Samhain - the Origins of Halloween

What we think of today as Halloween (All Hallows' Eve) was known to the Celtic world as Samhain - and I'll let you in on a little secret: it's not when you think it is.

In many ways, the Celtic world was the opposite of ours.  Their day started at twilight (which is why their festivals began on the "eve" of the day itself).  They seem to have felt that life began with death - so that debts which had been accrued in this life could be repaid in the Otherworld (i.e. after death).  And while the Celtic year was quartered by regular festivals, the two major festivals of Beltane (the "Fires of Beli" which burned in early May) and Samhain stood as the twin poles of the year.  Beltane ushered in the summer.  Samhain marked the end of summer.  It was, essentially, the Celtic New Year.

The Celtic year, then, began at the threshold of winter (in contrast to the Julian Calendar, named after Julius Caesar, which set March 25th as the start of the year).  Just as the Celtic day began with night, and life began with death, so the new year began with the death of the old.

Samhain (pronounced "SOW-un" or "SAH-vun") was one of two calendrical gateways, the other being the "May-Day" festival of Beltane.  Both were essentially Moon festivals and both featured large bonfires.  In Britain, the bonfire element of Samhain has been retained, although the date was moved when, in 1606, an Act of Parliament determined that the people should celebrate the foiling of the Gunpowder Plot each year on the fifth day of November.  Thus, Bonfire Night - as it is known in the United Kingdom - is really a sort of detached Samhain celebration, and the effigies of Guy Fawkes which are traditionally burned on the bonfires compare with the diabolical images associated with Samhain or Halloween: the hollowed-out pumpkins (or turnips, in Scotland) representing the spirits which are honoured at the end of summer.

As much as anything, the timing of these festivals was related to the agricultural year.  Beltane marked the moment when cattle were moved to their summer pastures; at Samhain, the cattle were brought back to their winter quarters, and some would be slaughtered and the beef salted to provide meat for the winter months (this tradition became associated with the Christian festival of St Martin - "Martinmas" - which falls on the 11th of November; in the Scots dialect, a "mart" is a cow killed for winter provisions).

But Samhain's associations with the agricultural round and, in particular, the end of the harvest season, are easiest to recognise in terms of grain.

The folk character of John Barleycorn represented the spirit of the grain which grew through the summer months.  He was, in essence, the solar hero - the "god" who flourished as the Sun grew more powerful, only to decline from Midsummer onwards.  His feminine counterpart (the Moon) underwent a similar sort of journey through the course of the year: she began as the youthful Maiden at Imbolc (early February), becoming the Flower Bride of Spring at Beltane and the fruitful Mother-figure at Lughnasadh (early August), before manifesting herself as the aged Crone or Hag at Samhain.  Together, the male and female principles were engaged in a sort of cyclical dance: she grew old as the year grew old; he rose with the corn, only to be cut down at harvest time - just as the Sun became stronger, and then weaker.


The corn harvest therefore represented something of a crisis for the solar hero, the John Barleycorn figure who - though he would rise again - was doomed to be cut down in his prime.  His sacrifice was made manifest in the fields, both by the deaths of any animals which were discovered amidst the corn, but also by the poppies which grew in the cornfields.  A perennial symbol of sleep, and the dream-state of death, the blood-red poppy came to represent the "blood-sacrifice" of the corn-god during the grain harvest and those warriors who had fallen during the battle season of summer.

 

As the celebration of Summer's end, Samhain was one of the major turning-points of the year: the harvest was in, the cattle were returned (some to be slaughtered); preparations had been made for the winter.  There was a natural sense of facing both ways - looking backwards, to give thanks for the successful harvest (the "sacrifice" of John Barleycorn), and forwards, to the winter, when the Earth seemed to sleep.  Death-rates, particularly among the elderly, inevitably rise during winter, and so while preparations were made for the months of hardship there was also the anticipation that some wouldn't make it through to the following spring.

The sense of facing both ways - backwards and forwards, remembering and anticipating - remains in our modern New Year, which takes place at the beginning of January (from the Roman god Janus, who faced two ways).  At Samhain, this implied a liminal time, a moment when time itself was suspended between past and future.  And just as at that other turning-point of the year - Beltane - this liminal moment was seen as an occasion when the veil between worlds was exceedingly thin.  The spirits of the ancestors and those of the natural environment were deemed to have been especially active at this time, and liable to revisit the living.  Samhain provided a sort of portal or gateway for these spirits to return, and so in honouring the (past) sacrifice of the corn-spirit and the (present) sacrifice of the Martinmas cattle, the living also honoured those who had gone before them into the Otherworld.  It became a festival of the ancestors, a Celtic Day of the Dead, a time to remember the ancestral and the elemental spirits at the very moment when the world turned from summer to winter.

Whatever the early Church thought of these traditional festivities, it was powerless to stop them.  The holy day of All Saints was introduced by the Church in AD 609.  Originally celebrated on May the 13th (the equivalent of the Celtic "Beltane" festival, often glossed in Christian literature as Whitsunday), it was moved at the behest of Pope Gregory IV in 835 to its present date of November the 1st.  The reason appears to have been because the Church was eager to "legitimise" the Samhain festivities - and so the old festival of Samhain or "Summer's  End" became known as All Hallows' Eve, the evening before All Saints Day.  (There was something of a precedent for this alteration of a festival: nowhere in the Bible does it indicate at what time of year Christ was born, but the powerful cult of Mithras celebrated the birth of the solar hero on December 25th, and this was duly adopted by the Church as Christmas).

However, for a real taste of what Samhain traditionally meant, we must bear in mind a more recent change in the calendar.  The Gregorian Calendar (named after Pope Gregory XIII) was introduced in 1582, but it was not adopted in Britain until 1752.  By then, the difference between the "Old Style" Julian Calendar and the "New Style" Gregorian equivalent was 11 days.  When the New Style calendar was introduced in Britain, Wednesday, September the 2nd 1752, was immediately followed by Thursday, September the 14th.  People rioted, fearing that nearly two weeks of their lives had been taken from them!

But the change in the calendar meant that the old festivals shifted.  Imbolc - the Celtic festival which took place around February the 2nd - now fell on February 14th (which is why we celebrate true love on "St Valentine's Day").  The "games of Lugh", which were celebrated at Lughnasadh - August 1st - became the "Glorious Twelfth" and the start of the grouse-shooting season.  The Midwinter festival of Yule now fell twelve days later on January 1st, or "Hogmanay", as it is known in Scotland.

