“Dangerosa Jones” at the Regular Rules on Substack has posted a highly flattering review of King of Rogaland:
This combination of history and myth produces a ripping yarn. There is no other way to put it. Father Ailill and Erling are by no means perfect. They are holy warriors only in the most flawed and human of ways — this makes them interesting, multi-dimensional, and armed, a compelling combination. I do not like the popular form taken by current fantasy novels, most of the time, as I find the characters shallow and the conflicts contrived. These books are the exception that proves the rule.
She sighed and said, “He’s quite sweet, actually, beneath all the company bluff and bluster. I kept thinking of Graham Greene the whole time I was with him.”
Jay didn’t get the reference.
“I don’t follow.”
“I mean, I think he’ll end up dead, sooner than later.”
I think of Graham Greene myself, actually, whenever I read a Kevin Wignall novel. The difference is that I find Greene wholly opaque to my comprehension, while I quite enjoy Wignall. On the other hand, Greene has a moral center (though I may differ with his judgments), while I’m never sure what Wignall wants me to think about his characters.
Jay Lewis, hero of Ice in the Blood, is a former CIA agent, now working freelance private security. Currently he’s living on the French Riviera, heading up security for Vitali Petrov, a Belorussian general who’s planning a coup in his home country. He has the support of the US and Britain. However, Jay is in fact a double agent, working for an undisclosed employer to thwart the coup.
Jay’s seen and done most everything, but he’s not prepared for the sudden appearance of a former girlfriend who has brought along a ten-year-old boy whom she says is Jay’s son (Jay never knew he existed). She’s a peaceful person, a career relief worker. She doesn’t know how to handle a boy like this Owen, who is obviously Jay’s son to anyone who looks at them both, and possesses what seems like an innate talent for intrigue and violence.
The woman disappears before Jay can figure out a way to put her off, leaving Owen in his care. Well, he’ll have to find someone to look after him, but that will take a few days to arrange. In the meantime, he lets the boy tag along with him. Owen clearly hungers for a male role model, and Jay quickly warms to him, even finding him useful as camouflage and as a source of information. Especially when Owen makes friends with Petrov’s son. A plan begins to gel in Jay’s mind – but it will involve putting Owen at some degree of risk.
But what if Owen wants to be just like his dad?
In a story like this, one expects the hero to learn heartwarming lessons about love and responsibility as parenthood changes him inwardly. And that does happen to some extent. But it’s a lot more complex than that, and in the end I wasn’t sure what to make of the story’s resolution.
But it was a good story, well-told, vivid, and exciting. I enjoyed it, but I’m not sure it didn’t corrupt me a little.
I meant to illustrate this little report with my own vivid, dramatic photography, but I forgot it takes an indeterminate amount of time to upload from my phone to Dropbox to Photobucket. So I’ll post the pictures whenever that’s accomplished, unless the passage of time should render them obsolete.
I have now completed what should become (unless the Lord or the festival organizers block me) the most intense couple of weeks in my annual schedule. Norsk Høstfest in Minot and the Midwest Viking Festival in Green Bay, it appears, generally run on adjacent weeks, which means a 9-hour (either way) drive to North Dakota and a 5-hour (either way) drive to Wisconsin on consecutive weekends. Which is a challenge for a man of my, shall we say, experience and maturity. Yesterday I spent mostly in bed, and I actually slept a lot – something that I don’t do much these days unless I’m physically played out. Today I did some catching up – unloading my car (for the last time this season), washing clothes (not for the last time this season – pay no attention to the rumors), and catching up on email. And now I report to you.
First of all, the Midwest Viking Festival in Green Bay was kind of awesome. I was highly impressed. We used to do it in Moorhead, Minn. at the Hjemkomst Viking Ship Museum. That was also great, but we outwore our welcome somehow. This festival involved the most serious reenactors I’ve encountered (in this country) and was very well organized. It’s assembled around a replica Viking house in the grindhus style, built by my friend Owen Christianson and his wife Elspeth.
The weather was cool and windy, with some light rain on Friday, the first day. Saturday was colder but clear. This was actually pretty good weather for a Viking encampment. One of the chronic problems of Viking reenacting in this country is that we usually do it at summer festivals, where the woolen clothing appropriate to Northern European conditions gets rather uncomfortable. But wool was just the thing this weekend.
We had a large assembly of reenactors, mostly craftspeople of one kind or another, eager to show off their skills. The group Telge Glima, from Sweden, was there to demonstrate Viking athletic games twice a day, and their shows were followed by blunt steel combat by our fighters.
Because of the specialized nature of the event, our visitors seemed, by and large, really interested in the festival’s topic. That meant they were eager to buy books, and I sold off my stock of Viking Legacy early the first afternoon. Next year I’ll know to bring more.
I was particularly gratified to hear Viking Legacy referenced in conversation by someone who wasn’t even aware of my connection to it. And one woman who examined my novels said she’d just been looking at them on Amazon. That’s something I don’t think I’ve ever heard before from a potential customer.
