When the horns of the SS Vulcania sounded and it was time to leave the Island of the Temple People passengers, upon returning to their cabins found hat le Enchanteur has left a surprise for them. She has left a special box of chocolates, to savour as the ship heads towards the next destination.  The chocolates have led to inspired writing.

Out of the Chocolate Box by Gail Kavanagh

I dipped into Le Enchanteur’s box of chocolates and I pulled out – my thumb. I remembered promising Lori that I would tell the story of my shot thumb. So here, out of the chocolate box of childhood memories is a tale you may think is highly unlikely, but is in fact quite true – any circus performer and traveller could tell you even weirder stuff…

How I Got Shot in the Thumb is one of those stories that gets trotted out every now and then. The kids used to love hearing it, and whenever they made too much fuss about something trivia, I would give them the Thumbs Up. Litanies of injury would come to abrupt halt with the words, “Of course, there was the time Mum got shot…”

As many Foodies know, I grew up as a traveller, and my parents were circus performers. My father was a sharpshooter and my mother his human target – and as circus kids do, when I was old enough I joined the act.

There were a few accidents but never with the guns until one Friday in Scotland in 1960, during the second house. I was standing at the target board, holding one of the small plaster disks by its matchstick handle between my finger and thumb. It was one of the simplest parts of the act – Dad shattered the disc with a bullet and the most I had to worry about was being stung by a bit of flying plaster. Except that, this time, it felt more as if my thumb had been hit with a large, dull hammer. I stared at it in surprise. There was blood pouring out.

One of the bullets had only half the charge, and dropped as it was fired, enough distance to go clean through my thumb and into the target board. I was hurried back to the bus where Dad examined my thumb. There was a small neat hole near the nail, where the bullet had entered. The back of my thumb was a bloody, ragged mess.
One of the locals gave us the address of the local doctor and I set off with Dad, both of us with coats thrown on over our costumes.

We found the doctor’s house, after a fair walk, and knocked on the door. The Doctor’s wife opened it and stared at us as if we were a couple of escaped lunatics.

“We’re from the circus,” Dad explained. “My daughter has had an accident.”

Seeing my hand, and the blood soaked cloth it was wrapped in, the woman ushered us inside and called for the doctor. He turned out to be lovely old man with a white moustache and a manner to charm the most stubborn of patients into submission. My hand was beginning to throb by now, and I wasn’t too keen on having the cloth removed. It had stuck to the wound, and we had to soak it off. Once my thumb was in the open he examined it with interest. Then he looked at me.
“I think the young lady should have a cup of tea,” he said. “About six sugars should do the trick.”

As he cleaned up my wound he listened to Dad’s tales of our life on the road. From his manner, you would think he treated Indian squaws for gunshot wounds every day. His wife, now past her first shock, was just as charming. She brought the tea, with a couple of biscuits, and joined in the conversation while the doctor expertly bandaged my thumb.

“I think there’s not much point in stitches,” he said, “since the bullet has blown out the tissue at the back. The best thing you can do is keep it clean, soak it in saline solution every night, and let the tissue rebuild itself. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have another look at it and change the dressing.”

We stayed for another cup of tea, long enough for the doctor to make sure I was recovered from shock – which explained the very sugary tea I had been given – and arrived back at the circus in time for the evening show. I had to hold the disc in the other hand, but I was thankful – Mum’s part of the act meant she had to hold the disc on her head, so if a bullet had to drop two inches, it was best that it dropped into my thumb.

I visited the doctor twice again before we left Beith and he was well pleased with the progress I was making. As he had said, the back of my thumb was in too much of a mess for stitches, but with repeated soakings and clean dressing, it began to heal over, though it left a permanent scar that has considerably faded now.