Samhain also slipped from its traditional date.  We have already seen that some of the Samhain traditions - in particular, the slaughter of cattle to provide meat for the winter - became associated with St Martin's Day, or November the 11th.  The bonfires of Samhain now burn, thanks to an Act of Parliament, on November the 5th (although a visit to Northern Ireland should show that the night of bonfires and "false faces" is still celebrated there on October 31st).  But early in the 20th century, a historical accident reinstated much of the old spirit of Samhain.

When the Armistice brought an end to the First World War, the date of November 11th became Remembrance Day, and the "Doomed Youth" which was cut down on the Western Front was commemorated in much the same way as the dead were traditionally honoured at Samhain.  Even more telling, the Flanders poppy became the essential symbol of remembrance - just as it had previously signified the sacrifice of John Barleycorn at harvest time.

Though, in our overly commercial age, we tend to celebrate the traditions of Samhain at Halloween - with mischief and trickery, treats representative of summer's bounty, and images of the ghosts and goblins which are loosed upon the living world at this time of year - the "real" Samhain would fall today on Remembrance Day, our contemporary "Day of the Dead".

PAULA'S PEOPLE: HORROR WRITER D.MICHELLE GENT TALKS ABOUT WHY A GOOD SCARE ROCKS HER BOAT!

Welcome to our 4th day of our Great Creepfest! Today on Paula's People, I want you to meet again a lovely, but scary lady: Michelle Gent! I met Michelle a year or so ago when I was scouring the net for a new editor and she was recommended to me by a fellow author friend. Michelle, I soon found out. likes to have a finger in many pies and today she talks about the Horror Pie! When I knew we were having a Halloween Creepfest, I knew exactly who to invite on my spot. Being an author of horror/urban-thrillers, I asked Michelle to tell us all what got her into it and why scary things rock her boat! Over to you Michelle!

Why do I like horror? There’s a question to get creative juices flowing (well, mine, anyway).
Why do I like horror? I don’t know why, I just do.
I like the thrill of terror as something scares the living daylights out of me. I like the way my pulse races and adrenalin floods my system but I also like the satisfying and very real safety net of knowing it’s all fiction, made up for entertainment, and as soon as it becomes too much, I can put my hands over my eyes and stop watching or close the book and stop reading. I also like the idea that my stories can inspire the same feelings in other people, my readers. Yes, I like that very much.

As a kid we used to make up stories that scared us. When the nights drew in around this time of year, not too late and not too cold or wet but dark, it had to be dark. We’d sit on doorsteps and make up stories. There was a large field next to my friend’s house and that gave us a creepy setting for the storytelling. My main problem was that my house was the furthest away but because I was the tomboy, the bravest, most daring of us all and the most reckless, it didn’t seem to matter that as one by one the group went back to the safety of their homes and I was left to walk the last few yards on my own. Of course I had to maintain that fearless facade in front of everyone because that was all I had. I wasn’t one of the cool kids who everyone wanted to hang out with, I didn’t have the best toys or the most fashionable clothes – all I had was my ‘image’ and my bravado. So, I had to tell the scariest story and I had to be the bravest when getting the rest of the kids back to their houses, even if I was frightened to go in by the back door because there was a bigger, darker field at the back of our house.

I grew up in the 70s and I remember one horrible event from back then. The Black Panther was loose. He had kidnapped Lesley Whittle and her body was discovered in a drainage shaft. The summer that he was on the run, we were mostly playing in drainage systems that ran under the M1 motorway near to us. We’d scare each other silly with stories of discovering the Black Panther in our ‘playground’. I had a macabre imagination – I still do. The Black Panther was caught that December, a few miles from where we lived. Not that he’d have been interested in a handful of kids from a council estate. Our parents wouldn’t have been able to raise £50 let alone £50,000!

My mind is a fabulous place, a terrifying playground filled with dark and dreadful things that have yet to make their way into my books – but I’m sure they will at some point. I was ‘advised’ to calm my scary stories down when the younger kids were about because I scared them too much. Yeah, that was me, the weirdo with the over-active imagination, the dark side that could find the cruel and vicious nature in most things. Cats are cruel when they play with their prey but it’s their nature, it’s not deliberate. A cat hones its skill on the half-maimed mouse, bird or vole. It will bring a young mouse to its kittens – or its human – to help teach them how to hunt. That’s not cruelty, that’s nature, teaching the next generation how to survive.
One of my childhood pets came home limping. He allowed me to look at his leg. Someone had wrapped an elastic band around it and it was biting into his leg. It would have cut off the blood supply and he’d have lost the leg if I hadn’t spotted it. Another cat didn’t do that to him; that was the vile and deliberate act of a human. Cats aren’t cruel, humans are cruel.

Humans seek out ways to hurt other humans, by their deeds and their words. Kids in the playground: One kid wears glasses so she’s a ‘specky-four-eyes’. Another kid has a speech impediment so he’ll be labelled ‘st-st-st-stuttering-Stanley’ (remember, Sixth Sense?) Another kid has ginger hair and if she doesn’t have a means of answering back and making her tormentors look silly, she’s going to have a hellish time at school.
Then what happens if kids are left to their own devices? Lord of the Flies paints a pretty grim picture and that book fascinated me at school.
Spooky places fascinate me. Haunted houses, derelict buildings, castles, ancient manor houses, caves and forests; I’m drawn to those places but my imagination is such that I couldn’t stay in any of them alone. My mind betrays me, it ‘sees’ things, hears things and it makes up all kinds of terrible possibilities.
So I channel those horrors and terrors. I put them in situations where there’s danger and strife but I make the story someone else’s predicament.
I try to make the people and situations in my stories as real as I can. Obviously that’s not always possible but if there’s a little something real in there then it adds weight and credibility.
I put my friends in my stories (yes, they know) and I also put people I’ve met, worked with and had other ‘encounters’ with in my stories. Of course any resemblance to any person living or dead is purely coincidental.
I like to play with situations and ‘what if’ moments. Deadlier started out with such a ‘what if’ moment.
“What if there was someone leaping from rooftop to rooftop, silhouetted by that gorgeous full moon?” I asked Loretta, receptionist at The Late Lounge, the nightclub we were working at in Mansfield, North Notthinghamshire back in 1999.
“Oooh, you mean a vampire?” she said.
I looked back at her over my shoulder and grinned. “No, vampires have been done to death, I think werewolf.”
I went home early the next morning with my head filled with werewolves leaping across buildings in a small mining town in the midlands, England and I started writing the very next day.