So I was pleased with the whole thing. Next time, I think I’ll schedule a third night in a motel rather than driving home the same night. I made it safely, but it was probably an imprudent journey for a man of my experience and… well, you know.
Today’s hymn about the life to come is from the great Issac Watts (1674-1748), an English Nonconformist minister and the father of English hymnody. The text has been arranged to fit other tunes, which may be more commonly sung than this one judging by what’s available on YouTube. The video above is a piano recording for the tune “Bethlehem” by German musician and clergyman Gottfried Wilhelm Fink (1783-1846).
“After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands . . .” (Rev. 7:9 ESV)
1 How bright these glorious spirits shine! Whence all their white array? How came they to the blissful seats of everlasting day? Lo! these are they from suff’rings great who came to realms of light! and in the blood of Christ have washed those robes which shine so bright.
2 Now, with triumphal palms, they stand before the throne on high, and serve the God they love, amidst the glories of the sky. His presence fills each heart with joy, tunes ev’ry mouth to sing: by day, by night, the sacred courts with glad hosannas ring.
3 Hunger and thirst are felt no more, nor suns with scorching ray; God is their sun, whose cheering beams diffuse eternal day. The Lamb which dwells amidst the throne shall o’er them still preside, feed them with nourishment divine, and all their footsteps guide.
4 ‘Mong pastures green he’ll lead his flock where living streams appear; and God the Lord from ev’ry eye shall wipe off ev’ry tear. To him who sits upon the throne, the God whom we adore, and to the Lamb that once was slain, be glory evermore!
The greatest displeasure of the largest number Is the law of nature. – Pao Chao, “The Ruined City”
Paul J. Pastor writes about The Kalevala, an epic poem written from Karelian and Finnish folklore, focusing on “the great bard Väinämöinen” who chooses to live
on the island with no words on the mainland with no trees.
After a long while, if I’m reading this correctly, Väinämöinen begins to sing the world into being.
Pastor applies this to our own small creative works. Silence, not just moments of quiet, but true silence that endures beyond our comfort can be “the great and difficult friend of the writer and the artist.”
We are not artistic dynamos. We cannot truly create anything of own mere will. We must rely on the Lord and his revelation, both general and specific. Noise, even a natural and healthy noise of life, can drain us—at least, it does drain me.
And yet what brings Väinämöinen, the bard of bards, into the fullness of his power is precisely that condition of emptiness that so disgusts or unsettles us. It is being in the boring-place, the empty-place, the still-place that something happens to him, something so vast that nature itself unlocks her most intimate secrets.
The great bard began singing on a rock so bare we would have trouble finding a similar one today, but we may find a deafening silence among ruins, a place where
. . . grains of sand, like startled birds, are looking for a safe place to settle. Bushes and creepers, confused and tangled, seem to know no boundaries.
These verses come from fifth century Chinese poet Pao Chao (or Bān Zhāo). In “The Ruined City,” he describes a vast plain with visible canals and roads cut into it, all leading to crumbled ends and weeds.
The young girls from east and south Smooth as silk, fragrant as orchids White as jade with their lips red, Now lie beneath the dreary stones and barren earth. The greatest displeasure of the largest number Is the law of nature.
This too is silence and a little despair; we need more than human hope to endure it. Can we throw seeds into the wind that will sprout in what time the Lord will give them? Kyrie, eleison.
A newly elected school board member of Peoria Unified School District Board in Glendale, Arizona, has been told to stop quoting scripture at the beginning of school board meetings because the district believed it was a violation of the First Amendment. They took this stand in response to letters from organizations such as the Freedom From Religion Foundation.
Some friends of mine at a previous Midwest Viking Festival, in Moorhead, MN.
In case you’re keeping track, I passed the 60,000 word count on The Baldur Game this morning. Since I anticipate a final length in the neighborhood of 100,000 words, I feel as if I’m making progress. I’ve wrapped up Ailill’s and Erling’s adventures in Caithness, Scotland with Jarl Thorfinn the Mighty (a whole lot more happened there than I expected), and now I’ve got them in the Orkneys, preparing for the crossing to Norway.
If you’re in the Green Bay area, you’ll find me (God willing) at the Midwest Viking Festival on the campus of the University of Wisconsin-Green Bay Friday and Saturday. They have a Viking house there, which will anchor our encampment. I’ve been to this festival before, but only in its former venue in Moorhead, Minnesota – a somewhat shorter drive. I’m crossing my fingers that I’ll satisfy the authenticity standards.
I’ll have some books to sell, but get there early. Supplies are limited.
(Note, I know Green Bay is an odd place to hold a festival for Vikings. Another of God’s little jokes, I suppose.)
If you know boldness, you know mercy too, because they are like sisters;
boldness is lighter than all things on earth, but compassion is lighter than anything.
