#hild — Public Fediverse posts

Only cats here…

Over on Gemæcce (my research blog) there’s a post about the discovery of a new edition of the Eordu recension of Cædmon’s Hymn. There’s other Early Medieval news to share, too, but I didn’t have time for that this week.

Meanwhile on Patreon a very cool set of alt-Menewood fictions:

• The original beginning I wrote before Hild was even published
• An alternate version of events following the battle of Hatfield
• A tiny bright snippet that I ended up cutting because although I loved it, it didn’t further the plot.

Assuming all goes well with the access and formatting of those pieces, in a week or two I’ll post the pièce de résistance of alt-Menewood: a whole magnificent chapter concerning several characters from Hild who do not appear in the published version of the sequel. Trust me, that is a fucking good chapter, really great; it broke my heart to cut it. (And Kelley came the closest to not speaking to me since…well, ever.)

Here, however, in honour of Çaturday, we have a picture of George, taken Thursday afternoon, sitting on a small table in front of the pots of dead sticks and a few leaves (unlike the kitchen deck):

It was clear he was paying close attention to something but from where I stood, I couldn’t see it—until he leapt off the table into the air…and it turned out it was the first of the cherry blossom falling. Perhaps he thought it was a bird.

Yesterday morning, here he is again, sitting on the same table in front to the same bare pots, only, well, see for yourself: it looks as though they’re suddenly blooming.

The cherry tree is shedding faster than I thought possible…

Only cats here…

Over on Gemæcce (my research blog) there’s a post about the discovery of a new edition of the Eordu recension of Cædmon’s Hymn. There’s other Early Medieval news to share, too, but I didn’t have time for that this week.

Meanwhile on Patreon a very cool set of alt-Menewood fictions:

• The original beginning I wrote before Hild was even published
• An alternate version of events following the battle of Hatfield
• A tiny bright snippet that I ended up cutting because although I loved it, it didn’t further the plot.

Assuming all goes well with the access and formatting of those pieces, in a week or two I’ll post the pièce de résistance of alt-Menewood: a whole magnificent chapter concerning several characters from Hild who do not appear in the published version of the sequel. Trust me, that is a fucking good chapter, really great; it broke my heart to cut it. (And Kelley came the closest to not speaking to me since…well, ever.)

Here, however, in honour of Çaturday, we have a picture of George, taken Thursday afternoon, sitting on a small table in front of the pots of dead sticks and a few leaves (unlike the kitchen deck):

It was clear he was paying close attention to something but from where I stood, I couldn’t see it—until he leapt off the table into the air…and it turned out it was the first of the cherry blossom falling. Perhaps he thought it was a bird.

Yesterday morning, here he is again, sitting on the same table in front to the same bare pots, only, well, see for yourself: it looks as though they’re suddenly blooming.

The cherry tree is shedding faster than I thought possible…

Just 12 years late, Hild finally makes the NYT!

I was sad when Hild was not reviewed in the New York Times on publication. A year later, when it wasn’t even mentioned as a paperback, I felt a bit wistful, then shrugged. It had had plenty of other excellent notices.

So I was surprised and sceptical yesterday when I started to get emails, comments, and social media messages saying: ‘Hey, wow, great review of Hild in the NYT!’

I did a search—couldn’t find it anywhere. Then a reader finally sent me this:

So, hey, it’s true! (Though I still can’t find the link, which is weird. EDIT TO ADD: here it is. It looks as though it’s part of a newsletter.) So February is turning into a great book month for me: She Is Here is published, Spear, after four years as a hardcover is finally available as a paperback, and now, only a doze years late, Hild finally gets her NYT spotlight.

Life is good.

Just 12 years late, Hild finally makes the NYT!

I was sad when Hild was not reviewed in the New York Times on publication. A year later, when it wasn’t even mentioned as a paperback, I felt a bit wistful, then shrugged. It had had plenty of other excellent notices.

So I was surprised and sceptical yesterday when I started to get emails, comments, and social media messages saying: ‘Hey, wow, great review of Hild in the NYT!’

I did a search—couldn’t find it anywhere. Then a reader finally sent me this:

So, hey, it’s true! (Though I still can’t find the link, which is weird. EDIT TO ADD: here it is. It looks as though it’s part of a newsletter.) So February is turning into a great book month for me: She Is Here is published, Spear, after four years as a hardcover is finally available as a paperback, and now, only a doze years late, Hild finally gets her NYT spotlight.

Life is good.

LitStack Delves Into the Hild Sequence

Saturday brought a lovely surprise: 2 Books, 1 Epic Life—Devouring “The Hild Sequence”—a LitStack Rec. They have a whole list, perfect for gift-buying, because this is a site run as part of Bookshop.org, for and on behalf of booksellers. In other words, it’s all about books that are actually great to read.

You should go read the whole thing for yourself—I mean, just look at this:

Sharon Browning also wrote the LitStack Rec for Slow River—which was a truly wonderful review. (“Slow River is indeed an transcendent work of art.  Transcendent, and yet so accessible, so recognizable, so relatable – which only makes it more exceptional.  It truly deserves to be read.”)

But if you just can’t be bothered to click through (I get it, I get it—Mondays are hard), here are 3 screenshot highlights:

• Screenshot

But you really should go read the recs and buy from delicious books for friends and family. And, y’know, yourself. Because you deserve it, because, y’know, Monday…

#hild #litstack #menewood #recommendedReading #reviews #theHildSequence

LitStack Delves Into the Hild Sequence

Saturday brought a lovely surprise: 2 Books, 1 Epic Life—Devouring “The Hild Sequence”—a LitStack Rec. They have a whole list, perfect for gift-buying, because this is a site run as part of Bookshop.org, for and on behalf of booksellers. In other words, it’s all about books that are actually great to read.

You should go read the whole thing for yourself—I mean, just look at this:

Sharon Browning also wrote the LitStack Rec for Slow River—which was a truly wonderful review. (“Slow River is indeed an transcendent work of art.  Transcendent, and yet so accessible, so recognizable, so relatable – which only makes it more exceptional.  It truly deserves to be read.”)

