“Great Olli and thanks for having me.”

“Our pleasure. Now we’re all hanging out for the final siren to go off.  What are your thoughts on the last leg of the Race? It’s by all means the hardest and most gruelling leg of the three month race, wouldn’t you agree?”

“It isn’t called Dead Man’s Corner for nothing. Fatalities on this stretch have…” Sarah zoned the voices out. She was nervous enough as it was. She shoved her hands into her pockets to protect her nails from further damage and closed her eyes. Around her, her team buzzed with an urgency that bordered on panic but Sarah was still.

They’d been assigned one of the several thousand docking bays of the Galactic Space Harbour of Alpha Centauri to do last minute maintenance before the race began and none of the team had slept a wink. With over eight hundred levels, the station was a beacon of light and a hive of human and alien activity, never sleeping like the fabled city of Los Vegas. Sarah just tuned them out.

She and her twin sister had been dreaming of this moment since they were old enough to watch the Race, both of them balanced on one of Papa’s knees and screaming themselves hoarse for their favourite racing team. The Razorbacks, if she recalled correctly, from the Minor Delphi planets.

“Sarah? We’d better get suited up.” A hand rested gently on her shoulder and Sarah opened her eyes, giving a tired little smile to her older sister, Daphne.
“It’s that time already?”

“Yeah! Did you ever imagine? Us! Bet they didn’t even see us coming!” Daphne grinned, white teeth bright and eyes even more dazzling despite her shades.
“Do you think we have a chance?” Sarah said, finally voicing her fears aloud.

“You better believe it!” Daphne shrieked excitedly, surprising an answering grin from Sarah but then her smile slipped.

“Wish Sophie was here.”

Daphne hugged her tightly; her own voice hitching as she remembered the price the family had already paid to get this far in the race.

“She is, sweetie. She’ll always be with us.” Daphne pulled back, brushing a stray tear from her sister’s cheek and smiled. “We’ll win this for her.”

“Yes, we will.” Sarah said and then nodded determinedly, “And you know what? We’ve worked bloody hard to be here and we are going to enjoy every minute of it!”

“Okay kiddos. Suit up! Let’s set this show light speed already!” James bellowed, grease turning his already dark skin reflective. Sarah grinned, gave a cheeky salute and sprinted to her suit, Daphne on her heels. Their brothers Davy and Conner were already waiting with the first layers held out for them to be strapped, zippered and locked into. Years of practise had the team ready in moments.

Sarah glanced back to the family hover-bot with its flickering pictures and dreadful sound that had been permanently fixed on channel two score alpha since the Race began.
“And the Sharpe sisters?” This season’s host Olli Sweetalker asked Buzz and the whole team paused, waiting to hear the racing legend’s answer.

“Wouldn’t bet on them,” Buzz immediately replied and then paused, a slow grin making him look ten years younger, “but I wouldn’t count them out just yet.”

The Andromache was an old fashioned racer. Unlike other vessels in the competition, the Andromache only had the two, Sarah and Daphne. The rest of their team, Davy, Conner, Jamie and the support unit were shuttled from way station to way station whilst the girls ran the track. Although their racer needed to make frequent stops for repairs and refuelling, they had the advantage of being lighter and much faster than standard racers.
Dark blue with orange streaks, the Andromache had come a long way since the first qualifying race where she was mainly held together with duct tape and a hell of a lot of determination.

“Okay team Andromache, last check complete. The tug boat has departed and you girls are now on your own. Audio link established. Testing. Testing. Visual will be live in five,” James expertly said, before adding, “so no faces Sarah. The whole galaxy will be watching.”
“No need to remind me,” Sarah laughed, tugging her dark hair behind her ears before lowering her own shade down across her eyes, identical to Daphne’s. Immediately core heat and radiation levels appeared in her peripheral as well as Daphne’s heart rate and mental health status.
Sarah wiggled in the cock pit seat, firmly strapped in, and gently ran her fingers over the gleaming second-hand bobbles and levers. This was it. She finally steeled herself to look up through the double reinforced space screen and gasped.

The view was impressive with the hundred odd remaining racers left in the comp lined up like strangely shaped tinned toys as far as the eye could see to their left and right. They were definitely one of the smallest vessels still left in the race.

Stretching out past the flashing starting line were massive temporary stadiums holding over a million spectators wealthy or lucky enough to have seats to see the start of the greatest race of all time. Beyond them were the odd taxis and news-hummers but even they were being quickly ushered away by blue squadrons of the Galactic Guard.

Earth was out there somewhere and if all went according to plan, the girls would be setting down in Sydney’s Space Port in little under two weeks.
“Two minutes ‘til show time, girls,” Jamie piped up from the shuttle that would, as soon as the race began, take him and the team to the next way station some fifty-two skips away. He whistled lowly, “and you won’t believe the votes you’re getting. As of an hour ago you were ranked within the top sixty favourites of the race.”
As he spoke, Sarah could already see some racers pulling away from the line as they were automatically eliminated due to bad ratings and she winced. It was a horrible way to go and it was sheer luck the Andromache was still racing in that aspect. It helped they were the youngest female racers to have ever passed the preliminary rounds let alone the planetary ones and, although Sarah wasn’t happy about it, they definitely had the sympathy vote.
Multiple beacons flashed red to signal the last thirty seconds to the race commencement. Sarah flexed her hand around the old fashioned gear shift and lightly tapped the acceleration in anticipation. The two sisters had drawn straws to see who would be the lucky one to begin the last race where they would then switch, taking turns being the navigator or driver.
“You ready?” Daphne asked and Sarah grinned. The lights flashed green.

Identity and how it is perceived is a common theme throughout Shakespeare’s works especially in King Lear and Twelfth Night. Both plays witness the cathartic self transformation of the main protagonists; King Lear undergoing an identity crisis and Viola removing her disguise and thus the assumptions placed upon her by society. Other characters such as Malvolio and Edgar are deceived and are compelled to play another role either that of a foolish lover or poor Tom the beggar. Exploring the use of disguise and deceit throughout the two plays gives insight into how one’s identity is constructed; either a product of social and inter-personal relationships or from the individual themselves.

In examining the complicated narratives of King Lear and Twelfth Night, deceit is crucial in the plot development and compliments the disguising of one’s true identity. Edgar becomes Tom o’ Bedlam when his brother Edmund deceives him, forcing him to disappear and don the disguise of a beggar in an attempt to escape his father’s misconstrued wrath. “Some villain hath done me wrong (1.2.161)” claims Edgar, unknowingly falling into his brother’s trap as Edmund admits to the audience,

…a brother noble,

Whose nature is so far from doing harms,

My practices ride easy!

…Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit:

All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit (1.2.175-179).

Edmund not only misleads the honest Edgar but also his father, altering Gloucester’s perspective of Edgar and in response to this, Edgar’s identity as the loyal and eldest son is revised.

Malvolio is also deceived by Olivia’s gentlewoman Maria and Sir Toby during Act 2 Scene 3 by means of an artfully construed letter written by Maria in her lady’s hand. Maria’s letter contains images and certain phrases so that Malvolio “shall find himself most feelingly personated”(2.3.148-9) and certain it addresses him specifically. However for Maria to write convincingly, she uses social assumptions to garner an idea of how Malvolio views himself no matter how warped this perspective may be. This jest results in Malvolio attempting to take on a new identity as he “will be point-device the very man” (2.5.154) that Lady Olivia desires however is mocked as “a contemplative idiot” (2.5.17) and a “madman” (5.1.322) when he behaves inappropriately.

Both Malvolio and Edgar are restrained by their class status as steward or as first born son with the social assumptions placed upon them defining who they are and how they should behave. This is by no means restricted to only the male characters. “What is your parentage?” (1.5.265) asks Olivia of Viola disguised as Cesario, further highlighting the importance of social status during this period and the significance it played within courting and marriage. Viola progresses from being class-less to a gentlemen and then is revealed to be “right noble is [her] blood” (5.1.263) which allows her marriage to the Duke to be acceptable. Stephen Greenblatt concludes that “the threat to the social order and the threat to the sexual order was equally illusory” (97) and the apparent revealing of identities straightened out the bizarre coupling that had begun to take place.

Olivia’s observations of Viola in Act 1 Scene 5 confirm the cross-dressing girl to be a gentleman, “Thy tongue, thy face, thy limbs, actions, and spirit, Do give thee five-fold blazon” (1.5.280) An incorrect affirmation, it reminds the audience this play is indeed a comedy as Olivia is deceived by a “socially attractive mask…[failing] to perceive the mask which society has imposed on another” (Summers 89). Departing from Olivia’s presence, Viola receives a gift of a ring from the lady and she laments,

Poor lady, she were better love a dream!

