After hearing "Jerusalem" played many times over to celebrate the England cricket team winning the Ashes, I'm prepared to start a petition to get it as the English national anthem. "God save the Queen/King" I find to be remarkably dirge-like, but "Jerusalem" stirs what nationalistic strings I have (and those are admittedly few.)
You can add the fact that the original composer of the tune ("Laudate Dominum") is buried very near to my hometown. Namely Sir Hubert Parry, if you're curious.
Before I go, here's part three of my little story for those who might be interested:
Clutching the scroll tight to her body, Mia hurried away from the building, eager to distance herself from her recent disquieting experiences. The town was clasped tight in Winter's icy grip; the unseasonable storm had served only to create a damp which seeped into the bones. Concealing her inhuman eyes as best she could, Mia avoided the bustling market and headed for the nearest secluded alleyway. With trepidation, she peered into the gloom, and contenting herself that she was alone, melted into the darkest recesses and unfurled the scroll. The writing on it was the most wondrous copperplate, flowing and elegant, each letter perfectly formed:
"Dearest Mia, I trust that this brief missive finds you well. You are doubtless confused and frightened by your apparent amnesia. In time, memories will return, but until that time you are vulnerable. My associates and I can offer you solace, protection and information as to your true being. Be at the Silver Crescent tavern at nightfall and there you will be met by a guide. I have no doubt that you know where to find the establishment."
The mysterious letter was not signed, and ended abruptly. It did not instill Mia with a sense of hope, but rather one of forboding. Yet whoever was the author of this note clearly knew much of her situation. They also knew that she had no choice but to follow the instructions. Tucking the scroll into the side of her boot, Mia stood up. Whatever this person's intentions towards her, she had to pursue it: it seemed the only route open to her.
Mia emerged from the alleyway into a weak and watery light. Wishing that her ensemble had included a wide brimmed hat, she shut her eyes to a squint and stalked away. Unsurprisingly to her, the letter was correct: she knew the town like the back of her hand, yet had no recollection of ever setting foot in it before. She walked with her eyes fixed to the floor; her features shielded by the cascades of dark hair. Had Mia raised her head she would have seen that she was attracting the gaze of many: a young woman so expensively dressed, with flawless skin and head bowed was not something often seen walking through the poorer districts of town.
The sun was high in the cloudless sky, yet an oppressive gloom still pervaded the town; the closely built houses like grim sentinels casting long shadows over the streets. Mia saw no need to raise her head and reveal her strange identity: rather she let herself get lost in thought as she walked, her body on auto-pilot. The reverie was soon broken though, by the sound of a voice suddenly beside her:
"Mia? Is that you Mia?" She felt a hand descend upon her shoulder, and through instinct swung round to face the owner of the voice. She was confronted by a small man, shorter than her, and he was scruffy and unshaven. As he met Mia's piercing gaze his face twisted into a mask of shock. He shrank back with a gasp, and in his alarm stumbled onto the cobbled street. People began to stop and stare, confused by the sight of what seemed to be a common cutpurse repulsed by a slight young woman. The man, still firmly deposited on the floor, spluttered: "M...Mia; what's happened to you? Who's done this?" Frustration coursed again through Mia's body: this man clearly knew her, yet the sight of his face triggered nothing within her. All she managed was a flat "I don't know", sounding insincere and emotionless. Apparently seeing the crowd that was gathering for the first time, the man took the initiative. He jumped up, and grabbing Mia's wrist, began to pull her away.
"Quickly", he whispered, "we attract too much attention." Not wishing for attention of any sort, Mia ran with the man into still narrower, less well populated back streets. As they ran, a soothing voice spoke again commandingly in Mia's mind. "My child, have a care: this man is not what he appears. You must be rid of him with all haste, lest you come to harm." The voice rolled around Mia's head, blanketing her doubts until one thing only was clear: she must not trust this man.
As they rushed along sightings of other people became sparse, until the man slowed to a walk, and with no one in sight down a quiet street, turned to face Mia. His grubby face radiated concern, yet Mia had no intention of letting down her guard.
"Your eyes...Mia, tell me what happened! Where have you been?" Words sprang unbidden to Mia's lips before she had a chance to think of her response: "I was seized Ruskan. I remember little else." Her voice was dry and cracked. "Here, let me get you something", the man fussed, looking down and reaching for a pouch at his belt. Something told Mia that this was her chance, and she brought her hands up to the man's face. "Look at me Ruskan" she heard herself say, and he raised his head to meet her ceaseless gaze. "You are nothing to me." The words fell like lead from her lips, and as the last syllable hit home, she twisted her shoulders violently. The man's head snapped back with a sickening crunch; his face contorted forevermore into a rictus of agony. Calmly, Mia let the body fall to the floor, and stooped, tearing the pouch from the dead man's belt. She looked at the body for a fleeting moment, her frigid eyes betraying nothing, and without a backwards, look strode off into the gathering gloom.