But if you just can’t be bothered to click through (I get it, I get it—Mondays are hard), here are 3 screenshot highlights:

• Screenshot

But you really should go read the recs and buy from delicious books for friends and family. And, y’know, yourself. Because you deserve it, because, y’know, Monday…

#hild #litstack #menewood #recommendedReading #reviews #theHildSequence

Celebrating Hild

Today is the Feast Day of Hild of Whitby,1 patron saint of learning and culture (including poetry), who died on this day in 680, having spent 66 years kicking ass and not bothering to take names. We believe she was originally buried at her main foundation of Streoneshalh, now known as Whitby, but sometime after Whitby was destroyed by Viking raids, her remains were, apparently, translated to…well, somewhere else. No one knows. Various religious foundations have claimed her—not unlike Arthur; saintly relics were (and still are) big business—but no one knows for sure.

There are several grave markers from Whitby though I have images of none of them (and none are for Hild). However, there are also several from Hereteu, or Hartlepool (where Hild was abbess for a while before founding and moving to Whitby). One intriguing stone, dated ‘mid-seventh to mid-eighth century,’ was found under the head of some skeletal remains. The runes spell out hildi þryþ, that is, the feminine personal name Hildithryth:

As we don’t know Hild’s full name, it might be tempting to assume this is our Hild’s stone.2 But I doubt it. For one thing it was part of a group of similar burials, and as abbess, saint, and royal advisor I doubt she would have been buried among others. Plus, of course, she was more than likely buried at Whitby. And as Hartlepool was also most likely destroyed by Vikings (as with mos records of this time and place, much was lost in the Viking raids from the late eighth through ninth centuries—all we know is that, after Hild, Hartlepool essentially vanishes from history) no one in their right mind would have transferred her there.

So here’s how I imagine her pillow stone3:

You’ll see I’ve made her cross round-ended and equal-armed, more like the kind of cross I think she would have worn, rather than the more traditional long upright and shorter crosspiece of the Hartlepool marker.

Enough about her death. Back to her life: Why is Hild patron saint of learning and culture/poetry? Learning, because she trained five bishops who became renowned for their own erudition—one of whom, John of Beverley, was the one who ordained and mentored the Venerable Bede—the only British person ever to have been learned enough to be honoured as a Doctor of the Church. Poetry, because she pretty much midwived Engish literature: the earliest surviving piece of Old English is Cædmon’s Hymn, composed at Hild’s behest at Whitby.

I’m not religious but I mark the day because Hild—and Whitby, its abbey, and ammonites—marked my life, in particular my writing life, indelibly.

My first novel was Ammonite, which was published when I was 32. The author photo I used for that book was taken at Whitby Abbey when I was 30. You can tell from the look on my face how much the place affects me. (And in fact I like this photo so much it forms the basis for the cover of my upcoming book, She Is Here.)

In my third novel, The Blue Place, Aud talks longingly of Whitby—now mostly known for the abbey founded by Hild in 657. In Whitby you can commonly find three species of fossil ammonites, or snakestones—the beach is littered with them. A whole genus of ammonites, Hildoceras, is named for Hild. This is Hildoceras bifrons. It’s what I think of when I think of ammonites.

Ammonites fascinate me. Their shell growth—developing into that lovely spiral—is guided by phi. And phi (Φ = 1.618033988749895… ), the basis of the Golden Ratio or Divine Proportion, has all sorts of interesting mathematical properties. The proportions generated by phi lie at the heart of myriad things: the proportions of graceful buildings4, the orderly whorl of a sunflower, ammonites, Fibonacci numbers, population growth, and more. (If you’re interested, a good place to start is Wikipedia.) Phi is what creates the underlying pattern in much of nature. I think phi is responsible for what Hild may think of as God.

There is a legend that ammonites result from Hild getting pissed off one day and turning all the local snakes to stone. The legend was so well-established after her death, that, in the later middle ages and even up until Victorian times, enterprising locals carved heads on the stones and sold them as the snakes she petrified.5

Here’s what H. bifrons looks like as a snakestone:

And here’s a much more finely carved specimen:

When I was working on my black and white zoomorphic series, I tried to draw a snakestone. It turned out to be remarkably difficult to get the proportions mathematically pleasing. I started with a different genus, a ceratite, with a kind of wavy division to each of its segments, because they seemed to grow in more mathematically predictable ways. They’re just not what I think of as a classic ammonite; they seemed a bit, well, boring. I tried jazzing them up a bit—make them look as though they’re dancing to form a kindof ammonite triskele inside a Lindisfarne Gospels style interlace wreath. Better—but not great.

So then I tried yet another genus, a…well, actually I forget what it’s called, maybe a baculite? Anyway:

You won’t find these in Britain, but I like the crinkly look. It had possibilities. So I copied that, and then turned it into a snakestone. Much better!

Earlier this year we were at Worldcon, where we bumped into a friend, Wendy, aka MaudPunk, and got talking about all things metal work—Wendy loves to forge Early Medieval replicas from bronze, silver, copper, etc. (She’s made me several things, including this brooch.) She was wearing a great pendant she’d made, based on the Fairford Duck. Kelley really wanted one. No, she wanted two—one silver, one copper.

I like the duck well enough, but that’s not what fired up my neurones. Ever since Tor commissioned a lovely enamel brooch/pin for Spear, I’ve enjoyed wearing it on my jacket lapel. I get many compliments (“Is that Tiffany?”). The Spear pin is boldly coloured, which I love, but it does occasionally limit my sartorial choices. So I’ve been subconsciously looking for something more neutral. And I thought: A snakestone! In silver! And wouldn’t you know, Wendy had already designed a snakestone pendant; it did not take much persuasion to commission one as a pin.

And, lo, just in time for our birthdays, we got a package with what we’d asked for:

And here’s the pin in all its glory—straight out of its lovely linen pouch:

It’s hand-carved in wax then cast in the metal of your choice, then ground and polished by hand. Here it is on my jacket lapel, where it will stay for at least a couple of weeks, after which I’ll probably alternate with the enamel pin:

So Hild and her ammonite are still bringing me enormous pleasure, and still—as is only fitting for the patron saint of culture and education—helping me learn new things.