So, why do I like horror? Because natural justice can be served in a way that satisfies the bloodthirsty, morbid and twisted mind by methods that convention, society and the law of the land frowns upon. I can wreak havoc upon the nasty, the sly and the cruel people I’ve met – yes, there are a number of those. The bullies, freaks and throwbacks get their come-uppance without me getting arrested. But I think most of all it satisfies something in me that nothing else I’ve tried comes close to. The voices in my head are quietened, they are calmed and they are sated by the way I portray them. My imagination has found a way out of the confines of my head and it seems at peace when my stories are read. It’s almost like they can go to other heads and other imaginations to play and that makes them happy.

So, if any of my stories play on your mind for longer than usual, I apologise. The dark thing that nags at me to write them all out and release them into the world is happy and I can’t do anything about that, at least they’re allowing me some peace for the moment but they’ll be back, they don’t leave me alone for long...




It Wasn’t...

The fleeting shadow that passed you on the darkened streets that you thought was a stray dog?
The person behind you that you thought was coincidentally going the same way that you were?
The feeling you got that there was something behind you that you thought was your imagination?
It wasn’t.

The glint you thought was the lights on a car passing the house?
The caller that hung up as soon as you answered the phone you thought was a wrong number?
The movement you saw from the corner of your eye you thought was your imagination?
It wasn’t...

The flicker of a shadow you thought was the wind blowing the branches of the tree?
That noise you thought was the central heating switching on?
The sound you thought was the cat bumping against something?
It wasn’t!

The shadow was someone checking you out.
The person was seeing where you live.
The feeling was instinct, you should have taken notice.

The glint was light reflecting off a knife.
The caller was making certain you were alone.
The movement was the knife being raised to cut the phone line.

The flicker was someone in the garden.
The noise was someone forcing the window.
The sound was someone on your stairs.

Are you scared yet?

Wow! Thanks Michelle! I don't know if that was my imagination or not but there is a noise on my stairs!!!
Michelle is giving away a set of 6 short stories of her YA book, Dusty the Demon Hunter, so if you'd like to win these for your kindle or e-book, please leave a comment on the blog and tell us why YOU like ghosties, ghoulies and things that go bump in the night!

15:51

Michelle Gent

www.dmichellegent.co.uk Author http://www.gingernutbooks.co.uk/dmichellegent.html Blog http://deadlier-than-the-male.blogspot.co.uk/2010/05/welcome.html

Putting Meat on the Table!

Scotland in the early 16^th Century was largely a lawless place once you left the perceived security of the towns and cities. Out in the wilds of the countryside all manner of unpleasantness was rumoured to lurk and only the very brave or the very foolish would dare to travel far from the beaten track without the safety of a large group. One part of Scotland however had a reputation so fearful that travellers would go far out of their path to avoid crossing this portion of land; that area was Girvan in the south-west of Scotland on the Ayrshire coast.

Today it is an area of exquisite natural beauty beloved of both nature lovers and golfers as well as those seeking to follow in the footsteps of Scotland's bard Robbie Burns. Back in those long gone days not all of the locals were as welcoming to visitors as they are today.

Over the course of 25 years a hundred, possibly as many as several thousand people vanished while travelling through the rolling hills and fields and while the authorities did what they could to solve these mysterious disappearances, and indeed several innkeepers were tried and executed on suspicion of being involved, people continued to go missing!

Dismembered limbs washed ashore

The only clue as to what had happened was the dismembered limbs which were washed ashore from time to time along the Ayrshire coast to horrify the locals and reignite the calls for action to be taken. In response to these calls local magistrates turned to the highest powers in Scotland demanding that assistance be given. Soldiers were dispatched to find and capture those responsible but they returned empty-handed. There was no trace of the guilty to be found.

The disappearance may well have continued for another 25 years were it not for a mistake made by the killers when they ambushed a young couple returning from a market and fair. The couple, on horseback, were set upon and the unfortunate wife dragged from the back of their mount to be immediately murdered and torn asunder by a mob of wild men and women more animal than human. The husband using pistol and sword managed to win free from their clutches but could do no more than ride for his life pursued by the shrieking blood crazed savages.

This time the authorities were determined to put a stop once and for all to the crimes and once again they set forth to Edinburgh to demand help. Their pleas came to the ears of King James IV who was as outraged by the bloody crimes as the people of Ayrshire were. He ordered a small army of 400 soldiers be assembled and led them personally to put an end to these murderous bandits himself.

Aided by a pack of trained hounds the king and his men found a deep cave on the very shore itself where the murderers lived and from where they surrendered when the King demanded they do so.

The criminals numbered 47 in total and it quickly became obvious they were the incestuous results of decades of inbreeding led by the head of the family and his common law wife.

His name was Alexander Beane, a former labourer from East Lothian near Edinburgh who had decided that hard work was not for him. He had headed off in search of pastures new in the company of a woman named Agnes Douglas. Unwilling to earn a living by honest means they instead took to robbing and murdering travellers on the roads of Ayrshire and soon discovered the most profitable way to dispose of the bodies of their victims was to eat them!

They raised a family in their home which was a cave on the shoreline whose entrance was below water at high tide and meant that no'one ever thought to look for them there. These children as they grew to adulthood were bred with by the parents and between themselves until a great gang of murderous cannibals roamed the dark roads around Girvan and brought terror to all until they were finally captured. Their cave was found to contain the smoked and pickled remains of dozens of men, women and children! The king ordered the whole clan be shackled in heavy chains and taken to Edinburgh.

There was no question as to their guilt and it was decided that the punishment should fit the crimes. On the cobbles of the Royal Mile outside St Giles Cathedral the male members of the family had their arms and legs hacked from their bodies and they were left to bleed to death. Once the last man had expired the women, who had been forced to watch the death of their menfolk, were bound together around a stake and burned to death in front of a jeering crowd of thousands.

That then was the end of the reign of terror of Alexander (Sawney) Beane and his murderous family.

That, at least, is the legend of Sawney beane but just how much of it is true?

Probably none of it.