Disguise, I see thou art wickedness

Wherein the pregnant enemy does much (2.2.26-8)

Malcolmson suggests that “the play includes a tentative but radical disruption of conventional categories of identity”[1] especially in regards to gender and social status and Viola is the greatest example of “manipulating the relationship between seeming and being” (169) which is echoed in other characters on different levels.

The characters within these two plays are very much defined by the external assumptions placed upon them and many, if not all, struggle to maintain these masks. Whether it is class, gender or society itself, individuals play a role that is seemingly dictated to them from an eternal source; Cordelia a misunderstood daughter, Lear a frightened and paranoid king and Viola a desperate survivor.

Yet still there are characters that are clearly controlled by their own self-delusions. Lady Olivia is grief stricken for the loss of her brother and Orsino is a love sick duke determined to win over the melancholy Olivia; both deceiving themselves into believing they feel these strong emotions yet instead they have only “adopted currently fashionable literary postures” (Summers 89).  Porter Williams Jr comments that Olivia and Orsino “wear psychological masks…both assuming false personalities” (171) that are self imposed much like the other physical disguises within the plays. Yet these emotional masks are harder for the individual to perceive as they are often unaware that they are disguising themselves.

Joseph H. Summers divides the characters in the Twelfth Night into two categories, “the characters who know the role they are playing and…those who don’t” (87). We are introduced to the concept of disguise in Act 1 Scene 2 with Viola’s conversation with the captain who Viola rightly assumes “there is a fair behaviour” within him that can be trusted and to which she leaves her “woman’s weeds” (5.1.273). She then states her intentions that set the story in motion.

Conceal me what I am, and be my aid

For such disguise as haply shall become

The form of my intent (1.2.49-51)

Viola takes on her disguise as page boy to Orsino because of necessity, to “not be delivered to the world…Till I had made mine own occasion mellow, What my estate is” (1.2.37-39) but it is clear that she begins to enjoy her deception as she is often quick with double entendres and aware of moments of parody;

Orsino: What kind of woman is’t?

Viola: Of your complexion

Orsino: She is not worth thee then. What years, I’faith?

Viola: About your years, my lord (2.4.24-27).

Summers defines Viola as “young, intelligent, zestful…a realist” (93) with the ability to see through the many disguises of the others. “I am not that I play” (1.5.176) she states, “willing to submit herself to the very principle of deflection” (Greenblatt 96) to allow her to accomplish that which she desires. It is curious to note that Viola is not named until Act 5 Scene 1, “Thrice welcome, drowned Viola” (5.1.340), her name and her true identity remaining hidden until the very end. At this announcement she is able to discard her masks due to the arrival of her brother Sebastian much like Edgar reveals himself after the battle with his brother, Edmund. Both characters are noble and portrayed as pure of heart which is not diminished once disguised, which is the same for Kent who disguises his voice and truthfully claims he is a “very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king” (1.4.19).

These three characters are aware of the personalities they have taken on yet in doing so they’re revealing their own identities in their truest form. Edgar as Tom o’ Bedlam deceives his father on a fake cliff edge but in doing so gives purpose to the blind Gloucester and Kent disguised as “a man” (1.4.10) supports Lear when his world and mind begins to disintegrate[2]. Even Viola is given the freedom to be herself in a way only a man could be and Shakespeare makes a pointed comment that “not only [is] a woman…mistaken for a man, but that a woman has been mistaken for a gentleman” (Malcolmson 164).

However Feste, the clown, is unable to shed his disguises at the end of the play. It is Feste’s occupation to deceive and in this way he is like the rain he sings about in his final lines, “for the rain it raineth every day” (5.1.388)[3], for the clown he is a clown every day. This line is also repeated in King Lear by the Fool, “though the raineth every day” (3.2.77) to Lear in an attempt to convince Lear to accept his fortunes and find contentment. The Fool within King Lear plays a similar role to Feste in that he is an observer to the events that unfold, however he is more than just a spectator[4].

“I am better than thou art now; I am a fool, thou art nothing” (1.4.87) the Fool comments to Lear as his daughters betray him, continuing as the “ironic commenter” (Blissett 107) to Lear. Revealing Lear’s crumbling identity, the Fool accompanies Lear through the storm, both physically and mentally.

Lear: Does any here know me? This is not Lear.

Doth Lear Walk thus? Speak thus? Where are his eyes?

Either his notion weakens, his discernings

Are lethargied-Ha! Waking? Tis not so.

Who is it that can tell me who I am?

Fool: Lear’s Shadow (1.4.220-225).

As a mere shadow of himself, Lear fears yet desires madness, “O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!” (1.5.41-42) as his own identity is questioned. However when Edgar says, “Sweet marjoram” (4.6.93), a herb apparently able to ward of mental illness, Lear quickly states “Pass” (4.6.94), seemingly accepting his madness. In undergoing this crisis he “becomes gradually aware of the sufferings of other people” (Welsford 129) and “begins to see the truth about himself” (Welsford 130). This self awareness is a form of revealing; a mask being removed, that comes to complete fruition during Act 4 Scene 7 when he is reunited with Cordelia. W.F. Blissett comments that Lear’s “recognition of what he has done” (105) leads to recognition of himself as Lear states to his youngest daughter,

Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound

Upon a wheel of fire, than mine own tears

Do scald like molten lead (4.7.46-8).

These words vividly make clear Lear’s anguish as he then sums up his view of himself; a deeper understanding of his own identity that had been previously masked by “royal self-delusion” (Blissett), arrogance and a fear of growing old. “I am a very foolish fond old man…I fear I am not in my perfect mind” (4.7.61-4) Lear says and repeats these only lines latter that he is “old and foolish” (4.7.85). It is regrettable then that the final consequences of his initial, rash decision to banish Cordelia is her death as Lear pitiful laments “Why should dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breathe at all?” (5.3.306-7)

Lear’s “recovery of ‘sight’ from his earlier blindness” (Goldberg 34) is a symbol Shakespeare uses throughout King Lear, tied in closely with identity and perception. Another example is Gloucester who, with blindness, can “see [the world] feelingly” (4.6.147) however he was only able to see the truth when his son Edmund took out his eyes.

In examining identity within Shakespeare’s plays King Lear and Twelfth Night, it must be understood that the characters take on multiple identities whether they are aware of it or not. Both physical and emotional disguises of individuals drive the plots forward in an endeavour to discover true identities although this is not always accomplished. Malvolio may have been acknowledged to “hath been notoriously abused” (5.5.375), he has not discarded the delusions he has placed upon himself unlike Olivia and Orsino. King Lear is deceived by his daughters Goneril and Regan but the results are a better understanding of himself whilst it takes the loss of his eyes for Gloucester to see clearly. The construction of the characters are also heavily influenced by external sources such as social assumptions of gender and social status as well as through the relationships that bind the characters together such as Lear’s relationship with his daughters and Viola’s relationship with her master, Duke Orsino. Overall Shakespeare has created multi-dimensional characters that clearly reflect the notions of his time and how identity was, and perhaps still is, created through external influences as well as from within.

Works Cited

Blissett, W.F. “Recognition in King Lear.” Eds. Rosalie L. Colie and F.T. Flahiff. Some Facets of King Lear: Essays in Prismatic Criticism. London: Heineman, 1974. 103-115.

Goldberg, S.L. An Essay on King Lear. Cambridge: Cambridge UP, 1974.

Greenblatt, Stephen. “Fiction and Friction.” Ed. R.S. White. Twelfth Night. Houndmills: Macmillan, 1996. 94-118.

Malcolmson, Cristina. “’What You Will’: Social Mobility and Gender in Twelfth Night.” Ed. R.S. White. Twelfth Night. Houndmills: Macmillan, 1996. 160-181.

Shakespeare, William. “King Lear.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature. 8^th ed. Eds. Stephen Greenblatt and M. H. Abrams. New York: W.W. Norton & Company Ltd, 2006. 1139-1227.

Shakespeare, William. “Twelfth Night.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature. 8^th ed. Eds. Stephen Greenblatt and M. H. Abrams. New York: W.W. Norton & Company Ltd, 2006. 1077-1139.

Summers, Joseph H. “The Masks of Twelfth Night.” (1955). Ed. D.J. Palmer. Twelfth Night: A Casebook. London: Macmillan, 1972. 86-97.

Welsford, Enid. “The Fool in King Lear.” (1935). Ed. Frank Kermode. Shakespeare, King Lear: A Casebook. Rev. ed. Houndmills, Basingstoke: Macmillan, 1992. 123-135.

Williams, Porter Jr. “Mistakes in Twelfth Night and their Resolution.” (1961). Ed. D.J. Palmer. Twelfth Night: A Casebook. London: Macmillan, 1972. 170-181.