Tonight I will raise a glass to Hild, to ammonites, to Whitby, and to all things beautifully made and perfectly proportioned. wes þu hal! Or maybe wæs hæil! I dunno, Old English is not exactly my forte—but drinking and merrymaking is :)

1. At least it’s her feast day in the Roman Catholic Church. The Anglican Communion celebrates on the 18th. I’m not a practising Christian but was raised Catholic, so tend to follow their dates. No one knows when Hild was born, but long ago I decided it was some time in the last half of October. At some point I’ll pick a day, and then I’ll have two dates to celebrate! ↩︎
2. Hild means ‘battle’, and thryth translates to something like ‘strength’ or ‘power’, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility. There again, I’ve always preferred the idea of Hild being Hildeburg, that is Battle Fortress: obdurate, adamant, immovable. ↩︎
3. Yep, it would have made more sense for it to be square, or more landscape than portrait format, but, well, I didn’t think of that until just now… ↩︎
4. Ever wondered why Georgian mansions feel so gracious and pleasing? Their formal rooms follow the Golden Ratio. ↩︎
5. The legend is so well established that it forms part of Whitby’s coat of arms. ↩︎

#ammonite #brooch #CædmonSHymn #feastDay #hild #jewellery #MaudPunk #menewood #oldEnglish #phi #pin #snakestone #theBluePlace #whitby

Celebrating Hild

Today is the Feast Day of Hild of Whitby,1 patron saint of learning and culture (including poetry), who died on this day in 680, having spent 66 years kicking ass and not bothering to take names. We believe she was originally buried at her main foundation of Streoneshalh, now known as Whitby, but sometime after Whitby was destroyed by Viking raids, her remains were, apparently, translated to…well, somewhere else. No one knows. Various religious foundations have claimed her—not unlike Arthur; saintly relics were (and still are) big business—but no one knows for sure.

There are several grave markers from Whitby though I have images of none of them (and none are for Hild). However, there are also several from Hereteu, or Hartlepool (where Hild was abbess for a while before founding and moving to Whitby). One intriguing stone, dated ‘mid-seventh to mid-eighth century,’ was found under the head of some skeletal remains. The runes spell out hildi þryþ, that is, the feminine personal name Hildithryth:

As we don’t know Hild’s full name, it might be tempting to assume this is our Hild’s stone.2 But I doubt it. For one thing it was part of a group of similar burials, and as abbess, saint, and royal advisor I doubt she would have been buried among others. Plus, of course, she was more than likely buried at Whitby. And as Hartlepool was also most likely destroyed by Vikings (as with mos records of this time and place, much was lost in the Viking raids from the late eighth through ninth centuries—all we know is that, after Hild, Hartlepool essentially vanishes from history) no one in their right mind would have transferred her there.

So here’s how I imagine her pillow stone3:

You’ll see I’ve made her cross round-ended and equal-armed, more like the kind of cross I think she would have worn, rather than the more traditional long upright and shorter crosspiece of the Hartlepool marker.

Enough about her death. Back to her life: Why is Hild patron saint of learning and culture/poetry? Learning, because she trained five bishops who became renowned for their own erudition—one of whom, John of Beverley, was the one who ordained and mentored the Venerable Bede—the only British person ever to have been learned enough to be honoured as a Doctor of the Church. Poetry, because she pretty much midwived Engish literature: the earliest surviving piece of Old English is Cædmon’s Hymn, composed at Hild’s behest at Whitby.

I’m not religious but I mark the day because Hild—and Whitby, its abbey, and ammonites—marked my life, in particular my writing life, indelibly.

My first novel was Ammonite, which was published when I was 32. The author photo I used for that book was taken at Whitby Abbey when I was 30. You can tell from the look on my face how much the place affects me. (And in fact I like this photo so much it forms the basis for the cover of my upcoming book, She Is Here.)

In my third novel, The Blue Place, Aud talks longingly of Whitby—now mostly known for the abbey founded by Hild in 657. In Whitby you can commonly find three species of fossil ammonites, or snakestones—the beach is littered with them. A whole genus of ammonites, Hildoceras, is named for Hild. This is Hildoceras bifrons. It’s what I think of when I think of ammonites.

Ammonites fascinate me. Their shell growth—developing into that lovely spiral—is guided by phi. And phi (Φ = 1.618033988749895… ), the basis of the Golden Ratio or Divine Proportion, has all sorts of interesting mathematical properties. The proportions generated by phi lie at the heart of myriad things: the proportions of graceful buildings4, the orderly whorl of a sunflower, ammonites, Fibonacci numbers, population growth, and more. (If you’re interested, a good place to start is Wikipedia.) Phi is what creates the underlying pattern in much of nature. I think phi is responsible for what Hild may think of as God.

There is a legend that ammonites result from Hild getting pissed off one day and turning all the local snakes to stone. The legend was so well-established after her death, that, in the later middle ages and even up until Victorian times, enterprising locals carved heads on the stones and sold them as the snakes she petrified.5

Here’s what H. bifrons looks like as a snakestone:

And here’s a much more finely carved specimen:

When I was working on my black and white zoomorphic series, I tried to draw a snakestone. It turned out to be remarkably difficult to get the proportions mathematically pleasing. I started with a different genus, a ceratite, with a kind of wavy division to each of its segments, because they seemed to grow in more mathematically predictable ways. They’re just not what I think of as a classic ammonite; they seemed a bit, well, boring. I tried jazzing them up a bit—make them look as though they’re dancing to form a kindof ammonite triskele inside a Lindisfarne Gospels style interlace wreath. Better—but not great.

So then I tried yet another genus, a…well, actually I forget what it’s called, maybe a baculite? Anyway:

You won’t find these in Britain, but I like the crinkly look. It had possibilities. So I copied that, and then turned it into a snakestone. Much better!

Earlier this year we were at Worldcon, where we bumped into a friend, Wendy, aka MaudPunk, and got talking about all things metal work—Wendy loves to forge Early Medieval replicas from bronze, silver, copper, etc. (She’s made me several things, including this brooch.) She was wearing a great pendant she’d made, based on the Fairford Duck. Kelley really wanted one. No, she wanted two—one silver, one copper.

I like the duck well enough, but that’s not what fired up my neurones. Ever since Tor commissioned a lovely enamel brooch/pin for Spear, I’ve enjoyed wearing it on my jacket lapel. I get many compliments (“Is that Tiffany?”). The Spear pin is boldly coloured, which I love, but it does occasionally limit my sartorial choices. So I’ve been subconsciously looking for something more neutral. And I thought: A snakestone! In silver! And wouldn’t you know, Wendy had already designed a snakestone pendant; it did not take much persuasion to commission one as a pin.