There are no records of any of those hundreds of missing people. No court records to show the trial of innkeepers thought to be involved and even the identity of the King varies from version to version. King James I, the IV and the VI are all named as being the one responsible for solving the problem. Even the name 'Sawney' is a clue as to where the story originates: England. Sawney was an old and derogatory term for the Scottish and the story first saw the light of day in the early 18^th Century when English suspicions of Scots and their Jacobite leanings were always at the forefront of suspicion minds.

One interesting footnote to the legend is that the tale of a murderous cannibal family inspired Wes Craven to make the movie The Hills Have Eyes!

So from the Ayrshire hills to the Hollywood hills the story of blood, incest, greed and murder stretched across the centuries.




This post is written by Stuart S Laing - Review Blog author and writer of 18thc Scottish mysteries

When the Devil Came to Devon - Rob Bayliss

It was a cold morning on Thursday February 8th 1855 in South Devon. There had been a moderate snowfall the previous night which had ceased around midnight. Those early to rise in the villages (as they were then) along the Exe estuary were greeted with a shocking and frightening surprise; footprints, or rather hoof prints, “burnt” into the snow.

From Exmouth they stretched to Topsham, crossed the River and continued to Dawlish and Teignmouth. Reports later surfaced that they continued towards Totnes; that is a journey of 100 miles between the Exe and Dart estuaries.

The prints were maddening; they traversed the country without any thought of the obstacles in their way. If they led to a house, the prints traversed the roof to appear on the other side. Likewise haystacks and high walls (some 14 feet high) were no obstacle and, strangely enough, neither were narrow pipes (some only 4 inches in diameter). It mattered not, the footprints were at either end; as if their maker had squeezed through them.                                                                        

Local Clergymen were quick to point the finger at Satan, scouring Devon for the souls of sinners to claim as his own, and urged repentance and full church pews as a remedy. It would be easy to put this down to the superstitions of rural folk, but even those of an empirical bent joined the feeling of general unease.

When the tracks were measured they were worryingly consistent; they were 4 inches long, 3 inches across and 16 inches apart and in single file. They left a trail that could only have been made by a bipedal creature. They were left in virgin snow, there were no tracks around them, making the explanation of the phenomenon as a hoax by pranksters difficult to sustain. Hunting parties followed the tracks on both sides of the Exe without success. Amid the ensuing hysteria, reports were made of sightings of a “devil-like” figure.

For two days the area was awash with fear and rumour, as the locals wondered whether the strange nocturnal visitation would return. The story was taken up by the papers and relayed far and wide, in Britain and beyond. The following report was published in Bell’s Life in Sydney& Sporting Reviewer 26th May 1855:


“It appears on Thursday night last, there was a very heavy snowfall in the neighbourhood of Exeter and the South of Devon. On the following morning the inhabitants of the above towns were surprised at discovering the footmarks of some strange and mysterious animal endowed with the power of ubiquity, as the footprints were to be seen in all kinds of unaccountable places - on the tops of houses and narrow walls, in gardens and court-yards, enclosed by high walls and pailings, as well in open fields.”

As the story spread a number of theories were put forward. The eminent Victorian biologist and founding father of palaeontology, Sir Richard Owen, suggested them to be  caused by foraging badgers; the distinctive hoof shape being caused by freeze-thaw action. Other suggestions of their cause were swans, a hot air balloon trailing a rope, even hopping wood mice!

The papers settled on the theory suggested by the Rev. Musgrave, in a letter to the London Illustrated News, that the tracks were caused by escaped kangaroos from a private zoo in Sidmouth, owned by a Mr Fische. However it was never ascertained whether Mr Fische had actually lost some animals from his collection, or indeed how the kangaroos had managed to cross the River Exe.

To add to the mystery, after the local hysteria had died down, Rev Musgrave later retracted his statement to the paper:

“I found a very apt opportunity to mention the name of kangaroo, in allusion to the report then current. I certainly did not pin my faith to that version of the mystery ... but the state of the public mind of the villagers ... dreading to go out after sunset ... under the conviction that this was the Devil's work ... rendered it very desirable that a turn should be given to such a degraded and vitiated notion ... and I was thankful that a kangaroo ... [served] to disperse ideas so derogatory…” Rev G. M. Musgrave: letter to The Illustrated London News, 3 March 1855


 

Perhaps if such a phenomena occurs again, 21st Century science can be applied to explain their cause, or perhaps a blank will be drawn, as what happened over 150 years ago. Surely the cause couldn’t have really have been diabolic… could it?

Rob Bayliss - the Review

A Night Out in Old Edinburgh

Every weekend the streets of Edinburgh's Old Town are full of revellers in search of a good night out. From the pubs and clubs of the High Street and the Grassmarket there are venues to cater for every taste and occasion. The ready supply of strong drink can, and sometimes does, lead to problems.

'DRUNKEN YOUTHS BRING CHAOS TO CITY CENTRE!'

While this may be the type of headline we have all seen in the popular press over the last few years the phenomena is far from new.

city centre revellers

Throughout the 18th Century Edinburgh was to find itself awash in a great array of clubs and societies frequented by the great and good of Society. From poets to painters, jugglers to judges, Scotland's capital saw dozens of gentlemen's clubs spring up to provide them with the opportunity for convivial chat, radical politics, intellectual debate or more commonly, the chance to misbehave.

Indeed the local paper The Edinburgh Courant at the height of the Scottish Enlightenment in the latter half of the century complained that it wasn't safe to walk the streets of the city at night due to drunken youths roaming about bent on mischief.

What all these clubs had in common were bizarre rules, invented traditions and ridiculous names. The Bonnet Lairds when gathered would each wear a broad, blue Scots bonnet!
The Pious Club held their drunken soirées in a far from pious manner but took their name from the fact these drunken nights were held in the back room of a pie shop, which indicates the level of humour popular with these young rakes.

Most teenagers would have met the criteria for becoming members of The Boar Club: they had to keep their bedrooms looking like a pig-sty! At club meeting it was traditional to only communicate by oinking and grunting at each other, no doubt with much cause for amusement for all concerned!

Yet another popular society was The Dirty Club. Members here were required to arrive for meetings dressed in filthy, stinking rags to gain admittance.

Other societies aimed for a more sinister reputation however. The Skull Club claimed to drink their liquor from a human skull while The Sweating Club would drink heavily until the stroke of midnight then set out in search of victims. Anyone they found on the streets would be chased until they collapsed exhausted and soaked in sweat. How far they would be capable of chasing anyone after drinking all night is debatable.