[2] Welsford comments “for the King having lost everything, including his wits, has now become the Fool” (130). For a deeper analysis of this idea see Welsford pp 130-32.

[3] See Summers, in particular pages 95-97, for a more detailed analysis of Feste’s role and how despite the play coming to end, not all masks can be removed.

[4] According to Welsford, the Fool “spoke as a prophet” in that Lear would become the Fool and only “sees and speaks the truth” (130).  For an alternative view of the Fool and the relationship between him and Lear, see Blissett.

The radio crackled. “And Earth? Earth is scorched and has long been abandoned to the ferocious storms that tear the flesh from your body and turn your bones to dust!” LOST CHANNEL… SCANNING…  “Our home system is a wasteland…” SCANNING… “Oceans barren… dark…silent. Forever shrinking under the intolerable heat of a dying sun…Where can we go?” SCANNING… “The continental crust keeps us safe! No one is insane enough to step out under the wretched bleached sky, what makes you think…?” SCANNING… “It’s crazy up there, man.  Tomb ships, ancient satellites, debris of the war-torn moons. And then there’re those cannons!” ALL STATIONS LOST.

“Stupid thing,” I muttered, thumping the bulky device with the palm of my hand. Rust flakes flurried up like mites and I coughed, fiddling with the dials and tapping the screen impatiently. It continued to buzz and crackle. A transmission would rise then fall beneath the broken static of thousands of lost broadcasts and soft melodies would weave throughout the control room then vanish like smoke. Haunting echoes of times long past and desperate pleas of the now kept me company whilst I worked. The radio picked up a raspy techno beat and with a smile I returned to the task at hand.

With a grunt, I hoisted up the panel and eased it into place, resting my forehead against the cool metal in relief. It wobbled and I hastily wedged it against the bulk head, bolting it down. Grimy and black with soot, the environmental indicator was clearly second hand. It didn’t quite fit but it was still functional; much like the rest of this world.

SCANNING… “By 2020 Earth will be used up…where will we go then?”…SCANNING… “We shall persevere! The human race will keep moving forward! Our ships will seek out and find new resources and we will return! We will harvest Saturn’s rings and Jupiter’s moons. There are no limits to what we, human beings, can do.” LOST CHANNEL…SCANNING… “Hello? Is anyone out there?…” SCANNING… “Those scumbags left us here! It’s time we realised that those Fortunati dogs left us here to rot! Oh they say all these well meaning bullshit…believe them? Bah! They’re leeches…users…they left us here to die! It’s been two generations since there shiny new star ships left the system and… ” SCANNING…. “It’s in the air…” SCANNING… “There are automated security emplacements right round the edge. It’s to keep us safe”…SCANNING… “Forever trapped in a dying system. Nothing can get in…or out without activating the cannons. The only chance anyone has is to be the fastest. The first ship to break through will trigger the security system, dooming others but earning the fastest a chance at life…” LOST CHANNEL… SCANNING… “The Great Escape…” SCANNING… “The diseased, the weak, the insane and the unlucky all discarded. We’re alone…won’t someone do something?” ALL STATIONS LOST.

“Dammit.” I growled, pushing back greasy strands of blonde hair out of my eyes. I rolled the frayed wires between my fingers in frustration. The monitor blinked at me once and then gave a soft buzz as it powered down; lifeless. “Whole lot needs to be replaced. Trust my luck.” Jamming the cables inside my vest, I scrambled across the grating on my knees to the opposite panel and swung myself onto my back to allow both hands to be free. Quickly I dismantled the intercom and cannibalised its parts. Stripping wires and welding joints, I finally took a break and slumped back against a wall, ignoring the bolts that stuck into my spine. I allowed myself one sip of the warm recycled water in the canteen I never left the bunker without and shut my eyes. The radio was flicking from station to station, seeking a strong enough signal yet for once the airwaves were silent. I breathed in deeply and swallowed the bitter taste of reprocessed water.

It seemed there’d never been a time when my hands weren’t dark with grease and blistered. Not that I could remember. Sometimes memories would come and go much like the voices on my radio but there was always the ever present desire…no need… to escape. The radio and its ghosts kept me company, telling me tales of the past and the future and reminding me of things yet to do. I’d never seen the sun or the remanent of Earth’s only moon, nor had I been blessed with breathing pure air like the Fortunati claimed to. But then again, what is pure air? Is it air that hasn’t been breathed already by thousands upon thousands? Somehow new? Fresh?

“Em, honey. Why the frown?” Mama asked two days before she died. She’d never been well and with Papa missing and my brother Will working hard to support us, I’d felt useless. I can’t remember how old I was.

“Why is the world like this?” I’d wondered, biting my lip in consternation. Maybe I was seven…or eight perhaps. Will was home for once, sitting listlessly by the door, head tilted back and his eyes closed.

“Like what, sweet heart?”

“Dark. Why do the lights flicker all the time? Why is it hard to breathe at night? Where do all the people go?” My mother had looked sad. Tired and yellow and hair like weed.

“It has always been this way. Since the Great Collapse of 2057 and we took shelter underground in the bunkers the Fortunati provided for us. To keep us safe.”

“Greedy bastards. The lot of them,” my brother had hissed. His eyes snapped opened, burning. “They used us Ma! You speak as if they saved us but instead they condemned us all! It’s been two hundred years since they left us with their broken promises! Two hundred years since they penned us in this God-forsaken dying System! Did you know twenty-two ships were lost trying to escape last fall? Cos of those damn canons!” Will had lurched to his feet, towering over Mama and me, fists clenching then releasing then clenching again.

“Canons?” I’d squeaked, half horrified by my big brother but curious nonetheless.

“Fricking big armed guns that blow anything near them to smithereens! The damn Fortunati have trapped us here to rot!”

“Oh Will,” Mama had sobbed and Will instantly deflated, slumping to his knees beside her and clasping her hand gently.

“I’m sorry Ma. It will be okay. Em and me will look after ya. I promise everything will be okay.”

It wasn’t.

Each year more and more ships raced for their lives in a bid to escape the System and go wherever the Fortunati had gone. Each year more and more ships were lost. My brother’s included.
It had turned into a sport, watched by those that remained. The wrecked debris of former ships jury rigged to be cameras and jaded presenters providing the commentary.
And it was for this that I’d spent the last year in an abandoned bunker, toiling away to build my own ship.

*  *  *

“Em? You in there?” A scraggily dark mop of a head peered in through the hatch, shinning his torch directly into my face. I must have dozed off.

“Oi, you mind Ace?” I rapped my old fashioned spanner on top of his head and he averted the beam somewhat sheepishly.

“Sorry Em. Bear wants to know if you’re eating?”

I shuffled over so the pint size kid could wiggle down next to me, his large white eyes peering curiously over the brightly coloured wires held together by sheer determination and a hell of a lot of duct tape.

“See this?” I pointed and the kid eagerly nodded. “Believe it or not but this at the moment is the only thing keeping this boat air tight. We’re gonna have to work in some fail safes. Any thoughts?”

Twenty minutes later, something boomed three times against the hull and with a jerk and a swear I scurried out, ready to let loose on whoever had thought it was a good idea to pound my ship.

“Oh, Bear. Hey there,” I grinned. The man just snorted and rolled his eyes, grease turning his already dark skin reflective. Cook and master mechanic, Bear was huge yet I’d seen him handle a warp drive so delicately I’d almost cried. Hired him on the spot.

“Is Ace there with you? Dinner tastes no better cold so get space worthy already!” Bear bellowed but he always bellowed so with a cheeky salute I reached down and hauled Ace up, pitching him out of the cabin. The kid took the tumble like I knew he would, using the speed to evade Bear and head into our quarters.

“The kid’s good, Bear. Got a first-rate brain in all that hair. Thought up a real nifty idea that will save me bucket loads of time and wire.” Em slid down the last stretch with practised ease and landed with a soft oomph. “The Zenith will be ready within the week.”

“Bout time we started seekin’ some passengers then. Pay off Mr Jones before he takes payment through other means.” Bear said with a frown and Em grimaced.

“No need to think on that now. It’s a day to be celebrating! If all goes to plan we’ll be out of this hell hole within the month!” Em crowed, fist pumping the air.

“We’ll see.”

A small whirl wind dashed past as Ace clambered back on board.

“Have you seen my Pod?” His voice called out and Bear just rolled his eyes with amusement. Sometimes it was easy to forget the kid was only 12 earth years old.

“Kid’s plugged in more often than not,” Em laughed. She’d never laughed this often before she’d met the pair and it felt almost normal to smile. She glanced back with a grin at her beautiful ship, resting calmly in the hanger, all shiny and bursting with potential.

A small pop and the ship exploded.