And, lo, just in time for our birthdays, we got a package with what we’d asked for:

And here’s the pin in all its glory—straight out of its lovely linen pouch:

It’s hand-carved in wax then cast in the metal of your choice, then ground and polished by hand. Here it is on my jacket lapel, where it will stay for at least a couple of weeks, after which I’ll probably alternate with the enamel pin:

So Hild and her ammonite are still bringing me enormous pleasure, and still—as is only fitting for the patron saint of culture and education—helping me learn new things.

Tonight I will raise a glass to Hild, to ammonites, to Whitby, and to all things beautifully made and perfectly proportioned. wes þu hal! Or maybe wæs hæil! I dunno, Old English is not exactly my forte—but drinking and merrymaking is 🙂

1. At least it’s her feast day in the Roman Catholic Church. The Anglican Communion celebrates on the 18th. I’m not a practising Christian but was raised Catholic, so tend to follow their dates. No one knows when Hild was born, but long ago I decided it was some time in the last half of October. At some point I’ll pick a day, and then I’ll have two dates to celebrate! ↩︎
2. Hild means ‘battle’, and thryth translates to something like ‘strength’ or ‘power’, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility. There again, I’ve always preferred the idea of Hild being Hildeburg, that is Battle Fortress: obdurate, adamant, immovable. ↩︎
3. Yep, it would have made more sense for it to be square, or more landscape than portrait format, but, well, I didn’t think of that until just now… ↩︎
4. Ever wondered why Georgian mansions feel so gracious and pleasing? Their formal rooms follow the Golden Ratio. ↩︎
5. The legend is so well established that it forms part of Whitby’s coat of arms. ↩︎

Celebrating Hild

Today is the Feast Day of Hild of Whitby,1 patron saint of learning and culture (including poetry), who died on this day in 680, having spent 66 years kicking ass and not bothering to take names. We believe she was originally buried at her main foundation of Streoneshalh, now known as Whitby, but sometime after Whitby was destroyed by Viking raids, her remains were, apparently, translated to…well, somewhere else. No one knows. Various religious foundations have claimed her—not unlike Arthur; saintly relics were (and still are) big business—but no one knows for sure.

There are several grave markers from Whitby though I have images of none of them (and none are for Hild). However, there are also several from Hereteu, or Hartlepool (where Hild was abbess for a while before founding and moving to Whitby). One intriguing stone, dated ‘mid-seventh to mid-eighth century,’ was found under the head of some skeletal remains. The runes spell out hildi þryþ, that is, the feminine personal name Hildithryth:

As we don’t know Hild’s full name, it might be tempting to assume this is our Hild’s stone.2 But I doubt it. For one thing it was part of a group of similar burials, and as abbess, saint, and royal advisor I doubt she would have been buried among others. Plus, of course, she was more than likely buried at Whitby. And as Hartlepool was also most likely destroyed by Vikings (as with mos records of this time and place, much was lost in the Viking raids from the late eighth through ninth centuries—all we know is that, after Hild, Hartlepool essentially vanishes from history) no one in their right mind would have transferred her there.

So here’s how I imagine her pillow stone3:

You’ll see I’ve made her cross round-ended and equal-armed, more like the kind of cross I think she would have worn, rather than the more traditional long upright and shorter crosspiece of the Hartlepool marker.

Enough about her death. Back to her life: Why is Hild patron saint of learning and culture/poetry? Learning, because she trained five bishops who became renowned for their own erudition—one of whom, John of Beverley, was the one who ordained and mentored the Venerable Bede—the only British person ever to have been learned enough to be honoured as a Doctor of the Church. Poetry, because she pretty much midwived Engish literature: the earliest surviving piece of Old English is Cædmon’s Hymn, composed at Hild’s behest at Whitby.

I’m not religious but I mark the day because Hild—and Whitby, its abbey, and ammonites—marked my life, in particular my writing life, indelibly.

My first novel was Ammonite, which was published when I was 32. The author photo I used for that book was taken at Whitby Abbey when I was 30. You can tell from the look on my face how much the place affects me. (And in fact I like this photo so much it forms the basis for the cover of my upcoming book, She Is Here.)

In my third novel, The Blue Place, Aud talks longingly of Whitby—now mostly known for the abbey founded by Hild in 657. In Whitby you can commonly find three species of fossil ammonites, or snakestones—the beach is littered with them. A whole genus of ammonites, Hildoceras, is named for Hild. This is Hildoceras bifrons. It’s what I think of when I think of ammonites.

Ammonites fascinate me. Their shell growth—developing into that lovely spiral—is guided by phi. And phi (Φ = 1.618033988749895… ), the basis of the Golden Ratio or Divine Proportion, has all sorts of interesting mathematical properties. The proportions generated by phi lie at the heart of myriad things: the proportions of graceful buildings4, the orderly whorl of a sunflower, ammonites, Fibonacci numbers, population growth, and more. (If you’re interested, a good place to start is Wikipedia.) Phi is what creates the underlying pattern in much of nature. I think phi is responsible for what Hild may think of as God.

There is a legend that ammonites result from Hild getting pissed off one day and turning all the local snakes to stone. The legend was so well-established after her death, that, in the later middle ages and even up until Victorian times, enterprising locals carved heads on the stones and sold them as the snakes she petrified.5

Here’s what H. bifrons looks like as a snakestone:

And here’s a much more finely carved specimen:

When I was working on my black and white zoomorphic series, I tried to draw a snakestone. It turned out to be remarkably difficult to get the proportions mathematically pleasing. I started with a different genus, a ceratite, with a kind of wavy division to each of its segments, because they seemed to grow in more mathematically predictable ways. They’re just not what I think of as a classic ammonite; they seemed a bit, well, boring. I tried jazzing them up a bit—make them look as though they’re dancing to form a kindof ammonite triskele inside a Lindisfarne Gospels style interlace wreath. Better—but not great.

So then I tried yet another genus, a…well, actually I forget what it’s called, maybe a baculite? Anyway:

You won’t find these in Britain, but I like the crinkly look. It had possibilities. So I copied that, and then turned it into a snakestone. Much better!

Earlier this year we were at Worldcon, where we bumped into a friend, Wendy, aka MaudPunk, and got talking about all things metal work—Wendy loves to forge Early Medieval replicas from bronze, silver, copper, etc. (She’s made me several things, including this brooch.) She was wearing a great pendant she’d made, based on the Fairford Duck. Kelley really wanted one. No, she wanted two—one silver, one copper.

