A Fortnightly Serial.

By ANTHONY HOWELL.

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ANTHONY HOWELL writes: My own romantic notion of myself has encouraged me to attempt an epic. It will have 24 books and be the same length as the Odyssey. Each book will be approximately 24 pages long, with three seven-line verses per page. I have completed a clean draft of books 1 to 11, which I publish with Heyzine here, and to this file I will add each new book as it is completed.

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from Book 12

Most endings seem inevitable, though some prove less explicable
Than others. Listen in as grandma tells the story of the spinning-wheel
The children have discovered near a loom in her attic. Both clearly
Well cared for. The dust lies on them lightly with the flax
Still a clump stuck on the upright distaff. Cut into that platform
Which supports the wheel are initials with a love-knot
In between them. The children are intrigued by this. And pretty soon

The wheel, brought down the attic stairs by the excited boys,
Hums a soft rejoinder as their grandmother begins:
“When I was fifteen, dears, my mother gave me this thing,
And said: ‘Now, Betsey, it is time for you to make a start
On your wedding outfit, for I trust you’ll marry young.’
Back then, we little women spun and wove webs of fine linen,
Folded them with lavender and rosemary, and laid ’em up in chests:

Pressed sheets and table-cloths for after we were wed.
So I spun away, making all manner of plans in my head,
For I was a pretty piece, they all said, and, young as I was,
Two or three good lads used to come up evenings and sit
Staring at me while I spun. Among these was my neighbour
Joel Manlius Shirley, and I was fond of him; but he hadn’t
Money, so I put on airs and tried his patience a fair bit.

One day he came in and said: ‘Betsey, I’m going a-soldiering.
I’m off as they need men. Will you think of your Joe when he’s gone?’
I don’t know how I looked, but I felt as if I couldn’t bear it.
Only I was too proud to show my trouble so I gave my wheel a twist,
Laughed aloud, and said that I was glad for him
Since anything was better than hanging round with me at home.
That hurt him, to be sure; but he was always gentle to his Betsey.

Taking out his knife, he cut those letters under my own,
Saying, with a look I took right into my soul: ‘This will remind you
Of me if you are likely to forget. Betsey, goodbye; I’m going now
And may never come back.’ He kissed me, and was gone
Before a word got out of me; and then I cried till my flax was wet
And my thread tangled, with his presence now my dearest memory.
How well I feel my worry still on that sad day — I can’t forget.”

Grandma smiled, but something very like a tear could be discerned
In her old eyes. “I didn’t know or care much about that war
Of 1812, except as far as the safe return of one man was concerned.
Joe got on without any harm until the Battle of New Orleans,
When he was nearly killed behind those cotton-bale breastworks
Hickory Jackson had built. We couldn’t easily get army news
In those troublous times, and Joe was gone two years before

The end of the war. After that great battle we had no news
For a long spell, and we feared he was one of the few who died
On our American side. Those were dreadful days for us all.
My honoured mother was a pious soul, and so was Mrs. Shirley,
And they kept up their hearts with hope and prayer;
But I, poor thing, was young and weak, and I cried myself
Half-blind, remembering how naughty I had been. I would spin no more,

But set the wheel away, saying I should have no need of wedding gear
As I should never marry; wore black ribbon on my caps,
And one of Joe’s old buttons ‘bout my neck, no longer driven
By that spinning hum, nor willing to set off its tread.
Winter ended. Summer went, and no news came of Joe. All said
He was dead, and we had prayers at church, and talked
Of setting up a stone and where should be his spot. I thought life done;

For I pined sadly, felt as though I could never laugh again,”
Said the old lady, then more briskly, as she spun away,
She went on. “One December day, as I sat by that very window,
Dreaming numbly at my sewing-work, while Sally,
My old nurse, nodded over her knitting by the fire,
I saw a man come creeping along by the fence and dodge
Behind the wood-pile. There were many bad folks ’round

In those darn times, for war must leave a sight of lazy rascals
Afloat as well as those poor fellows maimed and homeless.
Mother had gone over to the sewing bee at Mrs. Shirley’s.
I was all alone, for Sally was so stiff with her rheumatics
She could scarce stir, and I stayed home to care for her.
The old musket always hung over the kitchen chimney: loaded,
I knew how to fire it. Joe had taught me. So away

I went and got it down, for I saw that feller raise his head
Now and then to spy the land, as I felt sure meant mischief.
Sally would only set about screaming like a frighted hen,
So I let her sleep; and getting behind the shutter, put my gun to my shoulder,
Waiting to blaze away just so soon as the enemy
Showed he intended attack. Presently, he came creeping
Up to the back door, and I heard him try the latch. All was fast,

So I slipped into the kitchen and stood behind the settle.
Since I had seen him nearer, I was surer than ever
He was a rascal. This was a tall man, shabby and all,
In an old coat and boots, a ragged hat, its brim well over an eye,
A beard hiding the lower part of his features. He had
A little bundle and a big stick in his hands, and he limped,
As if footsore or lame. I was much afeared, but those were times

That made heroes of our men and taught women to be brave
For love of home and country. So I kept me steady,
With my eye upon the window, and my finger on the trigger
Of the old gun that hadn’t been fired for years. Presently
The man looked in, and I caught a glimpse of intent in his eye
For he was gaunt of face and looked half-starved.
If Mother had been there I guess she’d have called him right away

And fed him well, but I dared not, and, when he tried
The window, aimed but did not fire; for, finding it latched,
He went away, and I dropped on the settle, shaking like a leaf.
All was still, and in a minute I plucked up the courage
To look out a bit; I just reached the middle of the kitchen, when
The buttery door swung open, and there stood the thief
With a carving knife together with my spice bread loaf.