The good old days!

Typically the societies were all male affairs but The Horn Order, formed in 1705, was a notable exception. The Order was popular with the sons and daughters of the city's leading citizens along with the young lords and ladies of the Lothians. The Horn Order, their symbol was a horn spoon hence the name, held regular masquerade balls in private homes far from parental eyes where these young people were able to drink and mix freely without regard to the normal conventions of Society.

Some rules, typically, remained unchanged. On the streets of Edinburgh. While it was considered unremarkable to see a party of High Court Judges swaying down the Royal Mile singing rude songs and drunkenly accosting young women it was considered disgraceful for those same young women to be seen in a similar condition! Being a 'little' inebriated while in good company however was thought of as perfectly fine.

South Bridge Cellar

The other great opportunity for young men and women to meet and mix freely were the so-called Oyster Cellars! Invitations were issued to the sons and daughters of the Middle and Upper classes bidding them attend secret events held in dark cellars made claustrophobic, hot and sweaty through the press of bodies and illuminated by tallow candles. Here great platters of oysters were laid on rough tables along with punch-bowls filled with porter. Unlike the formal evenings held in Assembly Rooms where every word and gesture was observed by chaperones, the cellars allowed the most fashionable young men and women to mix freely and without constraint.

For those who opposed these events, the rudeness and vulgarity displayed were said to be the sole attraction! For those who attended however the Oyster Cellars one of the main attractions was the opportunity for displays of wit, intellect and merriment by both sexes. Remarks and jokes which elsewhere would have been considered scandalous were celebrated here.

Live music in an Edinburgh cellar

Once the oysters and porter had been consumed bowl of brandy and rum punch would be brought out. Hired musicians would strike up a lively tune and a night of wild dancing and free abandon would commence. As these events were held in generally small and cramped rooms and actual cellars it can be imagined that the dancing would have been intimate!

One of the principal locations for these evenings was Luckie Middleman's Taverns on the Cowgate where the south pier of South Bridge now stands. Bannerman's Bar now occupies almost the exact same spot and is still popular with the young people of Edinburgh providing live music seven nights a week although the last time I visited there were no oysters on the menu! 

As ever in Edinburgh, the more things change, the more they remain the same so the next time you hear someone complaining about the youth of today remind them that bad behaviour is nothing new!

Stuart Laing is the author of The Robert Young of Newbiggin Mysteries the #1 bestselling series in the Kindle Edinburgh Historical Fiction chart
His blog can be followed at stuartslaing.wordpress.com

Steve McKay Reviews : The Oracles of Troy by Glyn ILiffe

THE ORACLES OF TROY

by Glyn Iliffe

Glynn is giving away a copy so if you want to be in it, comment here on the post at the end!
Historical fiction is full of novels about Rome, but there's not so much written about that other incredible classical civilisation – Greece. So it was with great pleasure I found out Glyn Iliffe's new book was finally about to be released. And not only that, I managed to get an advance copy of it!

 Is it any good? Well, there have been three books in the series so far: King of Ithaca, The Gates of Troy and The Armour of Achilles and, in my opinion, all of them have been worth five stars, so there's a lot riding on this. Blending well-researched history with fantastic action equals a great series so far and I can happily tell you The Oracles of Troy is every bit as good as its predecessors.

Opening where the previous book left off, it doesn't take long to get into the action, with Odysseus using his fabled cunning to persuade an old acquaintance to join their Trojan war effort. This aspect of Odysseus's character is something that must be rather difficult to write – thinking up clever ideas all the time – but Iliffe has managed it superbly throughout the series and it really does add an interesting dimension to a genre that is often just about kicking ass and taking no prisoners.

That said, there's plenty of asses kicked in The Oracles of Troy as the war, finally, comes to a close with the Greeks building their legendary Trojan Horse (I won't go into detail in case I spoil the plot for anyone but really...everyone knows what happens right?!)
With a series like this, when the plots and characters are so well known and loved, it has to be a hard task to write them while retaining a sense of tension, suspense and excitement but have no fear, the book is a joy to read from beginning to end.

If there's a downside at all, it's the fact that Odysseus somehow manages to get everything right all the time but that's a trait of the source material and anyone reading the novel will know that anyway. This isn't straight historical fiction after all – realism isn't as important here as it is to someone like Bernard Cornwell – Oracles of Troy has fantasy elements to it as well and, if a Goddess happens to appear to our heroes to help them out of a tricky situation, great.

By the last page we are left with the next book nicely set-up – I just hope it doesn't take as long to get out as this one did!

Heartily recommended.


This Review is by Steve McKay
Author of Wolf's Head

Steve McKay

Lisl's Book Review: The Colour of Treason

The Colour of Treason by S. M. Harrison

                                        'They have but two rulers in England:
                                     Monsieur de Warwick and another whose
                                                name I have forgotten.'

                                         The Governor of Abbeville. Letter
                             written March 1464 to King Louis XI, King of France

For those familiar with the major players within the Wars of the Roses, the epigraph for S.M. Harrison’s The Colour of Treason will be rather telling. Fought during the 15th century, this series of dynastic wars set Yorkists against Lancastrians in an ongoing bid for the throne of England. At the time of which Harrison writes, Henry VI (Lancaster) has been succeeded by Edward, a charismatic leader who inherited his father’s claim to the throne following the latter’s death at the Battle of Wakefield in 1460. The novel opens eight years after Edward has realized what his father, Richard, Duke of York, died pursuing.

King Edward IV

The younger Plantagenet, now Edward IV, by this point has spent most of his reign defending his throne. Henry’s queen, Marguerite d’Anjou, bitterly opposes the king and obsessively chases after the crown, which she believes to be the birthright of her young son, Edouard. Owing to her husband’s bouts with insanity, she had at times ruled in the king’s place, and also led Lancastrian factions when waging war to keep or reclaim her family’s position. Now, however, she sits in exile, a status reflected by her appearance only later in the book.


King Edward’s position is not as secure as one would hope, in part thanks to Marguerite’s relentless aim to unseat him. He has had, though, a strong alliance with his cousin Richard Neville, 16th Earl of Warwick, who would be known later in history as “Warwick the Kingmaker.” Warwick, the most powerful nobleman and military commander of his time, and second only to the king in wealth, attempted to negotiate a treaty with the French to secure a bride for Edward, only to learn the king had secretly married a widow, Elizabeth Wydville. This duplicity, as well as the rank nepotism that now pervades the court, incites Warwick’s great ire, leading to a split between the cousins as well as events that color the lives and fates of Elizabeth Hardacre and her York-supporting family.