I like the duck well enough, but that’s not what fired up my neurones. Ever since Tor commissioned a lovely enamel brooch/pin for Spear, I’ve enjoyed wearing it on my jacket lapel. I get many compliments (“Is that Tiffany?”). The Spear pin is boldly coloured, which I love, but it does occasionally limit my sartorial choices. So I’ve been subconsciously looking for something more neutral. And I thought: A snakestone! In silver! And wouldn’t you know, Wendy had already designed a snakestone pendant; it did not take much persuasion to commission one as a pin.

And, lo, just in time for our birthdays, we got a package with what we’d asked for:

And here’s the pin in all its glory—straight out of its lovely linen pouch:

It’s hand-carved in wax then cast in the metal of your choice, then ground and polished by hand. Here it is on my jacket lapel, where it will stay for at least a couple of weeks, after which I’ll probably alternate with the enamel pin:

So Hild and her ammonite are still bringing me enormous pleasure, and still—as is only fitting for the patron saint of culture and education—helping me learn new things.

Tonight I will raise a glass to Hild, to ammonites, to Whitby, and to all things beautifully made and perfectly proportioned. wes þu hal! Or maybe wæs hæil! I dunno, Old English is not exactly my forte—but drinking and merrymaking is 🙂

1. At least it’s her feast day in the Roman Catholic Church. The Anglican Communion celebrates on the 18th. I’m not a practising Christian but was raised Catholic, so tend to follow their dates. No one knows when Hild was born, but long ago I decided it was some time in the last half of October. At some point I’ll pick a day, and then I’ll have two dates to celebrate! ↩︎
2. Hild means ‘battle’, and thryth translates to something like ‘strength’ or ‘power’, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility. There again, I’ve always preferred the idea of Hild being Hildeburg, that is Battle Fortress: obdurate, adamant, immovable. ↩︎
3. Yep, it would have made more sense for it to be square, or more landscape than portrait format, but, well, I didn’t think of that until just now… ↩︎
4. Ever wondered why Georgian mansions feel so gracious and pleasing? Their formal rooms follow the Golden Ratio. ↩︎
5. The legend is so well established that it forms part of Whitby’s coat of arms. ↩︎

Celebrating Hild

Today is the Feast Day of Hild of Whitby,1 patron saint of learning and culture (including poetry), who died on this day in 680, having spent 66 years kicking ass and not bothering to take names. We believe she was originally buried at her main foundation of Streoneshalh, now known as Whitby, but sometime after Whitby was destroyed by Viking raids, her remains were, apparently, translated to…well, somewhere else. No one knows. Various religious foundations have claimed her—not unlike Arthur; saintly relics were (and still are) big business—but no one knows for sure.

There are several grave markers from Whitby though I have images of none of them (and none are for Hild). However, there are also several from Hereteu, or Hartlepool (where Hild was abbess for a while before founding and moving to Whitby). One intriguing stone, dated ‘mid-seventh to mid-eighth century,’ was found under the head of some skeletal remains. The runes spell out hildi þryþ, that is, the feminine personal name Hildithryth:

As we don’t know Hild’s full name, it might be tempting to assume this is our Hild’s stone.2 But I doubt it. For one thing it was part of a group of similar burials, and as abbess, saint, and royal advisor I doubt she would have been buried among others. Plus, of course, she was more than likely buried at Whitby. And as Hartlepool was also most likely destroyed by Vikings (as with mos records of this time and place, much was lost in the Viking raids from the late eighth through ninth centuries—all we know is that, after Hild, Hartlepool essentially vanishes from history) no one in their right mind would have transferred her there.

So here’s how I imagine her pillow stone3:

You’ll see I’ve made her cross round-ended and equal-armed, more like the kind of cross I think she would have worn, rather than the more traditional long upright and shorter crosspiece of the Hartlepool marker.

Enough about her death. Back to her life: Why is Hild patron saint of learning and culture/poetry? Learning, because she trained five bishops who became renowned for their own erudition—one of whom, John of Beverley, was the one who ordained and mentored the Venerable Bede—the only British person ever to have been learned enough to be honoured as a Doctor of the Church. Poetry, because she pretty much midwived Engish literature: the earliest surviving piece of Old English is Cædmon’s Hymn, composed at Hild’s behest at Whitby.

I’m not religious but I mark the day because Hild—and Whitby, its abbey, and ammonites—marked my life, in particular my writing life, indelibly.

My first novel was Ammonite, which was published when I was 32. The author photo I used for that book was taken at Whitby Abbey when I was 30. You can tell from the look on my face how much the place affects me. (And in fact I like this photo so much it forms the basis for the cover of my upcoming book, She Is Here.)

In my third novel, The Blue Place, Aud talks longingly of Whitby—now mostly known for the abbey founded by Hild in 657. In Whitby you can commonly find three species of fossil ammonites, or snakestones—the beach is littered with them. A whole genus of ammonites, Hildoceras, is named for Hild. This is Hildoceras bifrons. It’s what I think of when I think of ammonites.

Ammonites fascinate me. Their shell growth—developing into that lovely spiral—is guided by phi. And phi (Φ = 1.618033988749895… ), the basis of the Golden Ratio or Divine Proportion, has all sorts of interesting mathematical properties. The proportions generated by phi lie at the heart of myriad things: the proportions of graceful buildings4, the orderly whorl of a sunflower, ammonites, Fibonacci numbers, population growth, and more. (If you’re interested, a good place to start is Wikipedia.) Phi is what creates the underlying pattern in much of nature. I think phi is responsible for what Hild may think of as God.

There is a legend that ammonites result from Hild getting pissed off one day and turning all the local snakes to stone. The legend was so well-established after her death, that, in the later middle ages and even up until Victorian times, enterprising locals carved heads on the stones and sold them as the snakes she petrified.5

Here’s what H. bifrons looks like as a snakestone:

And here’s a much more finely carved specimen:

When I was working on my black and white zoomorphic series, I tried to draw a snakestone. It turned out to be remarkably difficult to get the proportions mathematically pleasing. I started with a different genus, a ceratite, with a kind of wavy division to each of its segments, because they seemed to grow in more mathematically predictable ways. They’re just not what I think of as a classic ammonite; they seemed a bit, well, boring. I tried jazzing them up a bit—make them look as though they’re dancing to form a kindof ammonite triskele inside a Lindisfarne Gospels style interlace wreath. Better—but not great.