Deck Training for Pythian Games

The word music itself is derived from the Muses, the legendary goddesses of Delphi. Greek mythology is rich in stories related to music. One of the most well known myths concerns Orpheus, the son of the Thracian King, Oeagrus and Calliope, one of the nine Muses. Mythology tells us that Apollo presented him with a lyre and the Muses taught him to use it so that he not only enchanted wild beast, but made trees and rocks move from their places to follow the sound of his music. At Zone in Thrace a number of ancient mountain oaks are still standing in the pattern of one of his dances, just as he left them.

After a visit to Egypt, Orpheus joined the Argonauts, with whom he sailed to Colchis, his music helping them to overcome many difficulties. There are many accounts of how he died. One says that Zeus killed him with a thunderbolt for divulging divine secrets. Whatever, the Muses tearfully gathered his remains and buried them at the foot of Mount Olympus where the nightingales now sing sweeter than any where else in the world.

The Muses delighted in feasts and the pleasure of song. At one such contest the daughters of Pierus defied the Muses in a contest of song and, having been defeated, were turned into magpies, greenfinches, ducks and other birds. Likewise, the Sirens, who were daughters of one of the Muses competed with them and lost. The Muses proceeded to pluck out their feathers and made crowns out of them for themselves.

The Muses discovered letters and the combination of these we call poetry. These letters were used to celebrate victory. Polymnia is so named because by her great praises she brings distinction to writer’s whose works have won for them immortal fame. Perhaps it was Polymnia who crowned the Poet Laureate at the Pythian Games which took place at Delphi every four years. The festival not only involved athletic contests but included musical competitions and drama. Unlike our society which had turned sports figures into icons, in ancient Greece there was no divorce between intellect and muscle. Each was viewed to be a necessary quality of the perfect man. Pindar, a Boeotian poet made it his professional business to celebrate the athletic contests in music and song. When a city was victorious it rejoiced in poem and song. Thus these games furnished poets, musicians and authors the best opportunities to present their productions to the public, and the fame of the victors was diffused far and wide.

Homer was clearly present at a number of games and his reports provide us with the most accurate account of what happened during this time. There was a contest in which the fight between the god and the monster was represented; the prize a garland of laurel, which was Apollo’s tree. The story goes that Apollo had fallen passionately in love with Daphne, the mountain nymph, a priestess of Mother Earth, the daughter of the river Peneius in Thessaly. He pursued her all over the countryside but just as he was about to overtake her Daphne cried out to Mother Earth who, in the nick of time spirited her away to Crete, where she became known as Pasiphae. Mother Earth left a laurel-tree in her place, and from its leaves Apollo made a wreath to console himself. It is this wreath that is placed on the heads of the victorious.

After defeating the Python Apollo took over from Themis the neighbouring oracle of Delphi, which was in historical times the most famous oracle in the Greek world. It was after this that Apollo instituted the Pythian games, which took place at Delphi and involved a reenactment of the slaying of the Python.

The Pythian games fire my imagination because they permit me to participate. As someone who has neither the coordination or the body to engage in physical exercises I have never been able to conceive of a time when I might be able to enter myself in any sporting events. I am prepared to move mountains to do whatever is required for me to enter the writing events.

The Greeks insisted that poetry was a form of craft, of practiced skill. To prepare for the Pythian games we need to practice our skill and become deft wordsmiths.

Let the training begin on the deck of the SS Vulcania: Check out the mad deck activities and then use the Pythian Games forum to participate and contribute your entry.

If you are not a registered USER of the Pythian Games simply send in a request to the group to join and we will sign you in.

On Being A New Passenger

Late last night, in a flurry of anticipation, I was teleported on board the S.S. Vulcania.  With my homeland in turmoil I was reluctant to leave but friends urged to take the ticket they had arranged for me.

‘A cruise,’ they had cried. ‘You must go Almurta. It is just what you need. Take some time away to reflect, to dream, to heal. Go now before your health deteriorates further. We will contact you immediately if you are needed here. Remember you can beteleported home in an instant. Go now. Gaze upon new horizons and heal.’