Beowulf is unique as it is written in Old English yet, unlike other poetry from this era, it does not commemorate the history of the audience but instead depicts another culture, the Geats and the Danes, from a time long since past. This epic tale portrays a warrior people positioned on the cusp of an older pagan religion and the newer Christianity, creating a friction between values such as vengeance and forgiveness and arrogance and modesty.[1] The function of boasting within this culture is important and is demonstrated effectively between Beowulf and Unferth in lines 499-606, highlighting the extent of which boasting is used to communicate, build relationships and in remembering past events and ancestry.

The arrival of Beowulf and his men into Hrothgar’s kingdom is not without its tension yet Beowulf meets little opposition and is welcomed into Heorot reasonably unchallenged. Until, that is, Unferth challenges him, recalling a swimming match Beowulf took part in with Breca[2], and according to Edward Irving, “dramatically [fulfilling] a psychological need for the Danes as a whole” (38) to prove that this man is worthy of their respect. Envious Unferth is a perfect candidate to perform this task of examination and this possibly explains why “no one reproves [Unferth] for his rudeness to a guest” (Irving 39).

Not only does Beowulf meet Unferth’s claims, he goes into more detail of the event, casting himself as a fearsome, strong warrior that “through [his] own hands, / the fury of battle had finished of the sea beast” (558-59) and many more monsters to ensure that “sailors would be safe, the deep sea raids/…over for good” (568-69).

As it is Unferth who mentions the swimming match, it can be assumed that most Danes were aware of Beowulf’s triumphs due to previous boasts by other warrior Geats, making it clear that these boasts were important in communicating heroic deeds and proving the strength of a nation. Unferth then becomes a “symbol of a national” inadequacy in facing Grendel (Irving 40) as Beowulf continues on to criticise Unferth with “I don’t boast when I say/…you…were ever much celebrated for swordsmanship” (583-85) and more insultingly “if you were truly as keen or courageous as you claim to be/ Grendel would never had got away with such unchecked atrocity” (590-593). Then smoothly, Beowulf changes from condemning Unferth alone to addressing all the Danes, “[Grendel] knows he can trample down you Danes/ to his heart’s content” (599-600) which, although humiliating to the Danes, goes on to prove Beowulf’s worth.

At the conclusion of Beowulf’s “formal boast” (639), the Danes laughed and “the crowd was happy” (612), receiving the warrior surprisingly well despite being shamed for needing a foreigner to fight their battles. Within this culture, though, Beowulf proves to them that he is worthy but also that he has come to “follow up an old friendship” (376) and repay a debt of which his father, Ecgtheow, owed Hrothgar. This and the combination of Beowulf’s boast of past and future deeds as well as his own famous heritage, explains the Danes’ responses to this Geat, allowing him and his men into their hall.

This passage highlights the importance of boasting within a warrior culture, despite the acceptance of Christianity, and how it was used to communicate strengths and weaknesses within and between nations as well as individuals.

Works Cited

“Beowulf.” Trans. Seamus Heaney. The Norton Anthology of English Literature. 8^th ed. Eds. Stephen Greenblatt and M. H. Abrams. New York: W.W. Norton & Company Ltd, 2006. 29-100.

Cosijn, P. J. Notes on Beowulf. Leeds: University of Leeds, 1991.

Irving, Edward Burroughs. Rereading Beowulf. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania P, 1989.

[2] P. J Cosijn’s translation of lines 535-7 “daring ourselves to outdo each other, / boasting and urging each other to risk/ our lives” states that “we boasted” is in fact “we committed ourselves by a beot” (11). This difference takes away the negative connotations of our modern day interpretation of boasting as the boast becomes more a promise or a vow than an arrogant claiming of ones abilities which is perhaps how Beowulf’s audience perceived it.

Here’s a bit of a sneak preview.

CHAPTER ONE

Focus, Aki. You can do it. Ease it back. That’s it, nice and smooth. Just like mama taught you.

With one eye squeezed shut and my fingers anchoring the string against my lips and chin, I peered down the straight shaft of the arrow to its pointed tip and then beyond to the paper target pinned against a battered bale of hay.

The arrow waited tensely, humming with potential, before being sent flying, straight and true.

“Bulls eye,” I whispered, pleased despite only ever getting a perfect shot. The girl beside me whistled appreciatively before she too loosed an arrow which landed a foot short of the target.

“Not bad,’ I laughed, “At least you didn’t hit anyone!”

Clare just snorted, “Yet. Anyway, not all of us have been homed schooled in the finer arts of archery. Why couldn’t we have picked bowling for school sport? Or tennis? I’m good at tennis!”

The teacher blew her whistle and half a dozen students collected their arrows before heading to the back of the line. Clare and I handed our bows to the next pair to shoot before slumping into a heap on the short brown prickly grass.

“Nice shot Aki!” Tom congratulated, tugging his blonde mop behind his ears with a grin. Teeth crooked but smile truly genuine, I couldn’t help but grin back. Arrows twinged into the targets and the teacher enthusiastically signalled for the next group to get up and shoot.

“What can I say? It’s a talent!” I said, modesty be damned.

Clare just rolled her eyes but grinned too.

“So who’s up for some chocolate whilst we wait? I don’t think we’ll get another go before the bus arrives,” I said, pulling out a slightly melted chocolate bar and offering it around to my small group of friends.

“They’re going to be the death of you,” Dani lectured from her perch on Cooper’s lap, one hand shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun but still broke off a piece saying, “but I won’t say no!”

“Hypocrite,” Cooper laughed and poked his girlfriend in the ribs, resulting in a gentle slap across the head by Dani.

“Now, now children,” Tom said, voice mimicking the vice principal, “remember no physical contact within school hours!”

The group groaned in unison.

“Anyway, what are you guys up to this weekend cos to be honest I’m so bored my brain has turned to mush,’ I said, making a face.

“Brain? What brain?” Tom teased.
“Ha ha.” I dead panned.

“Yeah, I’m free. We should get together and maybe go to the beach?” Dani jumped in before I could retaliate but Tom shook his head, frowning.

“Nope, weather man says rain.”

As one we all craned our heads back, eyes squinting up at the unrelenting sun, dominating the cloudless blue sky.

“Huh, go figure,” Cooper grinned, “Well how bout beach if it’s sunny or Aki’s place if it isn’t.”

“Hang on, don’t I get a say in this?” I complained.

“But Aki, your home is awesome and your mum’s heaps cool!” Tom battered his eyes in an attempt to win me over. I just snorted, not impressed.

“You think she’s cool cos she’s a great cook. I swear you gain a pound as soon as you step through my door!”

Tom chose not to answer, instead tapping his slightly pudgy midsection satisfactorily.  “Fine, if it rains and I mean IF, then you guys can crash at mine. I guess we can get some DVDs and have a movie marathon.” I gave in with a grin. “Just let me warn Mum. And it will have to be after lunch tomorrow, whatever we end up doing, cos I’m visiting my great grandmother.”

“Granny ‘Kina?” Clare asked, pulling a pen from her wild mass of hair and started chewing on it.

“Yup. She’s taking me out for morning tea at this tiny Japanese café that’s just opened.”

“How old is she anyway?” Cooper asked and dodged Dani’s slap at his rudeness.

“You don’t ever ask a woman her age!” Dani hissed.

“Bah, I’m asking Aki, not Granny ‘Kina!”

“It’s okay. I’m not really sure. Nearing a hundred I guess.” I said.

“She can’t be older than eighty.” Tom commented, “In fact if I didn’t know Grandma Sachi, I’d say Granny ‘Kina was your grandmother.”

“Good genes. When you lot are sagging round the ears and look like wrinkled toads, I won’t look a day over 16.”

“Humph, you wish.” Clare giggled.

The school teacher blew her whistle for the final time that afternoon and the class fought their way onto the bus back to school.

“Ah, I love Friday’s” Tom said as we waited for our mum’s to pick us up. The others had long fought for the place home on the afternoon bus and it was just us two now waiting under an old gum tree.

“I love Friday afternoons.” I clarified and Tom nodded in agreement.

“Hey Aki, there’s your mum.” Tom gestured over towards a small yellow car. “See you tomorrow round 1?”

“Yup, see you then!” I shouted as I sprinted towards the waiting car and landed panting and grinning in the passenger seat.

“You seem happy.” My mother, Sophia, commented as she indicated and pulled out onto the road.

“I am happy. A beautiful weekend ahead of me and no homework due!”

“Weatherman says rain.”

“Humph, that’s what Tommy says but how can it rain when I’m feeling so good?”

“Once Upon A Time…in a land far, far away, the earth shook and the sky flickered as a child was born. A magical child with hair the colour of the earth, skin as pale as snow and eyes as dark as pitch. It is said that if one looked into her eyes, one would hear the song of the world and its spirits… it would eventually drive one mad. Secretly her mother kept her safe from the world of men and faeries in a forest town protected by the dwarfs in the mountains. Until one day the elves stole the child away…”

“Boring,” cried the little birch sapling, flapping her tiny leaves impatiently. The other saplings her age fluttered in agreement, their tiny branches craning up at me.