So then I tried yet another genus, a…well, actually I forget what it’s called, maybe a baculite? Anyway:

You won’t find these in Britain, but I like the crinkly look. It had possibilities. So I copied that, and then turned it into a snakestone. Much better!

Earlier this year we were at Worldcon, where we bumped into a friend, Wendy, aka MaudPunk, and got talking about all things metal work—Wendy loves to forge Early Medieval replicas from bronze, silver, copper, etc. (She’s made me several things, including this brooch.) She was wearing a great pendant she’d made, based on the Fairford Duck. Kelley really wanted one. No, she wanted two—one silver, one copper.

I like the duck well enough, but that’s not what fired up my neurones. Ever since Tor commissioned a lovely enamel brooch/pin for Spear, I’ve enjoyed wearing it on my jacket lapel. I get many compliments (“Is that Tiffany?”). The Spear pin is boldly coloured, which I love, but it does occasionally limit my sartorial choices. So I’ve been subconsciously looking for something more neutral. And I thought: A snakestone! In silver! And wouldn’t you know, Wendy had already designed a snakestone pendant; it did not take much persuasion to commission one as a pin.

And, lo, just in time for our birthdays, we got a package with what we’d asked for:

And here’s the pin in all its glory—straight out of its lovely linen pouch:

It’s hand-carved in wax then cast in the metal of your choice, then ground and polished by hand. Here it is on my jacket lapel, where it will stay for at least a couple of weeks, after which I’ll probably alternate with the enamel pin:

So Hild and her ammonite are still bringing me enormous pleasure, and still—as is only fitting for the patron saint of culture and education—helping me learn new things.

Tonight I will raise a glass to Hild, to ammonites, to Whitby, and to all things beautifully made and perfectly proportioned. wes þu hal! Or maybe wæs hæil! I dunno, Old English is not exactly my forte—but drinking and merrymaking is :)

1. At least it’s her feast day in the Roman Catholic Church. The Anglican Communion celebrates on the 18th. I’m not a practising Christian but was raised Catholic, so tend to follow their dates. No one knows when Hild was born, but long ago I decided it was some time in the last half of October. At some point I’ll pick a day, and then I’ll have two dates to celebrate! ↩︎
2. Hild means ‘battle’, and thryth translates to something like ‘strength’ or ‘power’, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility. There again, I’ve always preferred the idea of Hild being Hildeburg, that is Battle Fortress: obdurate, adamant, immovable. ↩︎
3. Yep, it would have made more sense for it to be square, or more landscape than portrait format, but, well, I didn’t think of that until just now… ↩︎
4. Ever wondered why Georgian mansions feel so gracious and pleasing? Their formal rooms follow the Golden Ratio. ↩︎
5. The legend is so well established that it forms part of Whitby’s coat of arms. ↩︎

#ammonite #brooch #CædmonSHymn #feastDay #hild #jewellery #MaudPunk #menewood #oldEnglish #phi #pin #snakestone #theBluePlace #whitby

Celebrating Hild

Today is the Feast Day of Hild of Whitby,1 patron saint of learning and culture (including poetry), who died on this day in 680, having spent 66 years kicking ass and not bothering to take names. We believe she was originally buried at her main foundation of Streoneshalh, now known as Whitby, but sometime after Whitby was destroyed by Viking raids, her remains were, apparently, translated to…well, somewhere else. No one knows. Various religious foundations have claimed her—not unlike Arthur; saintly relics were (and still are) big business—but no one knows for sure.

There are several grave markers from Whitby though I have images of none of them (and none are for Hild). However, there are also several from Hereteu, or Hartlepool (where Hild was abbess for a while before founding and moving to Whitby). One intriguing stone, dated ‘mid-seventh to mid-eighth century,’ was found under the head of some skeletal remains. The runes spell out hildi þryþ, that is, the feminine personal name Hildithryth:

As we don’t know Hild’s full name, it might be tempting to assume this is our Hild’s stone.2 But I doubt it. For one thing it was part of a group of similar burials, and as abbess, saint, and royal advisor I doubt she would have been buried among others. Plus, of course, she was more than likely buried at Whitby. And as Hartlepool was also most likely destroyed by Vikings (as with mos records of this time and place, much was lost in the Viking raids from the late eighth through ninth centuries—all we know is that, after Hild, Hartlepool essentially vanishes from history) no one in their right mind would have transferred her there.

So here’s how I imagine her pillow stone3:

You’ll see I’ve made her cross round-ended and equal-armed, more like the kind of cross I think she would have worn, rather than the more traditional long upright and shorter crosspiece of the Hartlepool marker.

Enough about her death. Back to her life: Why is Hild patron saint of learning and culture/poetry? Learning, because she trained five bishops who became renowned for their own erudition—one of whom, John of Beverley, was the one who ordained and mentored the Venerable Bede—the only British person ever to have been learned enough to be honoured as a Doctor of the Church. Poetry, because she pretty much midwived Engish literature: the earliest surviving piece of Old English is Cædmon’s Hymn, composed at Hild’s behest at Whitby.

I’m not religious but I mark the day because Hild—and Whitby, its abbey, and ammonites—marked my life, in particular my writing life, indelibly.

My first novel was Ammonite, which was published when I was 32. The author photo I used for that book was taken at Whitby Abbey when I was 30. You can tell from the look on my face how much the place affects me. (And in fact I like this photo so much it forms the basis for the cover of my upcoming book, She Is Here.)

In my third novel, The Blue Place, Aud talks longingly of Whitby—now mostly known for the abbey founded by Hild in 657. In Whitby you can commonly find three species of fossil ammonites, or snakestones—the beach is littered with them. A whole genus of ammonites, Hildoceras, is named for Hild. This is Hildoceras bifrons. It’s what I think of when I think of ammonites.

Ammonites fascinate me. Their shell growth—developing into that lovely spiral—is guided by phi. And phi (Φ = 1.618033988749895… ), the basis of the Golden Ratio or Divine Proportion, has all sorts of interesting mathematical properties. The proportions generated by phi lie at the heart of myriad things: the proportions of graceful buildings4, the orderly whorl of a sunflower, ammonites, Fibonacci numbers, population growth, and more. (If you’re interested, a good place to start is Wikipedia.) Phi is what creates the underlying pattern in much of nature. I think phi is responsible for what Hild may think of as God.