It’s not my custom to review poetry on this blog; I write it poorly and read it with only middling comprehension. But the description I received of Olga Sedakova’s recently released volume, Old Songs, intrigued me enough to accept the offer of a free review copy. As might be expected, the poems baffled me a little, but they nevertheless left an impression. The translation is done by Martha M. F. Kelly, and seems excellent so far as I am able to judge.
Olga Sedakova is a Christian Russian poet, a survivor of the Underground in Soviet times and today a major critic of her country’s war in Ukraine. Old Songs was published only a few weeks ago, and still awaits its first Amazon review.
Speaking from my limited perspective, these poems seemed resolutely Christian in a realistic way. No easy answers. No assumption that rewards will come to us in this world. The poet knows suffering and placidly expects to suffer more. All temporal hopes are likely to fail; we believe anyway.
I felt like a child trying to follow an adult conversation through most of the poems (it’s not a long book), but certain passages definitely resonated. I particularly liked the one I placed at the head of this review. Here’s a couple other good ones;
Ah, I’ve watched people a long, long time, and strange things have I learned: I know that the soul is an infant, an infant until its final hour,
that it believes absolutely everything, and it sleeps in a den of thieves.
The dead don’t need a thing,
not houses nor dresses nor hearing.
There’s nothing they need from us.
Not a thing, save everything on earth.
Those are good lines. Recommended. I was impressed.
We’re dealing here with a book I got as a free sample (not an uncommon thing). Madison P.I. is the third book in a series by Brian Clements starring Joe Bamberg, a former local news reporter in his home town of Madison, Alabama. Having solved a couple crimes in previous books, he’s now set up as a private eye.
The first client to come to his office is an eighteen-year-old girl named Riley Evans. Riley is concerned about her mother, who’s been missing for three days. Turns out the woman is a degenerate gambler with a drinking problem, and Riley has been more or less mothering her mother. She came to Joe because her mother told her she’d dated him briefly as a young woman. This is true, but it doesn’t make Joe any more comfortable.
Things get puzzling when the local sheriff, instead of cooperating or even giving him the cold shoulder, actually bars Joe from having any contact with the police. Joe will have to intrude on some of the seediest locations in the area in order to find Riley’s mother. And the girl insists on accompanying him most of the time. Surprisingly, she’s actually helpful sometimes.
The writing in Madison P.I. wasn’t bad. The plotting was a little rough, but also not bad. I did have trouble with some moments when Joe seems to act out of character, as when he subdues a professional thug with a few moves learned in a self-defense course.
Still, this wasn’t a bad book. I probably won’t read any more in the series, due to the author’s somewhat sanctimonious liberalism, as when he repeatedly denigrates the Second Amendment, yet has his hero save his life more than once with a concealed carry weapon. Also, I disliked Joe’s opinion that it’s always okay to steal from insurance companies.
Oh yes — it ends in a cliffhanger, which annoys me.
But Madison P.I. isn’t bad at all for a self-published mystery.
(Back from Høstfest in Minot. No incidents to report, and my book sales were excellent. Remind me to tell you someday about being a “Høstfest VIP,” which isn’t as good as it sounds.)
I have complained more than once about novels that seem intended to compete with mindless Hollywood thrillers – stories where the hero races from one violent confrontation to another, shrugging off “flesh wounds,” shaking his head and recovering immediately from head trauma, crashing cars and blowing up buildings rapidly enough to prevent the reader from pondering the improbability of the whole frothy concoction.
However, it’s possible for the Hollywood thriller novel to work as light entertainment – if the author has writing skill and a sense of humor. Those qualities won me over almost immediately as I read The Supremacy License.
Our main character is Manny Martinez, code name “Sinatra,” whom I knew previously from author Lee’s Mackenzie August novels (which I also like very much). Manny is an improbable character, a former gang member, drug addict and convict who has cleaned his life up to become the most gung-ho, super-American US Marshal ever. He has devils he wrestles with, but his friendship with Mack, his job, and his love of country keep him on the straight path. He is also, we are reminded, devastatingly attractive to women and a deadly fighter.
As the story opens, Manny is summoned to a meeting with high-level FBI agents. They offer him a job – not full time but sort of on-call – as a special agent for a super-secret domestic black ops group. He would be helping to eliminate criminals so dangerous the government can’t even acknowledge their existence. His partner, oddly, would be Noelle Beck, a demure Mormon data analyst who harbors a secret crush on him.
Manny’s all in from the word go. Anything he can do to serve the USA he’ll do, and the more dangerous the better. His first job is one for which he’s uniquely qualified – to arrest or kill a powerful Honduran terrorist who happens to be his former girlfriend.
Two things made The Supremacy License a lot of fun – Manny’s personality, a blend of tongue-in-cheek arrogance and genuine moral nobility, plus his complete, reckless fearlessness in action. I liked Manny a lot, and I look forward to following his further preposterous adventures. Well done.