“But it’s a classic!” I exclaimed, peering down at all the newly sprouted. Surely I hadn’t already told them this story? I must be getting forgetful in my old age.

“We truly have heard this story before!” insisted a tiny Trembling Aspen. “Tell us something new! Please!”

My companion oaks shrugged their giant shoulders in amusement.

“The young ones are always so impatient to reach the sky,” an old pine nodded his pointy-head. “They are not so content to take their time.”

“When I was just a sapling I respected my elders” said an old slender maple. I was the eldest of them all and so it fell to me to educate or at least entertain the little ones before they departed for the big wide world as ships, houses or pieces of furniture.

“Okay then my little ones. Listen closely for this is no ordinary tale and it’s even older than myself. I heard it from my Forest Elder who held it from his Elder and so on and so on. Once upon a time…”

***

White. Blindingly bright, even behind the shelter of my closed lids. Bitter harsh smells invaded my body and mind and burnt my tongue. Indistinct objects began to take shape, a chair, a closed window, a television, and in my mind I began to comprehend the sounds I could hear, the beep of machines, the murmurs of others and the shuffling of someone in the room.

My throat was dry. I tried to cough but I couldn’t.

“Where am I?” I wanted to yell but all I could manage was a barely audible moan. The strange woman didn’t pause in her duties. She scribbled across a note pad, checked her watch, and straightened my bed sheets in a no nonsense manner, never pausing at all.

For the first time I acknowledged the rest of my body, shifting my head to see the curve of my chest, the shape of my arms and the length of my legs in cased entirely by crisp white sheets. I was trapped and suddenly found it hard to breathe.

With a grunt and a sudden burst of energy, I threw myself free from my prison. With frantic hands I pulled off my restraints, yanking out tubes that fed into my arms and nose and mouth.

The woman took notice of me then, dropping her pencil as well as her jaw and her eyes widened significantly. Still groggy, I pulled myself up until I sat against the wall, legs pulled tight against my body and arms wrapped firmly around them. It finally dawned on me where I was.

“I must get the doctor,” the nurse stuttered and took off out of the room, leaving her pencil behind. I was left alone. I was in hospital and I had no idea who I was.

***

They told me that a bus driver finishing his shift at Train Station depot in the early morning hours of July the 15th found me lying unconscious beside the road. They also said that I’d sustained some type of head trauma, still undetermined, that had resulted in a deep coma.

Looking at the calendar suspended beside the hospital room door, I calculated that I’d been unconscious for over four weeks. I’d overheard the nurses’ murmurs outside my door over my ‘miraculous’ recovery and how they hadn’t expected me to wake up. They didn’t think I could hear them, but I could.

My doctor, Dr Megan Socorro, was honest and up front with me and answered all my questions.

Where was I? Gosford Hospital.

What had happened? You’d been found unconscious and brought to the hospital where you’d been tested for both injury or disease related causes that had resulted in your unconscious state.

Who am I? I don’t know.

Am I going to be okay? I don’t know.

The doctor’s answers scared me. If she didn’t know what was wrong, who would?

“A journal?” I’d grimaced as my foster mum handed me a plain nondescript note book earlier that morning.
“It will be good for you.” The darker woman had smiled and so here I was, pen in hand, sitting at the bottom of the stairs that led up to my new family’s apartment. It was quiet here with only Zipper, the stairwell moggy, for company.
“Good for me?” I whispered to myself but then figured why not. Pen to paper, I wrote carefully as if I was trying to recall how the words should look like.

I was hit. Or so they told me. I’d been waiting at a bus stop at the time. Or so they told me. A passing driver found me, unconscious. Or so they told me. Actually, it bore more semblance to a coma, but my brain waves were most definitely there and very active. I just wouldn’t wake up.

So I had been hit. A bus didn’t hit me, nor a car or truck, but sometimes my head still rings, my body tingles as if charged with electricity, even though it happened almost a year ago now. You know the quote; ‘electricity isn’t that bad, it only kills you once.’ Problem when it doesn’t.

Zipper attempted to swat the pen and I laughed, brushing dark hair behind my ears and revealing a small tattoo briefly.
“No Zipper. Not for you.” A quick scratch and the cat was happy enough to curl back up at my feet.

I haven’t forgotten anything from that day forward, but everything that happened before, all those years are gone. It doesn’t bother me. It’s just like finding out about a family member that had died, but you’d never known or met them. There is no connection.

Other people think differently. They just can’t imagine what it would be like to lose most of your life, but that day, the 22^nd of June, was the day I was born. Today, exactly one year later, I am now seventeen. I think.

I don’t remember the moment I forgot. There were no thoughts, no feelings, not even darkness; just nothingness. I can remember emptiness. Just not being.

My first thought in my new mind had been of white, the total opposite of the nothingness. Not to say that the nothingness is black, but white seemed full whilst the nothingness was empty. I had been in a deep coma for four whole weeks, and nobody knew my name or my family. Whoever I had been was long gone, and my new life was beginning.

It’s strange, having amnesia. I can still speak. Still write. I know how I have my tea and that the sun rises in the east. How can I know something so personal such as not liking anchovies on my pizza when my name continues to remain elusive?

I tapped the pen against my teeth as I thought for a moment, eyes lingering on the pastel green wall paper and the smooth wooden balustrade. I remembered how in the beginning, in that sterile, white hospital bed, no one had come to claim me as theirs and like with my memories I didn’t feel particularly bothered by the fact that no one came. I was upset not knowing the reason why.

I carefully slipped out the newspaper article, one of many that had been published soon after I’d woken, from the back of my journal and re-read the faded and creased heading, “Girl with amnesia, still waiting to be claimed.”
“I wondered what happened to them,” I spoke to Zipper. An ear flicked in my direction but the sleepy cat didn’t otherwise move. “My parents, I mean. They must be somewhere.” After no response from the cat, I returned to my writing.

After a month, I was sent to a wonderful foster family. I love Mark, Ella and little Harry Skylark and they love me, and we live together in a small unit not to far from the city centre. Ella was a teacher and after Harry was born, he’s three, she decided to become a stay at home mum so for the last year she’s been homeschooling me. This year though, we’ve decided that it would bee good for me to attend the local high school. Still not sure about it but it would be nice to meet some new people that are more interested in prodding me than holding a conversation.

I paused, thoughts drifting before I wrote in big bold letters, under scoring and over lining every letter, WHO AM I?

I have a clue. One clue. I have no idea what it means but it must mean something. It’s a tattoo. A weird one too.

Consciously I touched my neck, imagining the snake that twisted itself into an impossible knot before eating its tail. Under the fluorescent lights it flashed, the metallic colours gleaming and for a moment tiny animals no bigger than grains of rice could be seen almost moving within each and every scale.

And I have these dreams. Strange dreams that I can never remember when I wake up but I am sure they are from my past. The only thing left is this feeling that I am running out of time and that I must find…someone. Don’t know who.

“Anna! You down there?” A voice called down from the apartment. Glancing at my watch, I saw that it was lunch time. Another thing I’ll miss when I finally went to school next week. Ella’s lunches. That and not being able to play with Harry whenever I wanted.
“Yup, be right up!”
I quickly snapped my book shut, jamming the pen into my hair and gently pushing Zipper away.
“Got to go but I’ll be back down with some biscuits.” I gave the slightly sulky cat another cuddle before leaping up the stairs, two at a time.

“Once Upon A Time…in a land far, far away, the earth shook and the sky flickered as a child was born. A magical child with hair the colour of the earth, skin as pale as snow and eyes as dark as pitch. It is said that if one looked into her eyes, one would hear the song of the world and its spirits… it would eventually drive one mad. Secretly her mother kept her safe from the world of men and faeries in a forest town protected by the dwarfs in the mountains. Until one day the elves stole the child away…”

“Boring,” cried the little birch sapling, flapping her tiny leaves impatiently. The other saplings her age fluttered in agreement, their tiny branches craning up at me.

“But it’s a classic!” I exclaimed, peering down at all the newly sprouted. Surely I hadn’t already told them this story? I must be getting forgetful in my old age.

“We truly have heard this story before!” insisted a tiny Trembling Aspen. “Tell us something new! Please!”

My companion oaks shrugged their giant shoulders in amusement.

“The young ones are always so impatient to reach the sky,” an old pine nodded his pointy-head. “They are not so content to take their time.”

“When I was just a sapling I respected my elders” said an old slender maple. I was the eldest of them all and so it fell to me to educate or at least entertain the little ones before they departed for the big wide world as ships, houses or pieces of furniture.