There is a legend that ammonites result from Hild getting pissed off one day and turning all the local snakes to stone. The legend was so well-established after her death, that, in the later middle ages and even up until Victorian times, enterprising locals carved heads on the stones and sold them as the snakes she petrified.5

Here’s what H. bifrons looks like as a snakestone:

And here’s a much more finely carved specimen:

When I was working on my black and white zoomorphic series, I tried to draw a snakestone. It turned out to be remarkably difficult to get the proportions mathematically pleasing. I started with a different genus, a ceratite, with a kind of wavy division to each of its segments, because they seemed to grow in more mathematically predictable ways. They’re just not what I think of as a classic ammonite; they seemed a bit, well, boring. I tried jazzing them up a bit—make them look as though they’re dancing to form a kindof ammonite triskele inside a Lindisfarne Gospels style interlace wreath. Better—but not great.

So then I tried yet another genus, a…well, actually I forget what it’s called, maybe a baculite? Anyway:

You won’t find these in Britain, but I like the crinkly look. It had possibilities. So I copied that, and then turned it into a snakestone. Much better!

Earlier this year we were at Worldcon, where we bumped into a friend, Wendy, aka MaudPunk, and got talking about all things metal work—Wendy loves to forge Early Medieval replicas from bronze, silver, copper, etc. (She’s made me several things, including this brooch.) She was wearing a great pendant she’d made, based on the Fairford Duck. Kelley really wanted one. No, she wanted two—one silver, one copper.

I like the duck well enough, but that’s not what fired up my neurones. Ever since Tor commissioned a lovely enamel brooch/pin for Spear, I’ve enjoyed wearing it on my jacket lapel. I get many compliments (“Is that Tiffany?”). The Spear pin is boldly coloured, which I love, but it does occasionally limit my sartorial choices. So I’ve been subconsciously looking for something more neutral. And I thought: A snakestone! In silver! And wouldn’t you know, Wendy had already designed a snakestone pendant; it did not take much persuasion to commission one as a pin.

And, lo, just in time for our birthdays, we got a package with what we’d asked for:

And here’s the pin in all its glory—straight out of its lovely linen pouch:

It’s hand-carved in wax then cast in the metal of your choice, then ground and polished by hand. Here it is on my jacket lapel, where it will stay for at least a couple of weeks, after which I’ll probably alternate with the enamel pin:

So Hild and her ammonite are still bringing me enormous pleasure, and still—as is only fitting for the patron saint of culture and education—helping me learn new things.

Tonight I will raise a glass to Hild, to ammonites, to Whitby, and to all things beautifully made and perfectly proportioned. wes þu hal! Or maybe wæs hæil! I dunno, Old English is not exactly my forte—but drinking and merrymaking is :)

1. At least it’s her feast day in the Roman Catholic Church. The Anglican Communion celebrates on the 18th. I’m not a practising Christian but was raised Catholic, so tend to follow their dates. No one knows when Hild was born, but long ago I decided it was some time in the last half of October. At some point I’ll pick a day, and then I’ll have two dates to celebrate! ↩︎
2. Hild means ‘battle’, and thryth translates to something like ‘strength’ or ‘power’, so it’s not outside the realm of possibility. There again, I’ve always preferred the idea of Hild being Hildeburg, that is Battle Fortress: obdurate, adamant, immovable. ↩︎
3. Yep, it would have made more sense for it to be square, or more landscape than portrait format, but, well, I didn’t think of that until just now… ↩︎
4. Ever wondered why Georgian mansions feel so gracious and pleasing? Their formal rooms follow the Golden Ratio. ↩︎
5. The legend is so well established that it forms part of Whitby’s coat of arms. ↩︎

#ammonite #brooch #CædmonSHymn #feastDay #hild #jewellery #MaudPunk #menewood #oldEnglish #phi #pin #snakestone #theBluePlace #whitby

Really cute Halloween donuts at the KTA puainako in Hilo. I got an eyeball one 😁

#halloween #spooky #food #hawaii #hild

So, maybe not grimdark but something else?

I'm not sure, but a key difference seems to be that the misogyny so often present in "grimdark" works just... isn't there so much. Of course men and women aren't equal here, but there's very little violence against women visible, and the one attempted rape doesn't go well for the would-be rapist.

I'd like to do a detailed comparison to "A Song of Ice and Fire", but I really don't want to be sucked into THAT re-read hole.

(4/n, n=4)

#Hild #Menewood

The Hild sequence doesn't shy away from there grim realities. It is dark, it is grim, it is gritty.

And yet.

And yet there are no "shocking", gratuitous main character deaths. On the whole, it's an upward journey: Hild suffers devastating loss and injury, but keeps on building something new. Her sense of joy and wonder for the natural world permeates the story just as much as the love and care for her people. She weaves a web of not just alliances, but friendships.

(3/n)

#Hild #Menewood

It even shares the lack of strong organized religion with, say, "A Song of Ice and Fire": there are old and new gods, but no, well, Catholic church being a major unifying force.

And it /is/ grim. There are battles, and people are wounded and killed in them, with all the gore that entails. There's the battle/childbirth scene, and a graphic description of death by pre-eclampsia. There's abortion, there are miscarriages, there are children dying of illness.

(2/n)

#Hild #Menewood #ASOIAF

Hm. Because of this* post I'm now thinking about whether the Hild sequence qualifies as "grimdark".

Of course, it's not Fantasy: while "Hild" is ambivalent about Hild's supernatural powers, "Menewood" is quite empathetic that no, she's just a very keen observer and thinker, not a seer, which makes it historical fiction.

But the setting is very similar to medieval-style epic Fantasy. So are the parts of the plot that deal with king-making.

(1/n)

#Hild #Menewood

*https://wandering.shop/@irina/111891489396561350

Another "Hild" and "Menewood" thought: sometimes you hear that weird take that you can't have queer or Black characters in European-style medieval Fantasy "because historically, they weren't there". Which is nonsense, of course, but still a pretty common opinion.

I really like how the Hild sequence, which is historical fiction, breaks that "rule". There's a Black priest, because why not? And no one seems to care about Hild and others having same-sex relationships.

#Hild #Menewood

I've been listening to Nicola Griffith's “Hild” based on a mention of it by @timbray and thoroughly enjoying it.

Makes me want to re-listen to (or read) Bernard Cornwell's "Winter King”, “Enemy of God”, “Excalibur” trilogy again. Which is a very good re-interpretation of the Arthur legend/story.

