How the Ship Was Shattered; by Sharif Gemie


Sharif Gemie uses the Newport Ship as a focal point in his story. It was  previously published in a book edited by Angela Platt, Crosscurrents: The Newport Ship; Stories and Poems by Cwtsh Writers (Green Corner Press, 2017). Her book was printed as a contribution to a Ship-related event.


            I woke up slowly, very slowly, consciousness trickling into my mind, drop by drop. I felt like I'd slept for ages. Gradually I opened one eye. Even with just this, I could sense the sunlight outside. Then, looking out properly with both eyes, I saw a bright, crisp, clear May day, and I felt like getting up.

            When you’re as old as I am, you take this slowly. I was coming out from a deep, deep sleep, and there was no sense in rushing. I got up cautiously, stretching my limbs carefully, testing to be sure that they were working. Take it slow!

I stumbled to the edge of my cave, and looked out over those green hills, shining in the morning sunlight. Even at my age, there are some days when you just feel like launching yourself up into the sunlit sky. The stream next to the cave was bubbling away: I drank a few deep mouthfuls of its clear, sweet water, paused, then drank a few more. How long had I slept? The green hills looked the same, a sharp breeze whistled in from the east, and over the pastures I could see the white dots of sheep. Suddenly, I felt very hungry.

            I pushed myself to the ledge, and raised myself up, enjoying the sunshine, smelling the fresh, clean smells of the countryside. Carefully, I unfurled my wings and stretched them out along the ledge. They felt okay, but I knew that it would be dangerous for me to sleep so deeply again. The next time might well be my last. I raised my wings and lowered them, slowly, carefully, controlling my impatience. Yes, yes, they were working. Now: launch time!

            Minutes later, I was on my third sheep. Hmmm… Welsh sheep in the late spring sunshine, my favourite breakfast. I considered a fourth, but decided that it was time to explore, to see if anything had changed. I fancied gliding down to the river: not pushing myself too much, just finding that nice, warm, muddy spot, where the creek from the hills feeds into the river, and taking it easy, sunning myself, listening to the river gurgling, watching the sunlight play on the waves running in from the sea. It’s tidal there, of course. I’ve always thought that one of the greatest pleasures in life is to just lie still after breakfast, watching the tide trickle into those muddy inlets, then watching it trickle out. Truly, a fine, fulfilling day after a long, deep sleep.

            I pushed off from the hills, catching the wind just right—however old I might be, I can still grab a thermal—and then I circled round, down and eastwards, towards the river.

            But… What was this? Who’d taken my favourite sunning spot? A great splodge of timber and thatch, brick and slate, ruined the place. Last time there wasn’t even a hovel here. And now! Those bloody humans! You doze off for a couple of centuries, and then you come back and they’ve ruined everything. Honestly! They were like mushrooms: you just looked away, and they threw up a village or a castle or a church.

Instead of landing, I swooped round, and then hovered high in the sky to look down more carefully. It’s a dragon thing, maybe you don’t know about it. If you’re experienced, like me, you can balance between thermal and wind, holding your wings just right, staying almost motionless in the sky, just making little adjustments now and then. No one sees you, because we older dragons, we can do that thing that chrysanthemums do… No, no, I mean chameleons. We can change our colour to blend in. Up in the sky, almost motionless, I turned sky-blue, and settled down to look more carefully.

            What they’d done was to put one of those line-thingies over the river. What do they call them? Bridges, that’s it. It wasn’t there last time I’d been out. Then, to protect the bridge, they’d built a bloody great castle: a mean-looking building, all solid great lines of big bricks. Just looking at it, you knew it meant trouble: fiery arrows and spears if you went anywhere near, probably burning oil and catapults as well.

They’re so touchy, those humans: you munch on a few sheep for breakfast, and they launch great armies of archers and spearsmen at you. Ah, they’ll come to no good, those people. I could see this castle had been in the wars: someone had had a right old go at it, burning it, breaking it, so that just the bare remnants of its walls remained, stretching along the brown river. That’s humans for you! Always fighting about something, when there’s enough land for everyone, if you share it out right.

            Even the bridge had been repaired: now I could see the join. A nice bit of work, I suppose, but it still spoilt the river. A track led from the bridge, and took you to a sizeable collection of houses. As I hovered, I could see humans coming and going, up and down the main street, bringing sacks of stuff, taking them away. There were a couple of horses as well. Always busy, busy, busy. And look at this collection of houses! The bigger ones with slate roofs, the smaller ones thatched. Just waiting for a good blast of dragon-fire to set them alight. But I don’t go in for gratuitous violence, and while I was annoyed, I wasn’t going to fry anyone just for the sake of it.

            Round the houses was yet another wall of bricks, for protection I suppose. That was them all over. Always expecting trouble: either protecting themselves from attack, or—more likely!—planning one.