“Okay then my little ones. Listen closely for this is no ordinary tale and it’s even older than myself. I heard it from my Forest Elder who held it from his Elder and so on and so on. Once upon a time…”

***

White. Blindingly bright, even behind the shelter of her closed lids. Bitter harsh smells invaded her body and mind and burnt her tongue. Indistinct objects began to take shape, a chair, a closed window, a television, and in her mind she began to comprehend the sounds she could hear, the beep of machines, the murmurs of others and the shuffling of someone in the room.

Her throat was dry. She tried to cough but she couldn’t.

“Where am I?” She wanted to yell but all she could manage was a barely audible moan. The strange woman didn’t pause in her duties. She scribbled across a note pad, checked her watch, and straightened the girl’s bed sheets in a no nonsense manner, never pausing at all.

For the first time the girl acknowledged the rest of her body, shifting her head to see the curve of her chest, the shape of her arms and the length of her legs in cased entirely by crisp white sheets. She was trapped and she suddenly found it hard to breathe.

With a grunt and a sudden burst of energy, she threw herself free from her prison. With frantic hands she pulled off her restraints, yanking out tubes that fed into her arms and nose and mouth.

The woman took notice of her then, dropping her pencil as well as her jaw and her eyes widened significantly. Still groggy, the young woman pulled herself up until she sat against the wall, legs pulled tight against her body and arms wrapped firmly around them. It finally dawned on her where she was.

“I must get the doctor,” the nurse stuttered and took off out of the room, leaving her pencil behind. The girl was left alone. She was in hospital and she had no idea who she was.

***

They told her that a bus driver finishing his shift at Train Station depot in the early morning hours of July the 15th found her lying unconscious beside the road. They also said that she’d sustained some type of head trauma, still undetermined, that had resulted in a deep coma.

Looking at the calendar suspended beside the hospital room door, the girl calculated that she’d been unconscious for over four weeks. She’d overheard the nurses’ murmurs outside her door over her ‘miraculous’ recovery and how they hadn’t expected her to wake up. They didn’t think she could hear them, but she could.

Her doctor, Dr Megan Socorro, was honest and up front with her and answered all her questions.

Where was I? Gosford Hospital.

What had happened? You’d been found unconscious and brought to the hospital where you’d been tested for both injury or disease related causes that had resulted in your unconscious state.

Who am I? I don’t know.

Am I going to be okay? I don’t know.

The doctor’s answers scared her. If she didn’t know what was wrong, who would?

***

“A journal?” The girl had grimaced as her foster mum handed her a plain nondescript note book earlier that morning.
“It will be good for you.” The darker woman had smiled and so here she was, pen in hand, sitting at the bottom of the stairs that led up to her new family’s apartment. It was quiet here with only Zipper, the stairwell moggy, for company.
“Good for me?” The girl whispered to herself but then figured why not. Pen to paper, she wrote carefully as if she was trying to recall how the words should look like.

I was hit. Or so they told me. I’d been waiting at a bus stop at the time. Or so they told me. A passing driver found me, unconscious. Or so they told me. Actually, it bore more semblance to a coma, but my brain waves were most definitely there and very active. I just wouldn’t wake up.

So I had been hit. A bus didn’t hit me, nor a car or truck, but sometimes my head still rings, my body tingles as if charged with electricity, even though it happened almost a year ago now. You know the quote; ‘electricity isn’t that bad, it only kills you once.’ Problem when it doesn’t.

Zipper attempted to swat the pen and the girl laughed, brushing dark hair behind her ears and revealing a small tattoo briefly.

“No Zipper. Not for you.” A quick scratch and the cat was happy enough to curl back up at her feet.

I haven’t forgotten anything from that day forward, but everything that happened before, all those years are gone. It doesn’t bother me. It’s just like finding out about a family member that had died, but you’d never known or met them. There is no connection.

Other people think differently. They just can’t imagine what it would be like to lose most of your life, but that day, the 22^nd of June, was the day I was born. Today, exactly one year later, I am now seventeen. I think.

I don’t remember the moment I forgot. There were no thoughts, no feelings, not even darkness; just nothingness. I can remember emptiness. Just not being.

My first thought in my new mind had been of white, the total opposite of the nothingness. Not to say that the nothingness is black, but white seemed full whilst the nothingness was empty. I had been in a deep coma for four whole weeks, and nobody knew my name or my family. Whoever I had been was long gone, and my new life was beginning.

It’s strange, having amnesia. I can still speak. Still write. I know how I have my tea and that the sun rises in the east. How can I know something so personal such as not liking anchovies on my pizza when my name continues to remain elusive?

The girl tapped the pen against her teeth as she thought for a moment, eyes lingering on the pastel green wall paper and the smooth wooden balustrade. She remembered how in the beginning, in that sterile, white hospital bed, no one had come to claim her and like with her memories she didn’t feel particularly bothered by the fact that no one came. She was upset not knowing the reason why.

She carefully slipped out the newspaper article, one of many that had been published soon after she’d woken, from the back of her journal and re-read the faded and creased heading, “Girl with amnesia, still waiting to be claimed.”
“I wondered what happened to them.” The girl spoke to Zipper. An ear flicked in her direction but the sleepy cat didn’t otherwise move. “My parents, I mean. They must be somewhere.” After no response from the cat, the girl returned to her writing.

After a month, I was sent to a wonderful foster family. I love Mark, Ella and little Harry Skylark and they love me, and we live together in a small unit not to far from the city centre. Ella was a teacher and after Harry was born, he’s three, she decided to become a stay at home mum so for the last year she’s been homeschooling me. This year though, we’ve decided that it would bee good for me to attend the local high school. Still not sure about it but it would be nice to meet some new people that are more interested in prodding me than holding a conversation.

The girl paused, thoughts drifting before she wrote in big bold letters, under scoring and over lining every letter, WHO AM I?

I have a clue. One clue. I have no idea what it means but it must mean something. It’s a tattoo. A weird one too.

Subconsciously the girl touched her neck, imagining the snake that twisted itself into an impossible knot before eating its tail. Under the fluorescent lights it flashed, the metallic colours gleaming and for a moment tiny animals no bigger than grains of rice could be seen almost moving within each and every scale.

And I have these dreams. Strange dreams that I can never remember when I wake up but I am sure they are from my past. The only thing left is this feeling that I am running out of time and that I must find…someone. Don’t know who.

“Anna! You down there?” A voice called down from the apartment. Glancing at her watch, Anna saw that it was lunch thing. Another thing she’ll miss when she finally went to school next week. Ella’s lunches. That and not being able to play with Harry whenever she wanted.
“Yup, be right up!”
Anna quickly snapped her book shut, jamming the pen into her hair and gently pushing Zipper away.
“Got to go but I’ll be back down with some biscuits.” Anna gave the slightly sulky cat another cuddle before leaping up the stairs, two at a time.

Ovid’s Metamorphoses is dark, brutal and disturbing with the reader often shocked by not only the graphic nature of events but also the grotesque form of comedy used within the terrible tales. One such story is the tale of the tragically “fated” sisters, Philomela and Procne. In this essay I will explore the ways in which the story of Philomela and Procne use myth and fairytale and in addition evaluate, through comparison, why the grotesque and violent are suitable themes within the Metamorphoses.

The Metamorphoses is regarded as an epic poem “in so far as it is a long poem in hexameters of high literary pretensions” (Melville xvii) but this is where Ovid has departed from the traditional norm. Within 15 books are over 250 stories depicting issues of faith, religion, creation, history and the darker notion of sexuality and eroticism. Myths and legends have been twisted and corrupted to present a less sacred narrative and fairytales blend to make a curiously disturbing piece of literature. The title, Metamorphoses, is both relevant to aetiological myths or “just so stories” (qtd McCartney 260), for example the origins of the nightingale is explained through the transformation of Philomela, as well as to the fairytale motif of change and transformation, like the frog into prince charming and Cinderella into a princess[1].

However traditional myth respects the divine gods whereas Ovid mocks and ridicules them and in some cases completely neglects them. So it is in the story of Philomela and Procne.

When they were married, Juno was not there

To bless the rite, nor Hymen nor the Graces.

The Furies held the torches, torches seized

From mourners’ hands; the Furies made their bed. (Ovid 6.433)

The gods’ lack of presence at the wedding is an ill omen and informs the audience that Tereus “shows no concern for the social values underlying the institution of marriage” (Pavlock 34) and his following barbaric actions are to be, although still shocking, expected. The gods’ absence is also noted where Philomela is “calling, even more, to heaven above” (Ovid 6.528) and receives no divine intervention that would save her virginity, her voice or her humanity. Ovid has removed fate, destiny, divine justice and vengeance that myths are comprised of with even “the dehumanisation of all three characters in the final metamorphoses” (Segal 290) preformed by no heavenly means[2].