Elizabeth Woodville, queen consort to Edward
IV. The marriage itself as well as the manner in
which Edward rewards Elizabeth's family with
lucrative positions angers the Kingmaker.

Awakened in the night by clattering horse hooves chased by the roar of thunder, Elizabeth spies a mysterious visitor, none other than a Warwick messenger who has her mother, Lady Catherine, on edge. As Sir John de Laverton explains her family’s now-precarious position, linked to letters authored by her father Sir Robert, Elizabeth experiences conflicting emotions for the knight and is bewildered by her mother’s ill treatment of the midnight visitor. Mysterious words of past events from her nurse as well as her mother intrigue Elizabeth, though she learns nothing save that her father is now suspected of treason. Without explanation, Elizabeth is sent to live with her cousin, Matthew, realizing later that she is essentially hostage to Warwick’s endeavors to route out her father’s intentions. Warwick’s actions result from his attempt to ensure Sir Robert Hardacre maintains co-operation for the safety of his daughter.


Elizabeth, initially believing she will be wed to her cousin, conflicts with him, his lack of fortitude and Laverton, who appears to play the role of her jailer, albeit a familiar one. Disgusted by his drunken and lascivious habits, the girl attempts to expel her simultaneous attraction to him, determining she will escape in order to seek out her father, imprisoned by the Earl of Warwick. In so doing she carries out a semi-premeditated crime, commencing life on the run as a felon.

In only one other work of fiction has this reviewer read of a woman making her way through the crime-infested nighttime roads and forests of 16th century England. While it surely must have occurred, portraying it presents a challenge in that predictable outcomes stand a high chance of falling victim to the stereotypical, whilst the opposite might smack of the fantastical. Harrison wisely chooses the middle way in allowing Elizabeth to be captured, though she must learn to be comfortable with deception as a travel mate.

Just then he noticed her. She was well camouflaged in her dark green cloak against the bark of the trees. She looked almost like a young sapling, at one with the forest. Her hair was the colour of autumn and it fell in waves about her shoulders. 

Shortly before Thomas Conyers catches up to Elizabeth, he wonders if she might be a witch, so deftly does she unify with the forest and escape him. Given what we know of this era, it is a reasonable contemplation to assign to a character, but Harrison declines to rely on this typecast, instead portraying Elizabeth as a liar by necessity. She has, after all, had time in life to develop a colorful imagination, and her time on the lam surely has been used wisely by coming up with a cover story.

As events move on Elizabeth, becoming more and more entangled with people and places, manages to make contact with Warwick, though not in the way she might have anticipated. Rather than perceiving him as enemy to herself and her family, she both acts out her own will—questioning all that she knew and believed before—and is submerged into events that color what and how she sees, as “a shudder ripple[s] through her. . . like a wave lapping at the shore, a tide demanding to be turned by the moon.” Questioning herself, she wonders:

Were they not similar, Warwick and her? They both had secrets they could not divulge. . .his eyes held a light within them all of their own, like moonlight reflected on a dark lake[.]

Throughout the novel Harrison utilizes color to itself color how moments and events are perceived and even foretold. At one point Warwick caresses “a mutinous autumn-coloured curl from her cheek”; later he remembers how Edward the ungrateful king has ignored and embarrassed him, and that his chronic lack of gratitude causes him to forget Warwick and all he has accomplished.

He saw the green of the grass turn to black and the twilight turn to darkness and he wondered how his discord with Edward had come to this. How had the youth who had relied on him after the death of his father come to despise him so much? How could he have forgotten that it was Warwick who had saved his life after the route at Ludford by whisking him away to safety at his fortress of Calais?. . . [He let] the white rose fall from his hand. As he did so he noticed that it had pricked him; a single drop of red blood bubbled on his thumb. 

Richard Neville, as depicted in the Rous Roll

Indeed the novel very much promotes Warwick as a sympathetic character, a portrait that elicits mixed feelings: the earl fails to recognize or appreciate his power in terms of its influence and responsibility he must bear as the holder of authority; instead he deflects a great deal of that responsibility and his selfish actions hurt many of those around him, including his little daughter Anne. As Clarence also is portrayed as rather bumbling—sometimes almost comically so within miniature tragedies—Warwick is prone to collect on the moment and seems to sometimes enjoy his son-in-law’s failures. Having said that, it is easy to admire Harrison’s adroit management of Warwick’s emotions, conceits, hurts, anger, shortcomings and desires. She presents aspects of the Kingmaker, more individual and emotive sides often lost beneath tales of ambition as well as the clatter and anonymity of Barnet weaponry and chaos. The repulsion and attraction Elizabeth feels for him remembers that for Jack de Laverton and her own confusion and guilt.

Marguerite d'Anjou

In the end, much of what so many characters predicted comes to pass and Elizabeth accedes to their judgments. Too much tragedy has occurred within Elizabeth’s own sphere, and she has witnessed the corruption of power. Like so much else, including her emotions, what colors treason and other acts of men engages a heartbreaking duality in which beauty and monstrosity both reside. It brings her to a place in which she must make a devastating choice, and the favor of one shall destroy the other.

The Colour of Treason, winner of the indieBRAG medallion, is followed by a sequel, A Rose of England, which continues Elizabeth’s narrative and answers some of the questions raised hitherto, including that of what her mother knew and what secrets motivate Higgins. As enrapturing as this novel is, and how successfully Harrison brings readers to examine Warwick on a deeper level, it is very likely they will not want to miss the rest of his complex story.

As part of our promotion of Su Harrison's The Colour of Treason, we have two autographed copies to pass on to winners of a draw!! To enter, simply comment below and next week two readers' names will be drawn.

PAULA'S PEOPLE : AUTHOR GLENN 'ALIENBUTT' SCRIMSHAW

Hello peeps! Please wish my guest today on Paula's People a huge 'hello'. Quirky, alternative and humourous - Mr Glenn Scrimshaw!

PS Glenn is giving away a copy of The War of the Coffee Bean so just comment on the post to be in for a chance!