The wall snaked round the houses, and led back to the river. And then, there was a real surprise. For centuries I’d seen them floating on the river. First just on burnt-out bits of log, pitched and tossed by the waves as they struggled to get from one side to another. Then smoother, cleaner constructions, pushing their way across; using bits of cloth to catch the wind: first carrying just one or two people, but growing, always growing, in size; crossing seas, crossing down to the lands of the south; carrying dozens of people, and more sacks, more barrels. Why do they do it? I don’t know.

Today there was a huge great hulk of a thing, as big as one of my wings. Why, I’m sure it must have needed thousands of bits of wood to make it. How many trees had they cut down for that? How many days must they have spent working on it? And there it was, just reclining, propped up with timber on the mud, in my favourite sunning space. It really was a provocation.

I focused in on it more carefully, and I saw that—like the castle—this hulk had had some problems. The bits of wood that made it had a green, unhealthy hue, and some were bent, or sticking out at odd angles. And there was a little gang of them, working on it, trying to make it good. I suppose you could admire the resilience of these people. But something about their presumptuousness annoyed me: who did they think they were to defy the winds and the seas? Again, the image of avenging dragon-fire came into my mind, but the truth is that after my long sleep I probably couldn’t manage more than a spark or two. I’d have to do something else.

            So there I hung, high in the sky, feeling better and better in the warm sun, enjoying the sea breezes, watching those bloody humans, and scheming and plotting a little something for them. It was one of those times when you get to feel quite good about being angry. The sun rolled round, and I shifted with it, keeping it on my back. I wasn’t going to launch a full-frontal attack on them: I was still a bit weak after my sleep, and there was more than a possibility of archers with fiery arrows in this place. But perhaps I could do something a bit more sneaky.

            I waited until the sun went down, and all was dark. Then I came in low, very low, until the tips of my wings just touched the tops of the waves. It felt good, stretching out across the river—well, it was my river, wasn’t it?

I flew in, low and quiet, in from the sea, too low to be seen. I’d have to get this just right, I knew, as soon I’d need to swoop up, to avoid getting entangled in that damn bridge. I’d had all day to study the position of the buildings, the bridge and the ship, and it didn’t look too difficult. I built up a bit of momentum, pushing down with my wings. And then: the tricky bit. A sharp turn to the left, relying on my right wing to do the work, and: bang! Hit that bloody hulk with my left wing, claws bashing right into it, then dragging over it. There was a satisfying crack as the timbers broke, and I saw that great hulk roll over and crumble. That was one that would never see the south seas again!

            Now I had to build up-lift, quickly, before reaching the bridge. And… What was this? What was wrong? My left wing didn’t feel right: only about half of it was responding. It hurt, it really hurt. My right wing was working fine. I used it to beat downwards, lifting me over the bridge and the burnt-out castle.

            Ouch! There was a sudden stab of pain, half-way along my left wing. I couldn’t feel my claws, couldn’t move that wing: something was very wrong. Carefully, carefully, I used my right wing to get me higher, higher, circling round on my injured wing. Somehow I got back to my cave. I knew what would happen now. There was only one cure for a dragon with a broken wing: a long, deep sleep. But I was so old! And still weak after my last sleep. If I went back to sleep now, I’d probably never wake up again.

I weighed up possibilities, and decided that this was it. My time had come. It was better to go peacefully, curled up in my cave, rather than being a target for some eager spearsman or ambitious archer. It would be more dignified to just slip away.

            And then I laughed. At least I’d got that bloody hulk of wood! And no one had spotted me. Wouldn’t they be puzzled the next morning? They’d worry about that for centuries, I was sure.

Sharif Gemie sets out why he wrote the story and provides brief biographical information:-

Author's notes 

How the Ship was Shattered’ was written as a contribution to a project directed by the much missed Angela Platt (1945—2020). In 2017, her Cwtsh Creative Writing class wrote short stories and poems related to the Newport medieval Ship. As the only professional historian in the class, I felt under some pressure to contribute something. There are at least two mysteries about the Ship: why did such a big ship come to a small dock like Newport? And why wasn’t it repaired? ‘How the Ship was Shattered’ doesn’t answer either of these questions directly, but it does set some historical context for those mysterious events in 1468. Sharif was a university lecturer for 32 years. Originally a historian of modern Europe, he grew interested in the histories of marginalized and minority peoples in Europe. He wrote (or co-wrote) eight non-fiction works, and countless academic articles. 

Editor's notes

1. Click here to see the books published by Sharif Gemie: Waterstones

2. Click for the website of The Newport Ship

3. Click for Newport Museum and Art Gallery where artefacts from the Newport Ship Excavation are on display.

4. Click here for The Friends of Newport Museum and Art Gallery 


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