January is named after the Roman God Janus, the god of beginnings, doors, boundaries and change. He was said to have two faces, one looking back, the other looking forward. When I was younger the turning of the year was often symbolised by an old man for the dying year and a baby for the new one. This is obviously an old idea – here’s an image from 1895.
So, the word we use in English today is based on Latin. But the old English word was very different. It was æftera ġēola which means after yule. December was ǣrra ġēola or before yule – in those days the English kept things uncomplicated. Although, it has to be noted that there is debate about when the midwinter beanfeast was actually celebrated.
We can get too hung up on such issues. If you were a Saxon peasant and someone offered you a cup of ale and a mince pie you probably wouldn’t refuse while you consulted a calendar.
So what does January mean to you? Do you go in for resolutions, even if you know you probably won’t keep them? Do you do Dry January? A friend of mine claimed she was doing Dry January although she admitted that she’d started on January 8th and intended to finish on the 26th. And she said this without a trace of shame. Are you one of those people who always buy unsold Christmas cards for next year because they are so much cheaper? Is your dog for life or for Christmas? And what about your spouse or your goldfish, how long do you intend to keep them?
Do you parcel up your unwanted Christmas gifts and give them to a charity shop? Or try to sell a present on E-Bay and hope that the person who gave it to you doesn’t go on the website and notice?
J.R.R Tolkien said that Hobbits had a useful tactic regarding this. They called an unwanted gift a mathom and, if they didn’t like it or had no conceivable use for it, they would pass it on to someone else. Unwanted Hobbit jerseys and socks did not get despondent, a new owner was soon found for them - although it was said that one particularly unloved mathom had been circulating in the Shire for a good many years. I think we should reintroduce the idea.
But whatever your own particular feelings about the month there is definite sense of time going more slowly than normal, of the year lying fallow, taking a rest, going into hibernation. It must be good to be like Lewis Carrol’s Dormouse, happily nodding off at the Hatter’s tea party – at least until the Hatter and the March Hare tried to pour him into a teacup.
My history teacher told us that in Medieval times, one field in three would be left fallow for a year to allow it to recuperate and grow better crops. I’ve learnt to distrust much of the history I was taught at school - that the Black Hole of Calcutta was the biggest crime ever and Robert Clive a godly, avenging angel, that thousands of aristocrats were executed every single day by the French Revolutionaries, and that George Custer was the greatest general in the world, except for the Duke of Wellington. However, my history teacher was right about the practice of one field in three being left fallow. The following year, the field would be invigorated.
Lying fallow has merit to it. Maybe we should all accept that the winter months are a time for us to lie fallow, to slow down, relax and spend more time in contemplation and dreams. Not so much slow cooking as slow living. Not hibernation but revive-a-nation
In my last post I wrote about how the Vikings attacked King Alfred in Chippenham, causing him to flee for his life. He fled into the marshlands of Somerset where he engaged in hit and run attacks against the conquerors until he was able to field an army against them.
I’ve always been fascinated by what his life was like then. The Somerset levels have a mysterious atmosphere. They don’t seem to be of the present time. They endlessly endure, melancholy, brooding, unfathomable. It must have been even more so in Alfred’s day when the winter rains flooded the land making much of it a sea with isolated isles and islets. It was on one of these, Athelney, that he gathered with his loyal men and planned the campaign which saved his throne.
Athelney is a tiny island and it’s fair to say, for a few brief months, it was the only unconquered sliver of the Kingdom of Wessex. If it had been captured there would have been no England. Naturally, when I wrote Land of Blood and Water about these times. I set much of it on Athelney and I chose to tell the story not from Alfred’s point of view but from that of the peasant family who lived there when he and his warriors arrived.
LAND OF BLOOD AND WATER
January 878
Brand stretched his fingers wide and glanced at Ulf.
‘Are you ready, son?’ he asked.
Ulf licked his lips a little nervously. ‘I’m ready,’ he answered.
On the slope above them the big ram, Goliath, stared at them menacingly. A few yards beyond a ewe staggered back and forth, hind-quarters shaking. A half-born lamb hung from her, stuck fast, in danger of death.
‘Steady,’ Brand said and took a step closer to the ram. It stared at him, lowered its head a little and pawed at the earth.
