The Frewyn Herald: Home of the Haanta Series

Martje always knows best. Always. Because she said so.       With the warmer weather and the renewal of Spring came the return of the craft fair. The usual hawkers and hucksters from Farriage were down, the vendors were lined along the lanes to the square, and the flourish of brocades wending the rows brought the sweets of the season to the capital. The first of the sloe and bramble were in, jams and jellies were selling round, and the red beet and rhubarb collocated the market stalls with a dash of vibrant colour. The trees lining the bridge were in flower, their leafless boughs brandishing mantles of coral and white, and the high bloom of the tulip and crocus nestled into their beds along the river spoke of summer, telling the rain to lay by a little and allow the sun its due. Everyone was out enjoying the day, even those who favoured the quieter months of winter, and as the vendors began their march, with carts scudding across the stones and jaunties ...

It is not every day a man of God meets his match. The abbot at Myndil's abbey has certainly met his: Myndil and Tomte H e knelt on his dilapidated mat, the impressions from his knees wearing away the straw in places, and with his ears wracked by the tinkling cachinnations of several bathing Sisters from across the cloister, he grimaced, raised his hands in supplication and tried to put murder out of his mind for five minutes at least.                 “O, Lord,” the abbot keened, his eyes wrining over themselves, “please guide my hand in all things. You will have to, because if you don’t don’t, I am really going to stone the boy.” He exhaled and wilted into the mat. “What do I do with him? If I send him away to be ordained, he will be allowed to come back once he is made a Brother—unless the chapel he goes to sends him back before that—or they could make him a Brother immediately to distress me, which t...

The Frewyn music project is on its way! These are the lyrics for Brave King Breian's march. The legend of this song is that Tirlough wrote it while they were marching from Diras to the western border, saying goodbye to the land, not knowing if they were going to win the First Galleisian War. The last part was written after they won: Mho bheannacht to the nascent spring Mho bheannacht to the anvil’s ring Mho bheannacht to the incumbent king Onne bennath aconna Diathaneas an thu, to the Tyfferim wheat Diathaneas an thu, to the Karnwyl sheep Diathaneas an thu, to the river deep Onne bennath aconna Goodbye to the hill and idle down Goodbye to the wood and silver crown Goodbye to the valley mountain town Onne bennath aconna We carry our charms and Balane’s Cross We carry the weight of winter’s loss We carry our hearts through mud and moss Onne bennath aconna We fight o’er the orchard and plain We fight through the wet and rough terrain We fight so the...

In the last few months, I've had my hands in many literary pies: The compilation of Myndil the Missionary stories was published from Pendelhaven Press, another Myndil book is currently being written, Martje's cookery book is coming along, and I've been writing several songs for the Frewyn Music Project, a collaboration with songwriter and musician Noah Tolhurst (Stillbuster). I have been considering an album of Frewyn songs for a while, but it was Noah's darling wife who had the genius idea of putting us together in a room with bodhrans and mandolins. My books have many songs, like The Creature of the Deep and the Merrow in the Barrow, but due to the Tolhurst enthusiasm, I've been more keen to put down more. I have no idea when the album will be out, but here is something to tide you over, a song about our Frewyn friend Mad Queen Maeve: The Ballad of Mad Queen Maeve The apples in winter don’t fall from the bough They cling to the autumn without knowing how...

For all those who suffer from malaise this time of the year, I hear you. And so does Bilar:                 The mirk of midnight sinuated in, the luminaries pullulating across the sky, the moon hanging heavily in the humidity between sungates, the canopy blanketed in starlight. The capital tripped into its natural sloom, the glink of water on stone whelmed the docks, the delicate footfalls of soldiers patrolling the streets and marching along the wall pattering over the landscape, lights in windows simmered into a sobering hue, the churchyard and issuing square were silent under the splendour of the coming holiday, and the castle keep lapsed into its slumbering state, everyone having fallen asleep in the arms of some other,   the sconces along the halls surrendering themselves to the insuperable gloom, the thrill of an early winter whispering their seasonal secrets to the gales. The sun delayed its app...