The violent and grotesque events graphically pictured not only in the Philomela and Procne story, but also throughout the entire Metamorphoses, are not as common within other epic works. Ovid’s contemporary Virgil wrote the patriotic Aeneid that embraced the traditional form of myth to compose a “culture hero” (Hardie 482) that linked the Trojan War to the foundation of Rome[3]. Gore and rape are minimalised, complying with the traditions set by epic poetry and the Heroic Code. Homer’s Odyssey is similarly absent of events that are graphic in nature. The Cyclopes episode perhaps comes the closest in brutality to the terrible tale of Philomela and Procne where Polyphemus “seized a couple [of Odysseus’ men] and dashed their heads against the floor as though they had been puppies” (Odyssey 9. 289). What possibly makes Ovid’s work unique, though, is his application of “his wit to unfunny situations” (Richlin 158) twisting the traditionally seriousness of myth into something that is disturbingly comical. For instance,

[Philomela’s] tongue lay on the dark soil muttering

And wriggling, as the tail cut off a snake

Wriggles, and, as it died, it tried to reach

Its mistress’ feet. (Ovid 6.550)      

We are horrified yet amused by the imagery despite the gravity of the episode. It provides an uncomfortable read, often leaving one feeling guilty, and questions Ovid’s motives. After the removal of the tongue, we are repulsed again by Tereus’ arousal of the mutilation he has inflicted. Segal writes “the depiction of sadistic sexual pleasure, may invite the male reader or hearer to voyeuristic complicity in the crime, as it perhaps may invite the female reader to complicity in the vengeance” (283)[4]. Ovid involves the reader and whether he is sympathetic or sadistic to the victim’s plight is not significant[5].

Although the story of Philomela and Procne has been derived from myth, Ovid has exploited the tale to create something not entirely conventional. Fairytale motifs are present throughout the tale including the themes of sibling rivalry, domestic relationships, protective fathers, virginal young maidens and the blurring of appearance and reality. Even the “inauspicious beginning” (Jacobsen 46) is common in folktales, which allow a reader to foresee the potentiality of dire consequences, and in Ovid’s Philomela and Procne story, a Roman audience would be aware of the seriousness of the situation through the disregard of the marriage rituals.

Pavlock comments about Tereus’ behaviour as a tyrant and his “dissolving of boundaries necessary for social life, [and] in particular his total violation of order within the family” (34). This violation of family harmony is typical of fairytale stories with mothers, stepmothers, fathers, siblings and husbands murdering, injuring or raping to achieve personal satisfaction and accomplishment. The murder of Itys by his mother Procne is familiar to Medea’s punishment of her husband’s betrayal as well as the stepmother in ‘The Juniper Tree’ who not only murders her stepson but, like Procne, cooks him and serves the meal to the boy’s father[6].

The relationship between Philomela and Procne also undertakes a transformation as Philomela proclaims before her tongue is removed,

All is confused! I’m made a concubine,

My sister’s rival; you’re a husband twice,

And Procne ought to be my enemy! (Ovid 6.536).

Tereus has forced sibling rivalry upon Philomela and Procne. This rivalry is common in fairytales where stepsiblings wage war amongst themselves for their parents’ favour and the youngest attempts to overthrow the rightful heir, however Philomela and Procne’s relationship withstands Tereus’ abuse and together they take their revenge.

Fairytale justice and revenge are grotesque affairs. Whilst Procne, with Philomela’s help, feeds her son to Tereus before they turn into birds, Cinderella’s stepsisters have their eyes peeked out by doves and Snow White’s stepmother “had to put on the red hot shoes and dance until she fell down dead” (Grimm 188). Even the seemingly innocent story of ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ has darker origins in the tale ‘The Story of Grandmother’ where the little girl unknowingly “eats the flesh and drinks the blood of her grandmother!” (qtd Hallett 5).

The blurring of appearance and reality is another fairytale theme present throughout the Metamorphoses. Apollo and Jove use deception and trickery as Tereus deceives Philomela’s loving father with eloquent words and tears until the time came when he “revealed his own black heart and ravished [Philomela], a virgin, all alone” (Ovid 6.520). Another example of deception is in the tale of ‘Hansel and Gretel’ where the old woman of the gingerbread house “had only pretended to be friendly. She was really a wicked witch…and had built the house made of bread only to lure [children] to her” (Grimm 57).[7] According to Bettelheim, “fairytales are absolutely essential for the mental health of children” (qtd Dundes) in that it prepares them for situations in their own lives. Perhaps Ovid’s depiction of rape, with “more than 50 tales of rape in its 15 books [of which] nineteen were told at some length” (Richlin 158), is his attempt to shock us into contemplation of the events as fairytale moralistic endings do.

Ovid’s Metamorphoses has the appearance of myth yet in reality it is closely tied to the fairytale. The perversion of the gods, the “just so” (McCartney 260) transformation of the protagonists into birds and the ill omens throughout the story are based in myth or an adaptation of myth. The themes of sibling rivalry, infanticide, cannibalism, deception and family are well planted in folktale where the grotesque and violent are acceptable and expected.

References

• Curran, Leo. C. “Rape and Rape Victims in the Metamorphoses.” Ed. John Peradotto

and J.P. Sullivan. Albany: State University of New York Press, c1984. 263-

286.

• Dundes, Alan. “Bruno Bettelheim’s Uses of Enchantment and Abuses of

Scholarship.” The Journal of American Folklore, 104 (1991): 74-83.

• Grimm, Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm. The complete Fairytales of the Brothers Grimm,

third edition. Trans. Jack Zipes. New York: Bantam Books, 2002.

• Hallett, Martin and Barbara Karasek, eds. Folk and Fairy Tales, third edition. Canada:

Broadview Press Ltd, 2002.

• Harris, Stephen L. and Gloria Platzner. Classical Mythology: Images and Insights, 4^th

edition. New York: McGraw-Hill, 2004.

• Homer. The Odyssey. Trans. E. V. Rieu and D. C. H. Rieu. England: Penguin Group,

1991.

• Jacobsen, Garrett A. “Apollo and Tereus: Parallel Motifs in Ovid’s Metamorphoses”

The Classical Journal, 80 (1984): 45-52.

• McCartney, Eugene S. “How and Why: “Just so” Mythology in Ovid’s Metamorphoses” The Classical Journal, 15 (1920): 260-278.

• Melville, A. D. Introduction. Metamorphoses. Trans. Melville. Oxford: Oxford

University Press, 1998. xiii-xxix.

• Ovid. Metamorphoses. Trans. A.D. Melville. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998

• Pavlock, Barbara. “The Tyrant and Boundary Violations in Ovid’s Tereus Episode.”

Helios: journal of the Classical Association of the Southwest. 18 (1991):

34-48.

• Richlin, Amy. Pornography and representation in Greece and Rome. New York:

Oxford University Press, 1992. 158-179.

• Segal, Charles. “Philomela’s Web and the Pleasures of the text: Ovid’s Myth of

Tereus in the Metamorphoses.” The Two Worlds of the Poet: new

perspectives on Vergil. Ed. Robert M. Wilhelm and Howard Jones. Detroit:

Wayne State University Press, 1992. 281-295.

(Written by Frene Merrylees)

[2] See Segal for further information on the gods’ roles in the Metamorphoses and in particular the story of Philomela and Procne.

[3] See Harris and Platzner for an in-depth analysis of Virgil and the epic Aeneid.

[4] Harris and Platzner comments about the nightmare world that Ovid composed and how its themes coincide with Ovid’s own time ruled by Augustus, the mortal version of Jupiter. See chapter 20.

[5] For a reading on Ovid’s sympathy with women, see Curran. For a contrasting opinion see Richlin.

[6] An interesting similarity to the Philomela and Procne tale to ‘The Juniper Tree’ is the discovery that the son has been murdered. Itys is proven to be dead when Philomela throws his head at Tereus. In ‘The Juniper Tree’, the sister Marlene also discovers her brother’s death when she boxes him over the ears and his head falls off.

[7] The theme of eating children has been a popular fairytale motif throughout the ages. Versions of ‘Jack and the Beanstalk,’ ‘Hansel and Gretel,’ ‘Little Red Riding Hood,’ ‘Sleeping Beauty’ and many other tales contain infanticide and cannibalism.

“I’m an eagle.” The boy whispered, his words snatched away by the lonely clouds that treasured his words like precious pearls. The warmth of the sun’s smile against his cheeks and bare shoulders reminded him of walking over hot asphalt between classes and he basked in the familiarity.

Spread beneath him was the peanut coloured sands of the shoreline, the vegemite fields of newly turned earth and the silvery rivers that flowed into the ocean like spilt milk.