#Hild #Arthur #NicolaGriffith #BernardCornwell

@quidcumque loved reading your progress and thoughts on #Hild. I love it so much. I managed to finish #Menewood just before the new #murderbot came out. I love that there seems to be such a crossover between Hild and Murderbot readers. Maybe it is the ASD

Still thinking about "Hild" and how it's not Speculative Fiction as such - it doesn't really have any magic, so it's not Fantasy, and there are no Science Fiction elements like medieval aliens or something - but benefits a lot from what @Bluejo calls* "SF reading protocols".

Namely, the ability to cope well with being immersed in a strange world and alien culture, with vocabulary one doesn't know, piecing together stuff from tiny clues.

I 💙 that.

*https://www.tor.com/2010/01/18/sf-reading-protocols/

#Hild #Books2023

And even though Hild likes some masculine-coded things like fighting and going out to hunt bandits, she also weaves and churns butter and spins; in fact, some of the most beautiful and striking passages of the book celebrate feminine-coded crafts, actions and friendships. Hild is complex, she contains multitudes, as does everyone.

Read this: it's beautiful, messy and awesome. Some graphic violence though, and death children, so that might be something to brace for.

(5/n, n=5)

#Hild #Books2023

... we're immersed in this world, which includes using a lot of Old English, Welsh, Norse, and Latin words; we get included to the complex politics and warfare, as Hild herself learns to navigate this world. This is masterfully done, and feels like stepping into a living, breathing world.

Which would be awesome enough, but there also are complex and fascinating characters: not just Hild herself, but also her friend Begu, her brother - even minor characters have depth.

(4/n)

#Hild #Books2023

Now this could be hackneyed stuff, like "the mists of Avalon" or "pope Joan", misogynistic either because it plays on "female magic" or because it emphasizes that only tomboyish girls are awesome. But even though some of the tropes are there, Griffiths masterfully avoids these traps.

Instead, we get WORLDBUILDING - both in the literal (there's a new, Christian Britain in the making here) and the SFnal (an unknown world is filled with rich depths) sense. From page 1,...

(3/n)

#Hild #Books2023

A kid who's also said to be a seer - if there really are supernatural powers involved or Hild and her mother are just good at reading the signs, people, and the room, is open to interpretation.

As a royal child whose father died in battle, Hild and her family find a precarious home with king Edwin, traveling a lot, being involved in fights and wars, getting baptized - all in a checkered early medieval Britain full of different ethnicities and languages.

(2/n)

#Hild #Books2023

So*, Nicola Griffith's "Hild". Historical fiction about a historical figure: Hild, or Hilda of Whitby, a seventh century British niece of a king and later abbess.

Not much about her early life and personality is known, and Griffiths fills in these blanks by making her a perceptive, highly intelligent, gender-nonconforming kid.

*Seamus Heaney translates "Beowulf'"s opening "hwæt" as "so", so it's appropriate here, considering the very similar timeframe...

(1/n)

#Hild #Books2023

Finished Nicola Griffith's brilliant #Menewood (sequel to #Hild my favourite book ever) just in time for new #Murderbot. Looking forward to the mental whiplash going from the middle ages to corporate dystopia far future. Yay!

@bookstodon
#sff

What a ride. What an ending (I didn't believe Griffiths would go there!).

I want to read the sequel RIGHT NOW, but there's also the new Murderbot coming out next week and I should find another nonbinary author...

The struggle is real 🫣

#Hild #Books2023

Wondering about Hild's gender identity. She's assigned female, and lives mostly as such, but not completely - going out to fight, learning swordplay, wearing a masculine hairstyle. This feels at least gender-nonconforming, maybe even genderqueer. Others see her like that to: not a woman, as such. She's described as a freemartin* several times, which suggests being intersex. All in all, it feels non-binary.

*per the glossary: "female calf masculinised in the womb by male twin"

#Hild #Books2023

"“Oh. No. That’s a letter. A message. Words from someone far away.” Gode nodded. “Magic.”"

Any sufficiently advanced technology, eh.

(It's interesting how we don't usually think of poetry, writing apart from the printing press, and storytelling as "technology", but they are: data storage tech.)

#Hild #Books2023

This bit

"While everything rearranged itself around them, turning them momentarily into a private island, he tapped his ring on the arm of his chair. Hild wondered how that ring might feel. All that power."

is from a historical novel, but damn can you read it as science fictional of you want to. Could be a medieval hall, could be a space station. And now I'm imagining them both, superimposed.

#Hild #Books2023

At least here, one doesn't need to wonder whether Hild's story is a Hero's Journey. It isn't, of course. And why should it be? Beowulf's isn't, either.

I like the back-and-forth (warp-and-weft?) feel of it: people leave and turn up again, skills are learned and refined upon much later, there are long games played; there is growth, there may be a wyrd, even, but there's no clear path.

#Hild #Books2023

I find the concept of a gemæcce very new and interesting. It's a bit like a court-appointed BFF: you live together, work together, travel together, attend to each other; a life-mate, a companion, though in a platonic way. And even if it's a formal relationship, yours isn't just chosen for you; you get a say in it.

Nice. It feels like a formalization of female friendships. Something like that should totally exist, with legal rights.

#Hild #Books2023

Ok, this feels random, but... Hild reminds me a lot of Lauren Olamina from "Parable of the Sower".

Hear me out: they're both tall and can pass for male, they live in fallen worlds after the apocalypse, both on a global and a personal level; they have dead fathers and absent siblings; they have a vision and are prepared to spread it without being religious in a formal way; they have a lot of both practical knowledge and book learning... They feel like the same archetype.

#Hild #Books2023

"He had no idea how difficult it was to read. To read in another tongue. To turn that tongue into Anglisc."

Yes, as the person who can translate Latin into German but not into other languages directly because that just makes my brain hurt with language confusion - I feel that. And it must be extra hard to learn to read in Latin using a Psalter.

(I've never thought about this - how did kids learn to read in the seventh century?)

#Hild #Books2023

"women who had woven and spun and carded together for years, through first blood and marriage and babies, who had minded each other’s crawling toddlers and bound each other’s scraped youngsters, and wept as each other’s sons and daughters died of the lung wet, or at hunt, or giving birth to their own children—all while they spun, and carded and wove"

What a powerful image, showing the beauty and sadness of human life, of women's work.

#Hild #Books2023