So to start I would like to say thank you for allowing me on here and for the sleepless night I just had trying to think about what I would say today. No script or questions to answer, just talk about you….

        Well this could end with people asking for a refund on the five minutes of their life they just lost. Talking about myself and what I do isn’t the easiest thing in the world for me. You see I never set out to be a writer and unless there is a drastic change in my life then I would never be able to class myself as an author either. For me an author is someone that plans and struggles as they create a world to take their readers to. Well think of me as more of that guy down the pub that tells the daft stories over a few drinks.

So I know some people like to know a bit of background, a where did you come from, if that isn’t your thing then skip this next paragraph.

I was born and brought up just outside Barnsley in South Yorkshire and after about twenty years I walked out. (Really I drove away in my battered old car but I’m going for a narrative here) I left on good terms and I go back often to visit family but this was the post Thatcher years and a pit village without a pit didn’t give much employment opportunities. Also I had this crazy idea that I would go to university and study art so I was tempted away to Sunderland. This idea of being an artist didn't really work out and I only lasted a year, looking back I think I had commitment issues with studying. Well that sort of ruined my relationship with Sunderland but I hung around for another year or so before I began a few years of moving around working for a living. My nomadic period sort of ended though when I got married and I’ve now ended up living in Amber Valley in Derbyshire for about fifteen years. (For those not from the UK, near Nottingham so just think Robin Hood)

      As I said earlier I just sort of fell into writing by mistake, it wasn’t something I ever considered as English wasn’t a strong point for me at school. It all began with me posting ‘in character’ on an online game discussion board. Basically I was just being daft with a few other people and seeing where it went and how many others would come along for the ride. One of my friend there said I should try and write a book so I began writing a daft story and posting it online. I was really surprised when people actually read it and started saying I should get it published. With no idea in the slightest what I was doing I gathered all the bits of the story together and knowing no better I self-published. This was really as I wanted a copy on my own bookshelf, people may like a free story but they’d never pay money for mine. By some miracle the owners of Gingernut Books got hold of a copy and offered to help me clean up my story and fix the grammar. (Really it needed totally re-working and introducing to English grammar and punctuation but they phrased it politely.)

     So there I am with my first book, a Sci-Fi comedy called the War of the Coffee Bean, it’s the first book in the Alienbutt Saga (number 2 is now also out, The Rise of Mr Fluffy.) This is the story of a bored, failing Alien taxi driver who discovers he is the only hope to save the universe from the most addictive drug ever know. Coffee is the drug that has enslaved almost every alien species as the corporations that produce it take over the Universe. As a war breaks out our often drunk, junk food addict hero must try to survive and become a hero in the universe wide war on drugs.

As well as this I’ve also wrote a few e-book short stories that are available. Firstly there is my Vampire Eloim series, I’ve just finished the fourth instalment and it should be out later this year. These stories follow the misadventures of a teenage vampire who grows up amongst his large vampire family. Eloim is strange, he steals his sister’s clothes to wear and is always finding trouble that his family have to try and save him from. Things take a turn for the worse though when he makes an enemy of a Demon Lord.

    Finally I have John the Barman, a short story of a strange pub where the customers are all of the supernatural kind. This tells of what happens to the old gods, what Lucifer really wanted to do with his life and why Death struggles to find a date with online dating agencies.

 I write my daft little stories using the whisky method of storytelling; I drink a few glasses and then start to type as I drink a bit more. In the morning I look to see what I came up with and just hope I understand where the story is going. If you enjoy a bit of stupidity with your stories and as one review put it ‘toilet humour at its best/worst’ you may find some amusing stories, no promises on that though.I’m around on a few sites but tend to be easy to get in touch with on my Facebook page so if anyone wants to drop by and say ‘hi’ you’ve been invited.

Thanks for reading and hope you don’t try to claim a refund for the life you just lost reading this. You can check out my books at the Gingernut website and follow me on Facebook and twitter.

Gingernut Books 
Facebook

Twitter: @p_alienbut

ANNA REVIEWS: THE SUN SHARD , debut fantasy novel by Robert Bayliss

The Sun Shard is the first in an intended series which is set in another world, ruled over by the mighty

Empire. The people of the north chafe under the Empire's rule, and especially the ancient people known as Flint Folk have an axe to grind with the new overlords. As a consequence of the Empire's ever expanding borders, the Flint Folk has been forced to live up among the eternal snows, a dwindling remnant of a once powerful people. However, what starts off as the story of a potential insurrection versus the Empire, expands into a war between the Empire and its hereditary enemy, Accaross. In this struggle, even the reluctant vassals of the Empire are forced to take part – unless they want the world to be ruled by the evil dark god of Accaross. The struggle between the god of light, as represented by the crystal known as the Sun Shard, and the god of darkness, is a central theme in the story, bringing with it ample opportunity for alchemists and wizards to play a major role

This is a nice premise, and the story develops at a fast pace. It starts off with a shaman from the Flint Folk searching for the man he has been dreaming off, a young man to whom he must entrust the powerful Sun Shard. To do so, he must leave the icy wastelands and enter the Empire's dominions, well aware that should he be discovered, he will probably be hunted to death. But there is no choice, the Sun Shard must go to its next owner, and the Flint Father spends months looking for him.

Eventually, he finds him – among the men chasing him. Young Tuan is a reluctant conscript to the Empire's army, but to refuse to serve is to risk all sorts of punishments – especially for his family – which is why Tuan does as best as he can. Being an excellent scout, he is set to track the elusive Flint Father, accompanied by an armed trooper. There is a skirmish, the trooper dies, Tuan is certain he is about to die as well, but the Flint Father stays his hand at the last moment, recognising the face from his dreams.

More soldiers appear in the valley below them, and it is but a matter of time before they reach them. The Flint Father acts quickly. The Sun Shard is transferred, Tuan is given an extremely brief introduction into the power he now must learn to wield, and then the Flint Father dies - killed by Tuan's Commander, Kaziviere.  

While Tuan is set up to be the hero of the story – and in many ways he is – it is Commander Kaziviere that grows into the role of the true hero, a conscientious and loyal man that now and then transgresses into excessive cruelty, but on the whole attempts to be fair and just. It is interesting to note that while the initial chapters puts the reader into a "let's hate the Empire" mode, this sensation quickly evaporates as Mr Bayliss presents us with a number of likeable servants of the Empire – all of them men, all of them soldiers.  

