a chain of paper hearts fall out, or a silly poem in my lunch when I got to work… or a letter in the post. Most were tiny little notes. It didn’t matter what they said as each one really said the same thing.

When we set up home together eventually, of course, there was no longer any need for the notes. He had left them there so that when we were apart, after the day or the evening was over, I would have that moment of finding the note and he the moments writing them and we would, for those few seconds, still be together. Sharing a home and a life we no longer needed them.

Yet they continued. Not every day, seldom in the same place twice… but always saying in one way or another the same thing.

He was diagnosed with an advanced cancer six months into our life together. We had no idea how long we would have and the treatment was radical. Amazingly, he did very well. The side effects were a nightmare but we laughed our way through them and the notes continued. In them he was able to write many things he felt he could not say. I still have them all.

He died in 1999, peacefully and quietly. We didn’t quite get to say goodbye, but I closed his eyes. Just the two of us. His little notes and letters became such a comfort in the days that followed, as you can imagine. I cherished the words and the love that had prompted them.

But he hadn’t finished.

I had, of course, to register his death and for that I needed his papers. He had known I would… and folded within them was a letter. I remember sitting on the dining room floor sobbing over it when I found it, trying to keep the tears from my eyes so that I could read while the heart in me ached. Oh so much.

He wrote of the boys and his love and pride in them. He wrote of memories of shared laughter, with an intimacy that brought him very close. He spoke of our life together and his hopes for my future, his faith and pride in me and what he believed I could do. And he said goodbye. He told me he loved me, one last time.

No, I am not writing this dry-eyed, those final words mattered.

I cannot imagine what it took to write that goodbye, the pain he felt or the ache in his heart. I do not know when he wrote it, how long it had waited. Only that when I needed him the most his words brought him to me and wrapped me in love.

He was far from perfect, certainly no saint. We had some right royal arguments. He was a stubborn, cussed bugger and a strict disciplinarian with the boys. I am certainly not idealising the dead. I never got flowers on Valentine’s Day. I was lucky if I got a card. You see, for him every day was a day to show he cared. From my slippers warming on the radiator on a cold day to the note in the bread bin, the coffee waiting when I got home or the song he said was mine, Presley’s ‘The Wonder of You’. Because, he said, the words were perfect. I can’t listen to that dry-eyed either, even after all these years.

Words matter. And they can matter for a lifetime. Sometimes far beyond the span of your own.

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Living in Colour

Vincent Van Gogh

Vincent Van Gogh

It is New Year’s Eve. Everywhere are posts about the year in review or hopes for the coming one. It’s sort of obligatory.  A mini rite of passage as the old year fades and the new comes to birth. So instead of jumping on that particular bandwagon today, I decided to write about painting. A voice from the past, words from the present and a hope for the future.

For myself, I have always scribbled and drawn. One of my earliest memories is of a very childish picture of Pearl Bailey in Carmen Jones… chalk on small blackboard in Grandad’s parlour. Of course, the film was in black and white on our TV back then, but the colours were vivid on the blackboard… I remember I drew the dress blue. It had felt blue.

I dream of painting and then I paint my dream.~ Vincent Van Gogh

I lack skill in painting, being self-taught and coming to it late. But that’s ok. It frustrates me when I cannot capture the vision in my dream with the accuracy I would like, but it really doesn’t matter…

If you hear a voice within you say ‘you cannot paint,’ then by all means paint, and that voice will be silenced. ~ Vincent Van Gogh

Van Gogh is a hero of mine in many ways. There is an absoluteness and honesty in his work that I never understood until these past few years. I always saw the energy. You don’t see it in reproductions of his paintings, not really, but stand a foot away and see how his hands and fingers have dragged the paint, see the brushwork and urgency in the strokes… and the vibrancy of the painting jumps out and grabs you by the heart. Look at many of his canvases and you can hear people saying ‘a child could have painted that.’ In some ways, I think, a child did.