Cheers for reading!
You can add the fact that the original composer of the tune ("Laudate Dominum") is buried very near to my hometown. Namely Sir Hubert Parry, if you're curious.
Before I go, here's part three of my little story for those who might be interested:
Clutching the scroll tight to her body, Mia hurried away from the building, eager to distance herself from her recent disquieting experiences. The town was clasped tight in Winter's icy grip; the unseasonable storm had served only to create a damp which seeped into the bones. Concealing her inhuman eyes as best she could, Mia avoided the bustling market and headed for the nearest secluded alleyway. With trepidation, she peered into the gloom, and contenting herself that she was alone, melted into the darkest recesses and unfurled the scroll. The writing on it was the most wondrous copperplate, flowing and elegant, each letter perfectly formed:
"Dearest Mia, I trust that this brief missive finds you well. You are doubtless confused and frightened by your apparent amnesia. In time, memories will return, but until that time you are vulnerable. My associates and I can offer you solace, protection and information as to your true being. Be at the Silver Crescent tavern at nightfall and there you will be met by a guide. I have no doubt that you know where to find the establishment."
The mysterious letter was not signed, and ended abruptly. It did not instill Mia with a sense of hope, but rather one of forboding. Yet whoever was the author of this note clearly knew much of her situation. They also knew that she had no choice but to follow the instructions. Tucking the scroll into the side of her boot, Mia stood up. Whatever this person's intentions towards her, she had to pursue it: it seemed the only route open to her.
Mia emerged from the alleyway into a weak and watery light. Wishing that her ensemble had included a wide brimmed hat, she shut her eyes to a squint and stalked away. Unsurprisingly to her, the letter was correct: she knew the town like the back of her hand, yet had no recollection of ever setting foot in it before. She walked with her eyes fixed to the floor; her features shielded by the cascades of dark hair. Had Mia raised her head she would have seen that she was attracting the gaze of many: a young woman so expensively dressed, with flawless skin and head bowed was not something often seen walking through the poorer districts of town.
The sun was high in the cloudless sky, yet an oppressive gloom still pervaded the town; the closely built houses like grim sentinels casting long shadows over the streets. Mia saw no need to raise her head and reveal her strange identity: rather she let herself get lost in thought as she walked, her body on auto-pilot. The reverie was soon broken though, by the sound of a voice suddenly beside her:
"Mia? Is that you Mia?" She felt a hand descend upon her shoulder, and through instinct swung round to face the owner of the voice. She was confronted by a small man, shorter than her, and he was scruffy and unshaven. As he met Mia's piercing gaze his face twisted into a mask of shock. He shrank back with a gasp, and in his alarm stumbled onto the cobbled street. People began to stop and stare, confused by the sight of what seemed to be a common cutpurse repulsed by a slight young woman. The man, still firmly deposited on the floor, spluttered: "M...Mia; what's happened to you? Who's done this?" Frustration coursed again through Mia's body: this man clearly knew her, yet the sight of his face triggered nothing within her. All she managed was a flat "I don't know", sounding insincere and emotionless. Apparently seeing the crowd that was gathering for the first time, the man took the initiative. He jumped up, and grabbing Mia's wrist, began to pull her away.
"Quickly", he whispered, "we attract too much attention." Not wishing for attention of any sort, Mia ran with the man into still narrower, less well populated back streets. As they ran, a soothing voice spoke again commandingly in Mia's mind. "My child, have a care: this man is not what he appears. You must be rid of him with all haste, lest you come to harm." The voice rolled around Mia's head, blanketing her doubts until one thing only was clear: she must not trust this man.
As they rushed along sightings of other people became sparse, until the man slowed to a walk, and with no one in sight down a quiet street, turned to face Mia. His grubby face radiated concern, yet Mia had no intention of letting down her guard.
"Your eyes...Mia, tell me what happened! Where have you been?" Words sprang unbidden to Mia's lips before she had a chance to think of her response: "I was seized Ruskan. I remember little else." Her voice was dry and cracked. "Here, let me get you something", the man fussed, looking down and reaching for a pouch at his belt. Something told Mia that this was her chance, and she brought her hands up to the man's face. "Look at me Ruskan" she heard herself say, and he raised his head to meet her ceaseless gaze. "You are nothing to me." The words fell like lead from her lips, and as the last syllable hit home, she twisted her shoulders violently. The man's head snapped back with a sickening crunch; his face contorted forevermore into a rictus of agony. Calmly, Mia let the body fall to the floor, and stooped, tearing the pouch from the dead man's belt. She looked at the body for a fleeting moment, her frigid eyes betraying nothing, and without a backwards, look strode off into the gathering gloom.
Cheers for reading!
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
PhD, here I come... four more years of NUS card
maybe not, should actually earn some money and live in the real world at some point.
yay for mountain ponies, little but rugged
did ye have a happy international talk like a pirate day? I hope your swash was well buckled