And so I did as I was bid though the suffering of the people around me rang in my ears and my heart was heavy was their pain. Against the back drop of the current terrors that lay waste my homeland my own health troubles have paled into insignificance yet they weigh me down. My soul feels weary. Perhaps this cruise will restore me and I will return to my ravaged home invigorated and more able to give of myself to others.

Now as dawn breaks over White Owl Island a gentle light flows into the cabin where I find myself. The exultant songs of birds greeting the new day sounds in the distance. I fling open my porthole to hear it more fully and a rush of salt laden air fresh with undertones of wild heather and lavender rushes into my cabin. I breathe deeply.

In the corridors beyond my door I can hear voices abuzz with news of White Owl Island. I hear tell of old potting sheds where the seeds of new ideas can be germinated. ‘Come, let us seek them,’ the voices call to one another. ‘Let us too plant new ideas in the fertile soil.’ For a moment I think of joining them but fall back on my couch heavy with the realisation that it has been months since I had a new idea. Or perhaps indeed, it has been years. Either way, I have no seeds to plant.

From somewhere comes a whisper that perhaps there is a Temple of Solace on the island. The name captures my imagination and I strain to hear more of this mythic place. It remains though, only a whisper, a suggestion of a possibility. Still something inside me has stirred and I decide to go in search of it. Wrapping my midnight blue cloak of protection around me, I zip up the opening and pull the hood tight around my face. The amulets and talismans I always carry are safely hid beneath its folds. Drawing upon an invisibility spell I make my way off the ship. As usual the spell is only partially effective and I feel people moving towards as if to speak. ‘Later, later,’ I will them, ‘for now I need to be alone.’ My body language is far more effective than my pathetic attempts at spell making and the people move away with a shrug of their shoulders.

Once on land the penetrating gaze of the Lemurian Warriors rips through my faulty defence shield. I mention the name of the hostess, The Enchantress, and they allow me to pass. Clear of them. I follow instinct and climb a steep, over grown path away from the docks. Around me a luxuriant tangle of herbs and flowering plants perfumes the air. Along the edge of the path large chunks of rose quartz glisten in the early morning light. The breathy sound of a flute wafts through the air. The player is hidden from me. My muscles, weakened by sickness, ache as I ascend the hillside but the sweet magic of the trail beckons me onward. ‘Almurta, Almurta,’ the breeze seems to murmur. ‘Come hither now.’

I round a bend and enter into a wide clearing where stone benches have been strewn with soft mounds of cushions. Gratefully I ease my tired body down. The seat I have chosen looks out to the sea. The horizon line merges into a foreverness of blueness as sea meets sky. I become aware that the air around me has a pristine quality, a lightness I have never experienced before. It is as if it has been washed through the light of crystals to come now to me absolutely cleansed of any negativity, utterly uncontaminated by any taint of sadness, of fear or of anger. Pure. Clean. Filled with Spirit.

Time passes without me being aware of its passage. My thoughts have stilled. There is nothing I desire. I simply AM within the light. My soul uncurls, stretches and opens to the possibility of healing. The faintest whisper of a new idea comes to me. The idea of regeneration. The idea of rebirth. I know where I sit is a way station on the path the Temple of Solace. I realise there are still paths for me to travel before I enter that magical citadel yet this place I have been drawn to has given me the sense that the Temple does exist. That I will somehow find it. First though, on the morrow, I will seek out the potting sheds and plant the seeds of my newfound ideas.

When I return to my cabin the urge to make art that has been dormant within for so long reawakens. I pull out the few art materials I have bought on board with me and spend the afternoon making tiny paintings of birds and plants I saw along the pathway. My earlier desire to avoid my fellow passengers dissolves as I become intrigued with the possibility of sharing my art work with them. Already I have noticed the ship is filled with the paintings, drawings and photographs of our hostess and of fellow passengers. How, I wonder, do they post it so that others can see it?

From Almurta’s Cabin