How the Ship Was Shattered; by Sharif Gemie
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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