The exception to these upright servants of the Empire is Dominar Sligo, the baddie of the story, who is the Empire's regent of the northlands but aspires to create his own kingdom – with the help of Accaross. Dominar Sligo is portrayed as a man with multiple vices: he drinks, he fornicates, he hates, he schemes, he tortures and ravishes – in brief, not the nicest of men, who well deserves whatever nasty things fate might have in store for him.  

In general, characterisation would have benefited from greater depth. We know very little about the characters except for what happens to them as the story unfolds. It would have been interesting to have a backstory for Commander Kaziviere, for General Bruant and definitely for Tuan, explaining why he is the chosen one. One major drawback for me is the lack of female characters. There is only one woman who has any kind of dialogue, otherwise they drift across the peripheral vision as unwilling concubines to Dominar Sligo. I hold out hope that this will change in the future books, what with the “Razoress” becoming one of the boys in the final chapters of the book.

The book blends a lot of military action with a healthy dose of magic. The Sun Shard is a power all unto itself, conferring on its bearer all sorts of talents, such as being able to bend other creatures' wills to his, or being able to absorb the knowledge in a room full of books in a micro second or so. When deployed, the Sun Shard emits a radiant bright light, forcing darkness and evil to scurry away and hide. However, magic skills are not restricted to the gods of light – the evil god of Accaross has a number of tricks up its sleeve, resulting in a rather elegant cliff-hanger of an ending.

In conclusion, we have an intriguing story, a cast of interesting characters and the potential for a great read. In its present form, the book could do with a  re-edit, so as to enhance the quality of the text.  I hope that Mr Bayliss chooses to do so, as The Sun Shard deserves a wide readership.

About the author: 

West Countryman Rob Bayliss lives with his wife,two children and dog in Somerset. He enjoys both rock and folk music, and has played bass in covers bands, as well as bashing out the odd reel on the mandolin. A keen scholar of history and a lifelong reader, only recently has he discovered the joyful escapism of sitting down to write a story.

PAULA'S PEOPLE: DEBRA BROWN

Falling Into History

Courtesy of Bob Burkhardt on Wikimedia 

I grew up in Minnesota. Ice clung to the insides of the windows about a quarter of an inch thick, or Jack Frost painted gorgeous, swirling designs thereon. If you haven’t seen frost on windows, you must Google it! And then there were the crystalized trees of what seemed like Fairyland. Again, search Google for a wonderful visual experience.

Courtesy of David Stonner of FEMA on Wikimedia

We lived in an old house with tunneling closets upstairs and a coal cellar below. A gnarly oak like I’ve never seen since rustled outside my window in the summer breeze and painted the view from my room in flaming fall colors. I loved the inches of powdered snow atop its branches in the winter, and its buds brought the first green to my spring days.

When I was not climbing that tree in the front or picking crab apples in the back, where was I? I could always be found upstairs reading My Bookhouse books. They were my first, and probably most important, introduction to my great love—English history and literature. Before I could read, there were the pictures. And I worked hard learning to read so I could put myself into those pages.

As a child, though, I did not realize that this was so important to me or that I could become a writer. Perhaps it was the moving away from our Minnesota home to the bustle of San Diego. It was a changed culture with many relatives to keep me busy. There were zoos, towering palms and sandy beaches. Every face at school was new¸ and it was so different—the hallways had no walls. It was a whirlwind of change, and I went on to other things. The books had been left in Minnesota, which I did not realize until I asked for them decades later. But how could they have been left?

Those books were the most important possession of my childhood. Sitting at the piano hurt my back, and I forgot how to play the flute altogether. What else was left over? But in time I realized that I still had the memories. The pictures were never to be forgotten, and the stories, well, I’d retained the sense of them. Written by the likes of Shakespeare, Keats, and Hans Christian Andersen, they could not just disappear from my mind. And there they sat, undisturbed, for years while I was occupied with other things.

Fast forward to 2010. The recession which began in 2008 had killed the work that had kept me so busy. I had spent time searching for work and had found none. The crumbled economy was still struggling to its feet. I had some time to myself which allowed me to watch the last period movies I could find. I had never before been bored, but now I was.

I started to play around with writing my own story. I picked up library books about England, big, luscious picture-books, and ideas began to brew. An ending formed almost before the body of the story, and I built the rest around that. It was published a year later and revised in 2012 when I’d learned a thing or two about writing. It has done fairly well, my first novel, The Companion of Lady Holmeshire.

Marketing was another matter. To make a long story short, I started a blog featuring the British history research of multiple historical fiction authors. Launched on September 23, 2011, it has been amazingly popular, now having had nearly a quarter of a million unique visitors. It is called English Historical Fiction Authors. Readers have said they sit down to the blog with their morning coffee. We have a Facebook group by the same name, and it has been a fun and friendly adventure.

After celebrating the first anniversary of our blog, one of the members, Deborah Swift, suggested that we select posts from that year to put together a book. Although I was in the middle of another novel, I loved the idea, and it seemed that the blog members and guest posters did as well.

By our second anniversary Castles, Customs, and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors was ready to release. The enthusiasm of the authors and readers, who had been asking for it months in advance, has been overwhelming, and the result is that we did well on Amazon that first week and are reaping the benefits of Amazon’s aid in promotion of the book since. I greatly appreciate the help of author Paula Lofting to bring the book to your attention here.

Castles, Customs, and Kings is a 514-page tome with short and varied history topics, each a few pages long, by fifty-five different authors. The table of contents allows you to find a read that matches your mood. The book is wonderful for reading at break-time, on the bus, or for a short but satisfying read before bed. Goodreads reviewers have said:

“Anyone who likes historical fiction—or history generally—will find Castles, Customs and Kings: True Tales by English Historical Fiction Authors a delightful source of "little known facts" presented in a logical and easily accessible fashion.” --Helena Schrader

“Despite the length, there is no encyclopedia feel and each author's voice is well preserved.”
--Sound of Silence Book Fan's Reviews

“Handle With Caution. Readers are likely to become stuck in a comfy chair and not emerge from this book for several days.”--Helen Hollick

Though the book is large, we did our best to make it affordable for all lovers of Britain and of history, and at this writing Amazon has the paperback at a special discount. You can find it there on Kobo, and it will soon be available on Barnes and Noble and other online stores.

Thank you for reading here today, and many thanks to Paula for the invitation.