We both froze, then he croaked something out, made a rush at me;
But I pulled the trigger, saw a flash, felt a blow, and fell
Somewhere, thinking, Now I’m dead!” Here Grandma paused
For breath, having spoken rapidly to the intense delight
Of the children, sitting there like images of interest, staring at her
Eyes all rounded. “But you weren’t dead! So? What next?”
Cried a listener eagerly. “Bless you, no! I only fell into his arms,

And when I came to, there the dear fellow was, crying over me
Like a baby, while old Sally danced around us like a bedlamite,
In spite of her rheumatics, shouting, ‘Hosanna! Thanks and praise!
He’s come, he’s come!” “But was he shot?” asked a grandson,
Anxious for some bloodshed. “No; the old gun burst and hurt
My hands, but not a mite of harm was done to Joe. I don’t think
I could tell all that happened for a spell, being dazed and all

By surprise – and by joy at what I had not done – and finding us
Alive; but I was pert as a wren by the time Mother came home
And Joe was at the table eating every mortal thing.”
And nowadays you might refer to this as a black swan event,
For had that old musket not exploded, none of them would have been there
To hear Grandma’s story, for their grandpa would be lying dead
By the kitchen door, and life would have wheeled away, taken

A different turn, just as another, darker swan turns my writing
Upside down, whirls me in its waterspout, in quantum entanglement
With that event that got me swamped by its own far from likely
Statistics. Note the disproportionate role of high-profile, hard-to-predict,
And rare events quite beyond the realm of normal expectations
In history, science, finance, and technology. The black swan
Alerts us to the non-computability of the likelihood of consequential

Rare events using scientific methods (owing to the nature
Of how few and far between they are). There are these psychological biases
That blind us all to uncertainty and to the substantial
Role of odd results, a role that queers prediction in historical affairs.
Analysing such a swan we delve into facts re the design, especially
The comparatively low tolerance point of the hull’s stability
In the event of its being tipped towards the water – due to the

Greater length and weight of that show-off mast. Air conditioning
And extraction vents also invite access to water, if not shut.
Ok for the keel to be up – according to the manual – at the distance
To the shore that it was on the night. But this greatly enhanced
The chance of it capsizing. Also, when the keel is down it makes a noise –
Can’t be disturbing the sleep of the super-rich. Points to there being
A flaw though to the concept of a sailing boat/luxury hotel combo.

Some remarks by one whose son is working on the super yachts –
Crew treated like indentured servants. Staff facilities awful.
Bet you get to meet some of the least pleasant people on the planet.
Look at the stats for Scylla’s jaws, between six to nine
Maws, slathering above your boat. Take a bet, at least six
Of your crew will get plucked up, taken by this hydra-head.
Keep a bowshot aft of it but not one jot further than that

Unless you want to be caught in the spiral of Charybdis
As she sucks up the sea, consuming your craft in its entirety.
Choose between the lesser of these evils, Odysseus.
Not the not-so-distant Charybdis that did over the North Sea.
Not the unsolved version they seek to pin on the Ukies.
This pair of freaks prey off the strait dividing Sicily from the toe.
What’s the chances of one grabbing you before the other has

Her chance to feed off you? Chances are…chances
After all. Better believe these evils are indeed a threat though.
Real, at least to you. Bayesian statistics being a theory
Set to be indelibly agreed to in that field where probability
Needs a degree of belief in an event. As our friend Henry Flynt
Has to suppose a milieu where everybody knows
That to walk through walls is an easy thing to do.

♦
—This is the eighth installment of The Runiad. —
See previously
Extracts from Books 1 & 2
Extracts from Books 3 & 4
Extracts from Books 5 & 6
Extract from Book 7
Extract from Book 8
Extract from Book 9
Extract from Book 10

Extract from Book 11

ANTHONY HOWELL, a former dancer with the Royal Ballet, was founder of The Theatre of Mistakes and performed solo at the Hayward Gallery and at the Sydney Biennale. His articles on visual art, dance, performance, and poetry have appeared in many publications including Art Monthly, The London Magazine, Harpers & Queen, The Times Literary Supplement. He is a contributing editor of  The Fortnightly Review. In 2001 he received a LADA bursary to study the tango in Buenos Aires and now teaches the dance at his studio/gallery The Room in Tottenham Hale. He is the author of a seminal textbook, The Analysis of Performance Art: A Guide to Its Theory and Practice. Details about his collaborative project, Grey Suit Editions, are here. In 2019, his exploration of psychic chaos, Consciousness (with Multilation), was published by the Fortnightly’s imprint, Odd Volumes. His latest collection is From Inside (The High Window).

Image credits: Drawings by Anthony Howell. Top image from Burak Basturk.