Wheat field with crows by Vincent Van Gogh

Wheat field with crows by Vincent Van Gogh

Children have a clarity of vision, an uncompromising inner honesty in their view of the world. Life is vivid and multi-coloured to their eyes. There is nothing mediocre, everything holds the possibility of magic and adventure. Children have a passion for life we often lose as we move into adulthood. They know how to dream.

For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream. ~ Vincent Van Gogh

The Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh

The Starry Night by Vincent Van Gogh

 

Vincent never lost that childlike passion. Read his words and his paintings and you see that. More importantly, you feel it. For a moment outside of time you can touch the fire in his soul as he stood beneath the stars or the blazing sun. That fire is in and around us if we care to look. Too often we forget…

One may have a blazing hearth in one’s soul and yet no one ever came to sit by it. Passers-by see only a wisp of smoke from the chimney and continue on their way. ~Vincent Van Gogh

Or perhaps we are afraid. Afraid to be different from the crowd, to draw attention to ourselves, to actually see with our whole Self and not through the grey lens of normality. But somewhere, buried beneath the layers of personality and social graces, I think we all share the same yearning:

I wish they would only take me as I am. ~ Vincent Van Gogh

We try hard to be what we feel we should be, often not daring to chase the dream of what we could be, or constrained by an accumulation of ‘circumstance’ we let go of the dreams. We stub our toes on the rocks of life and the visions of possibility fade into the background. Necessity and compromise drown the hopes we had and each crossroads can lead us further from the goal that may have glowed like a beacon in the soul… but by keeping that vision vividly in mind we can, by moving forward, find another road towards it.

Even the knowledge of my own fallibility cannot keep me from making mistakes. Only when I fall do I get up again. ~ Vincent Van Gogh

It doesn’t take a lot, sometimes to reignite the fire in the soul. I had always dreamed of painting like my grandfather. But then there was dance until that future was lost to injury. Then life, and children… and then a friend gave me some paints….and I had time on my hands… and emotion in bucketloads as my husband’s last illness coloured our lives. So I painted. And found that flame again.

Great things are done by a series of small things brought together. ~ Vincent Van Gogh

Mulberry tree by Vincent Van Gogh

Mulberry tree by Vincent Van Gogh

 

Sometimes there is a defining instant that can open up a whole world of possibility. It may be so small you barely notice it. But if you are awake to possibility and the fire of dreams you will see it, as someone said to me the other day, like ‘the one bit of reality’ a grey landscape.  All we need, when we see these motes of reality is the courage to make them part of who we are.

One must work and dare if one really wants to live. ~ Vincent Van Gogh

So as a new year dawns, I wish for you the eyes of the child, filled with hope and magic, wonder and possibility. I wish you dreams to follow with your heart, and a heart open to experience and joy, to life and to Love.

Happy New Year.

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When tomorrow comes

tomorrow

I looked at the pile of work on the table and thought, sod it, it could wait till tomorrow. But then, really, can it? Reading the Yeats poem today it occurred to me that I am twelve years older than my father when he died. I am closer to my grandmother’s final age now than I am to his 42 years. My late partner was the same age as I am today when he passed on.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.
― W.B. Yeats

My great grandmother said into her nineties that she still felt 20 in her mind, even if her body would no longer play. I couldn’t understand that at the time, but of course, I can now. There are the inevitable creaks in the joints from years of dancing and walking, yet I feel as young as ever, just more confident in myself, more at ease than say 30 years ago. I kind of like growing older. It has possibilities I would never have imagined.

Vanity, of course, still tells me I’m glad I have kept a reasonable figure, glad that the wrinkles I have are mainly laughter lines and that my hair isn’t going grey yet. Or it wasn’t last time the scarlet dye let me see it. I’d never have dared dye my hair various shades of vivid years ago. And certainly wouldn’t have worn as much bright orange with it!
But inevitably, time is moving forward with that inexorable determination, and I know that my body will respond at some point by slowing down or seizing up. Gravity will one day start to win in places I do not wish to contemplate. Energy levels will fall and in all honesty, I can’t say whether I am around halfway through my life, like my great grandmother or almost done, like my late partner or my grandmother.