As he climbed higher Brand saw Hild and Inga slip over the brow of the hill, one on either side of the ewe. For the moment the ram was unaware of them, focused entirely on the man and boy approaching.
Brand took three quick steps forward and half-squatted to the ground. He was not a moment too soon. Goliath gave a deep-throated cry and leapt to the attack. His head was low, his horns pointing forward.
Brand caught the left horn, fumbled with the right and the ram tried to turn to gore at him. Brand seized the horn just in time.
He was astonished at the power of the ram. Brand was a big man but it took him all his strength to twist the horns and begin to force Goliath’s head. Then Ulf flung himself on the ram’s flank and the two of them managed to wrestle him to the ground.
Out of the corner of his eye Brand saw Hild and Inga catching hold of the ewe.
‘Hurry up, woman,’ Brand cried. Goliath was battling furiously to get free and they were in danger of losing grip.
At last Hild cried out and Brand saw the lamb slither to the earth and struggle to its feet. Hild grabbed Inga’s hand and fled towards the cottage.
‘Get away now,’ Brand grunted.
Ulf needed no second instruction. Goliath’s rear hooves were hammering fiercely on his thigh, sharp and painful. He jumped to his feet and ran a few paces away. Brand slowly climbed to his feet, released the ram’s head and made a run for it. He almost didn’t make it for the ram was swift to chase after him.
Ulf chuckled as he watched his father zig-zag back and forth, just managing to evade the deadly horns before leaping to safety behind the fire which had been built to deter pursuit.
The ewe bleated loudly; Goliath gave a fierce cry of victory and trotted back up the slope.
‘We caught the lamb in time,’ Hild said. ‘It will live.’
‘I think I will as well,’ said Brand. ‘But it was a close run thing.’ He tousled Ulf’s hair in thanks.
‘Let’s eat,’ Hild said. ‘Something special.’
She led the way into their home where the youngest child, Osgar sat watching the fire, safe from the rage of the ram.
Hild had prepared her Twelfth Night pudding. Thick and gooey, made of good flour, crushed nuts, honey and mead, it was a fitting end to the Christmas plenty. The children grabbed at it, still hot from the pan.
They ate every last piece, licking their fingers to get every last scrap.
‘Now,’ Hild said. ‘Let’s have some riddles.’
‘Me first,’ cried Osgar, ‘me first.’
Hild stroked his cheek. ‘You first then. Off you go.’
‘Who’s very big and very strong?’ he said.
Ulf stifled a laugh and glanced at his sister. Inga was frowning as though it was the hardest puzzle she had ever heard.
‘Is it Goliath?’ she asked.
Osgar wriggled with delight. ‘No it’s not.’
‘Is it Gamal?’ Hild said. ‘He’s big.’
Osgar shook his head.
‘Is it father?’ Ulf asked.
Osgar nodded. ‘He’s the biggest and strongest man in the world.’
‘My turn now,’ said Ulf.
‘No, mama’s turn,’ Osgar said.
Hild smiled and held up her finger for silence. ‘Who takes two weeks to waken and open her eye, and two more weeks to close it?’
They fell silent at this, mulling over possible answers. At last Inga said, ‘Is it the moon?’
Hild clapped her hands. ‘It is the moon. Well done.’
Brand riddled next, asking which of his three children he loved best. Ulf wanted to say, Beonna, his elder brother who had died the previous year.
But Osgar answered first. ‘You love us all the same.’
Brand smiled. ‘I do. All the same, even though you are different.’
‘I have one,’ Ulf said, ‘let me go next.’
He waited until the rest of the family were silent, relishing the fact that he had their undivided attention.
‘What is black in the night,’ he said in a low voice, ‘turns silver in the day and red as blood at sunset?’
They were defeated for a while, every answer wrong. Finally, Inga said, ‘Is it the waters lapping round the island?’
For a moment Ulf looked disappointed and then nodded.
‘Now it’s your turn, Inga,’ Brand said.
Inga looked at him and shook her head. ‘I don’t want to say a riddle,’ she said. ‘For everything seems like a riddle to me at the moment. I can’t say why.’
Brand frowned and shook his head. ‘Are you sure?’
Inga nodded. ‘I’m certain.’
