How Pakistan lost the names of god....

A poignant article in Kashmir Monitor tells of when the name of God in Pakistan became Allah. And includes this quote from author Mohammed Hanif:

Author Mohamed Hanif, in his celebrated debut novel, A Case of Exploding Mangoes, says it best: “…All God’s names were slowly deleted from the national memory as if a wind had swept the land and blown them away. Innocuous, intimate names: Persian Khuda which had always been handy for ghazal poets as it rhymed with most of the operative verbs; Rab, which poor people invoked in their hour of distress; Maula, which Sufis shouted in their hashish sessions. Allah had given Himself ninety-nine names. His people had improvised many more. But all these names slowly started to disappear: from official stationary, from Friday sermons, from newspaper editorials, from mothers’ prayers, from greeting cards, from official memos, from the lips of television quiz show hosts, from children’s storybooks, from lovers’ songs, from court orders, from habeas corpus applications, from inter-school debating competitions, from road inauguration speeches, from memorial services, from cricket players’ curses; even from beggars’ begging pleas.”

So much is lost when religious orthodoxy - Islam in this case - destroys folklore. The efrits die, rakhshasa stop prowling, the fairies vanish, and the green god disappears back into his mossy home in the heart of the wood. In Pakistan, the diversity of our appeal to the spirit world is no longer. And the world is poorer.

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Trolls. Proper trolls.

None of this Internet troll stuff. We're talking the real thing - a whole essay on the real thing courtesy of Medievalist.net:

“Mucus was hanging down in front of her mouth. She had a beard but her head was bald. Her hands were like the claws of an eagle, but both arms were singed, and the baggy shirt she was wearing reached no lower than her loins in back but all the way to her toes in front. Her eyes were green and her forehead broad; her ears fell widely. no one would call her pretty”

This is what we want - fewer spotty oiks or self-indulgent masked Internet warriors - although this might put ideas in one or two folks' minds:

...calling someone a troll carried also a stiff penalty. Knutson and Riley remark, “Personal honour was taken very seriously, and to slander someone or spread false rumours could be expensive or even deadly”. In his book, Trolls: An Unnatural History, John Lindow recounts that calling someone a troll was considered vicious slander akin to accusing a man of bearing children, anally penetrating another man, or insinuating he was a mare, bitch, witch or whore. In The Saga of Finnbogi, Finnbogi’s young sons tease an old neighbour and call him a troll. The neighbour promptly kills them even though they are only aged five and three. This causes Finnbogi to take vengeance on the man and slay him. So remember, next time at the bar…thinking of calling that annoying drunk a troll? Just don’t.

Do go and read the article -more fun than the latest moan from some social justice warrior or headline-seeking politicians about trolls on Twitter!

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A sad day for mermaids...

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown. 
(W B Yeats)

I've never met a mermaid. And sadly it looks like this isn't now going to happen - the US government has abolished them:

The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) has clarified and confirmed that no evidence of existence of mermaids has ever been found.

"No evidence of aquatic humanoids has ever been found. Why, then, do they occupy the collective unconscious of nearly all seafaring peoples? That's a question best left to historians, philosophers, and anthropologists," NOAA said in a statement denying the existence of half-female, half-fish creatures of the sea.

So why is it that, since the dawn of time, there have been stories and legends about mermaids? Is it the delusional sexual fantasies of sailors? Or is it a desire to populate empty places with beauty and intelligence?

Like all magic creatures, the mermaid serves a purpose. And that means it is sufficient for us to believe they exist for that purpose to be served. Mermaids are the good spirits of the sea - a glint of hope and pleasure in an otherwise entirely terrifying and foreign place.

But like all these creatures of magic, for all their beauty and intelligence, they are not to be trusted;

"Kisses", she said, "are as true at sea as they are false on land. You men kiss the earth-born maidens to betray them. The kiss of a sea-child is the seal of constancy. You are mine till death."

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An Echo of Old Magic and Old Song

A good firm path - dry, with a good surface. Firm, secure fencing. Someone cares for this place - or cares enough to separate me from the woods. Perhaps the steepness of the slope and the looseness of the surface motivates that someone - he or she would rather those passing through didn't slide, tumble and crash into the river below. Or maybe there are beasts in the wood.

I hope there are beasts - or at least the memory of beasts. The wolves, bears and boars who once owned these woods - and the magic folk too. The trolls, the gnomes - and is that flash of white a glimpse of the unicorn. It can't be a wind blown supermarket carrier bag, can it!

On a wild night you must stay even more firmly on this path. Or else suffer the fate of Tam Lin - perhaps without a true love to save you from that mad ride into the gates of Hell.

gloomy was the night
and eerie was the way.
this lady in her green mantle
to miles cross she did go.

with the holy water in her hand
she cast the compass round.
at twelve o'clock the fairy court
came riding o'er the mound.

first came by the black steed
and then came by the brown.
then tam lin on the milk-white steed
with a gold star in his crown.

she's pulled him down into her arms
and let the bridle fall.
the queen of fairies she cried out
young Tam Lin is away.

The darkness is always close by - the legends are part of our heritage. The magic of these places - however safe they're made - is the deep magic of England. Step off the path and into the woods and listen carefully - you may hear the song of our ancestors. A song of woods, of trees and of the security that light and a clear view bring. It is a fine song.