And this applies to all of us, no matter what our ages.

Yet the majority of us seem to suffer from inertia. When duty calls, for work or family, we roll our sleeves up and get stuck in. But so often the things we want to do with our lives are put on back burners for a ‘later’ that may not happen. The changes we wish to see in ourselves and in our lives are too often allowed to simply meander along towards ‘one day…’

We may have ten thousand tomorrows, or only one, and few of us know the extent of our mortality. We don’t know when age or illness will affect us, or when our bodies will cease to be able to climb to Macchu Picchu. We cannot foretell if our minds will wander into senility and lose the control so necessary to the things we are hoping to do. Will my hands shake too much to paint that one great picture I may have in me? Or my memory last long enough to pen the magnum opus ? And do I have the time to wait and see?

Age and Time are not the enemies. They are the natural rhythm of life and should be embraced. Age brings a comfort and assurance that the young seldom know. The very finiteness of time as it measures us makes life a precious gift. Inertia, however, is a conscious choice we make and perhaps the greatest enemy of all. If we don’t get round to taking the first step we don’t have a cat in Hades chance of taking the last.

We may not achieve all our dreams, and to be fair, I don’t think we should. What would life be without a star to follow or a will o’ the wisp to chase? Our hopes change and mutate, evolving much as we ourselves do. One thing is certain though, we won’t often find them landing on our lap for no reason.

More importantly tomorrow applies to people too. We cannot, do not, know what might get in the way of that one phone call, that letter or email, that apology or I love you that really matters. That hug someone is waiting for….So why wait?

I would hate to reach the ripe old age of my great grandmother and look back on all the adventures that never happened, simply because a tomorrow never came. One day that tomorrow will be too late. We are never too young to dream, never too old for the adventure of Living. As Charles Shultz said “Just remember, when you’re over the hill, you begin to pick up speed.” And you can take that any way you like…..

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King’s Shilling…

*

The king finished scrutinising his appearance in the full length mirror with a satisfying ‘gurgle’.

His royal tailor had done an altogether splendid job of ‘ironing out’ the few minor discrepancies of attire which had been picked up at the first fitting…

It was, decided the king, now perfect!

All that remained to be done… was to wait.

The crowds were already pouring into the capital from all four corners of the realm.

The minstrels and street entertainers had been plying their trade since before the early hours.

The advance guard of flag wavers would soon be pressing their features to the railings which surrounded the royal palace.

‘They enjoy waiting’, thought the king, ‘it adds to the suspense. Even in the rain, and one ought really to be fully rested before such an event. One should take a little nap. It would hardly matter if one overslept. One would not want to be early after all.’

So, as the subjects of his realm were readied for his illustrious arrival, the king slept.

And slept on…

The king was awoken from his slumber by a frenzied knocking on the heavy oak door of his dressing room.

A hideous dream he had experienced, about wily weavers, and a hard to fool child.

He caught a glimpse of his own form in the mirror as he rushed to the door to open it, and that glimpse confirmed his nightmare.

As the door was flung open the palace butler looked at the royal features aghast.

“Call the guards,” said the king, “someone has stolen my dress suit!”

***

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SPENDYKE

1022, a fugitive from planet Spendyke holes up in the bowels of the Rubicon library.
There he discovers ancient accounts of the reasons for his planet’s current plight.
Further research uncovers practical solutions to the dire world situation in the prevailing views of State Philosopher Hux.
As the global government crumbles around him the fugitive embarks upon a journey into his own past in order to pull Spendyke back from the brink.
But will he be successful?

Front and Back Cover artwork by Sue Vincent

Available now in Amazon Paperback

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