Friday, March 30, 2007

the cremation fields, 2500 BC

Bridge-in-the-valley. Stupid name. There's valley all about yet not a bridge in sight. My wager is the willeins in this settlement don't call it by that name at all. My wager is they call their place 'The Willage,' as do all the other dull-wits in their dull-wit settlements along the track. 'Why, life be good here in the Willage, be it not old girl?' 'Aye, may it be, but it is better in a place up north they call the Willage, where my mother has her people.' 'Well, the Willage is a good place if you're wanting oxen, but if you want pigs you're better going to the Willage.' 'We must let my brother settle this. He does not live in either place, but in a settlement down south. It has a queer and outland sounding name that's gone from my recall, and yet it may be "Willage", come to think.' 'You do not hear many names like that!'

Across the sea and by the world's end, where the black men are, there's settlements with different names in different tongues, and all of them mean willage. There are willages upon the moon, those rings of huts that may be seen when it is full.

My names are better, made up from the spites and griefs these stale and stinking little pest holes put upon me in my travellings: Beast-Bugger Down and Little Midden. Squint-Eyed-in-the-Bog. Shank Sister Hill and Fat Arse Fields.

Bridge-in-the-Valley? No. This place is worth a better calling. Fool-'Em-in-the-Fen, with luck.

Or Murder-in-the-Mud.

Alan Moore. Voice of the Fire. 1996, 2003. 52-3.