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Magic, dirty boots and being a conservative

Yesterday, Kathryn and I went on a meandering route in the glorious spring sunshine to Newby Hall near Ripon in North Yorkshire. Now those of you who know this part of the world will be aware of its wonderful scenery, its sense of being kempt, of being cared for. It's not just the great houses and gardens - Studley Royal, Harewood, Newby, Ripley - that are looked after but the whole countryside. And although that countryside has changed over the decades, those changes are subtle, human and accepted. The changes work with the grain and allow us to keep looking at the rolling hills, to glimpse rougher moorland at Ilkley and Blubberhouses and to enjoy the spring sunshine bouncing off the old red brick and softer millstone walls.

The freedoms and liberties in such a place are not the frantic rush of the market or the screeching of rights but a deeper, older freedom. The freedom of Old Hob:

"His dead are in the churchyard - thirty generations laid.
Their names were old in history when Domesday Book was made;
And the passion and the piety and prowess of his line
Have seeded, rooted, fruited in some land the Law calls mine"*

Being a conservative isn't about ideas, policies or philosophies. Being a conservative is about understanding the magic of place. Of looking out onto something loved, cared for and cherished knowing that this generation and the coming generation will continue to love, care for and cherish that place. It should be second nature for conservatives to care about the environment - not from some abstract, scientists' fear of the future but because of Old Hob - and tomorrow's Old Hob's too. Woodie Guthrie was wrong - this land isn't our land, at least not forever.

And being a conservative isn't about government - large or small - either. Indeed, Old Hob's story tells us that the masters change from year to year, decade to decade, generation to generation. But Old Hob and his wife, his brother and his children remain. What the conservative says is that government doesn't know better than Old Hob. Indeed, when it comes to that loved, cared for and cherished place, Old Hob knows a damn sight better what's right than any politician, planner or bureacrat.

The magic lies all around us - in the myths of history as well as its truths, in folklore, in song and in half-remembered tales. As Puck concluded:

"Trackway and camp and city lost,
Salt Marsh where now is corn -
Old Wars, Old Peace, Old Arts that cease
And so was England born!

She is not any common earth,
Water or wood or air,
But Merlin's Isle of Gramarye,
Where you and I will fare!"**

We can rant about government, cry foul as our freedoms erode, bemoan the passing of politeness and the singing of songs. But in the end our boots are dirty, planted firmly in the soil of some fine place. So slow down again. Witness the magic of where you live and love. And feel what it's like to be a conservative.

*From "The Land" by Rudyard Kipling
**From "Puck's Song" by Rudyard Kipling

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The Friday Fungus: Fairy Rings

One of the most well known edible mushrooms – and one of the less popular – is Marasmius Oreades the fairy ring mushroom. Some of you may recall a lawn lover regaling you with the terrible trauma of removing the fairy ring from the otherwise pristine lawn (rather than leaving the ring there and eating the lovely little mushrooms every spring).

Elsewhere in Europe the rings or arcs made by this mushroom are the result of witches dancing, the depredations of dragons or the evil work of sorcerers. But in England, the rings were where the fairies and elves came to dance – and with this came risk. Falling asleep within a fairy ring was asking for trouble and for some even stepping inside the ring could result in dire consequences – blindness, miscarriage, disease and even death awaits the foolish.

By far the worst punishment – be warned you lovers of lawns – fell on those who ploughed up or dug up the ring. The wrath and vengeance of the fair folk would be visited on the miscreant and upon his descendants. Madness, loss, despair and other evil consequences befell such ploughmen. Of course, left well alone and allowed to flourish brought the boon of the fairies on the house and those living there with crops growing better, animals thriving and good fortune being a close companion of those good folk who tolerated the fairies.

Like all fresh mushrooms, fairy ring mushrooms are best not overcooked and, because these are springtime mushrooms, they work very well with a salad. But be warned – there are other slightly poisonous mushrooms that grow in rings so be careful. A good description and guide to identification is here on Atomic Shrimp. The Clitocybe dealbata mushrooms (which are very poisonous) grow in a similar ring but are different shapes having a more concave cap.

Wednesday Whimsy: saving trolls

I want to rescue trolls – not that they’re especially nice creatures but it rather annoys me that unpleasant, rude, interfering and often anonymous frequenters of on-line comment environments have muscled in on the act.

For the record this is what a troll is:

“The average troll stands nine feet high and weighs roughly 500 pounds, though females tend to be a bit larger than males. The hide of trolls is rubbery, and usually either moss green, putrid grey, or mottled gray and green. Their coarse hair is typically iron grey, or greenish-black.

Trolls initially seem to be somewhat shorter, due to their sagging shoulders and tendency to hunch forward. They walk with an uneven gait, and their arms dangle and drag the ground when running. Despite this apparent awkwardness, trolls are quite agile.

Trolls are infamous for their regenerative abilities, able to recover from the most grievous of wounds or regenerate entire limbs given time. Severing a troll's head results merely in temporary incapacitation, rather than death. After cutting off a troll's head or other limbs, one must seal the wounds with fire or acid to prevent regeneration. Because of this, most adventurers will typically carry some sort of implement capable of creating fire.”

Or maybe not....

...some trolls live under bridges and scare less experienced goats, while others just look like big ugly humans (with a penchant for raw flesh). What ever, trolls are not spotty teenagers with nothing better to do than annoy folk on line, trolls are not self-appointed queens of snide and trolls are not irritating automated bots sending out crap spam.

I suspect there might be a better word for these people so trolls can be left in peace to annoy goats, waylay passing parties of adventurers, eat up small children and generally deliver on their mission of being rather nasty mythological beasties.

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