He was alone, floating in satisfaction, far above all the worries and concerns that plagued him down on earth. If only I could stay up here forever, the boy yearned, just as his dream faded and reality sunk in.

“Icarus, dinner is ready,” his mother prodded him whilst pushing her wire glasses further up her petite nose. She already had her tray pulled out and her book stowed safely out of the way.

“I hope it’s edible,” Icarus’ father grumbled from beneath his moustache and smoothed down his tweed coat, wiping away invisible crumbs. Icarus rolled his eyes in amusement. Professor Robert Aberdeen hated flying, which to be honest was quite odd as he flew quite a lot. In fact both of Icarus’ parents did. Both Robert and Maddy, Icarus’ mother, were archaeologists and were unfortunately quite good at what they did. Well unfortunate for Icarus as they were always flying off to some remote location to carry out fieldwork, more often than not without him. This trip had been the exception.

When his parents had called his boarding school almost four weeks ago, he’d been thrilled. Adventure! Glory! Excitement! The very next day he’d been bundled onto a plane from Sydney to Bangkok and finally to Athens where he met his already dust stained parents eager to get back to the island.

The short flight from mainland Greece to Crete had been breath taking. Autumn had swept the land into a smoky haze of light and shadows. Mist hung heavily in the valleys blurring the sea and land. Sunlight strained through the heavy cloud cover, turning the hills purple and the ocean into jagged glass, catching whatever light it could. The Akrotiri airport was close to the city Chania, however Icarus’ party headed in the opposite direction.

That’s when things got very boring very fast. Of course the ruins were interesting enough for a bunch of old rocks and ancient rubbish (or so Icarus thought) and the weather, though gloomy, was an escape from the early summer back home. However shifting through dirt day in, day out for four weeks would have anybody going crazy. Anyone normal that is. Icarus’ parents thrived on dirt. Wasn’t quite Icarus’ cup of tea.

He’d been living off stale vegemite sandwiches and baked beans for far too long and he was sick and tired of being so bored and (although he wouldn’t ever admit it) lonely. Even now, with his parents, he’d never felt more isolated. At school he was the leader of the pack. Everyone wanted to be his friend and whatever he said, even if  (although another thing he’d never admit) it was lame or wrong. His teachers praised him daily; he was smart and athletic and was the school captain for both basketball and soccer. Over achiever maybe, but this was what Icarus thrived on. Not dirt but people and activity and being the centre of attention.

The last month had been the opposite of everything he’d grown to love. It reminded Icarus of his childhood. Left in the dirt to play whilst his parents dug out unimportant garbage and not realising the most precious treasure they would ever have was him. When he learnt to fly he’d never look back. He’d be gone from them for good.

They don’t deserve me, Icarus thought and felt determined to ignore them the rest of the flight home. He sat sulking, shoulders hunched whilst he attempted to escape into a world much better than his own.

“Would you like the fish or the chicken?” A tall male flight attendant asked politely, although his slightly glazed eyes betrayed his own boredom and his voice was abrasive, hairy fingers tapping on the trolley restlessly.

Icarus turned to the window, seeing nothing but his own reflection blinking slowly back at him. He liked it when they turned the cabin lights off and he could open the window shutter. He imagined all sorts of things flying past as he ignored the flight attendant. Anyway, he knew his mother would choose for him. Probably made her feel like a good mother. He got the fish.

Wrinkling up his nose in distaste, he ate the potatoes and contented himself with dessert, ignoring the fish altogether as it seemed it would enthusiastically flop off his plate.

“Fish is good for you darling,” Mum said absently whilst she took a bite of her chicken. She didn’t look at Icarus when she spoke. “Full of high quality proteins, vitamin A and D, iron, calcium…”Icarus allowed his mother’s words to wash over him as she slipped into her lecture mode.

Within moments both Robert and Maddy were deep in a debate over marine animals and their direct impact on the Minoans in both their diet and culture. Icarus just sighed. He was used to zoning out and escaping to other places in his head. He’d fly away over both real and imaginary kingdoms and realms and elude the world that seemed quite happy to pass him by.

Ever since he was little, he’d dream of flying. When he was six he was so certain he could fly that he climbed onto his parent’s car and jumped. The arm cast and resulting scar almost three inches long did nothing to dampen his desire. Even now he endeavoured to get high enough grades to become a pilot. Robert joked that he should have named him anything other than Icarus, a Greek high flyer who flew too high and came to an untimely end. In fact they were soaring over the Icarian Sea right now, named after the mythical character himself.

Cupping his eyes, nose pressed to the cool glass, Icarus peered into the darkness, straining to see something, anything. Then he did. Blinking stupidly, Icarus looked again and confirmed there was indeed a tiny reddish lizard peering back at him. That was impossible!

Its silver eyes blinked languorously and licked its rubber lips with its long pink tongue. It wasn’t alone. Millions of tiny silver eyed lizards scurried across the plane’s wings and windows.

“Mum, Dad, look!” Icarus pointed, strangely out of breathe as if he’d just been running. His parents paused in their heated discussion.

“What dear? I can’t see anything.” Maddy said just as the lights flickered off and dozens and dozens of eyes glinted back from the opposite side of the glass. Screams, shrills and shouts of alarm bounced up and down the plane. Everything shuddered before the lights came on again and the flight attendants rushed the half empty food trolleys away.

“Please put your seat belts on.” A voice crackled over the intercom, amazingly calm despite the chaos and Icarus and his parents madly stashed their half finished meals under their seats and grappled with their belts.

The lights flickered madly, undecided whether to stay on or off and Icarus’ found his mum’s hand, never feeling more comforted by a mere touch. Air masks dropped from the ceiling with a bang and clatter and then a terrible wailing sound shook through the whole plane. Then complete silence. The engines had stopped. A moment seemingly suspended in time before the world dropped out from beneath three hundred passengers.

Darkness swallowed them all, taking away the cold, the screams and the sickening dread.

“This is it.” Icarus’ last thought echoed in his head. What a way to go!

Icarus blinked his eyes. Well he thought he blinked. He felt his eyelashes brush against his cheeks and yet he still couldn’t see. Just darkness. Absolute darkness. It reminded him of his trip into the belly of the earth on a school excursion to the Jenolan caves.

“Imagine what it was like for those early explorers without electricity, only candles and lamps.” The voice of his tour guide whispered across his mind as he remembered the sheer panic that had shot through him when they’d turned off the lights, giving the students a taste of real darkness and, for some like Icarus, true fear.

Actually, now that he thought about it, it definitely felt like he was in a cave. Pushing aside the fear that welled up in him (how far underground was he?) he listened. Water tapped a steady pace upon the earth, dull, faint yet consistent, Icarus could not pin point where it came from. Where was he? Where were his parents?
Hesitantly he reached out with numb fingers and felt around where he sat. The rock floor was almost spongy and he shifted, bouncing slightly. Very confused he squeezed it and it gave a soft almost human sigh.

Icarus’ heart was wedged quite firmly in his throat as he carefully stood up, reaching above his head to see how high the roof was. His fingertips touched only air.

“Am I dead?” Icarus asked aloud. His voice was muffled, eaten up by the gloom. He shivered, running his hands over his goose bumped arms. Where was his jacket?

Dampness invaded up his nose, making his eyes water from the muskiness. Unbeknownst to Icarus, a dozen shadowy creatures watched him, each waiting tensely to see who would strike first and devour the human child.

“Is anyone there?” Icarus called desperately, sliding a foot out carefully and finding to his horror only air. Crouching down, he hugged his knees and held back tears. He’d do anything to hear Maddy’s lecturing voice or Robert’s ever distracted one. And the things he’d do for a light!

His wish was granted. Two-dozen silver lights blinked on like light bulbs and Icarus’ could see. He very quickly wished he couldn’t. The sane part of his mind, granted a very small part, tried to convince the rest of him that he was hallucinating but the fear was chokingly real and his body shivered uncontrollably.

“Human child,” a set of very large eyes winked at him, whistling its words through needle sharp teeth. “You’ve fallen into our domain and the price you must pay is your life.”

The monster sat below him, staring up hungrily where Icarus was perched on a natural island, surrounded by black inkiness.

A second creature, smaller and leaner than the first crocodile like beast, smiled almost apologetically.

“It’s nothing personal.” It hissed with a very human like shrug of his pale blue scaly shoulders.

Icarus’ mouth was dry, his brain whirring at a formidable pace as he tried to talk his way out of his predicament. To be honest, he’d never considered his fate was to be eaten.

“Ah…you can’t eat me!” Icarus stammered, his voice a mere croak.

“Why not?” the smaller creature asked curiously, it’s lips like tyres pouted childishly and the dozen silver-eyed monsters tilted their heads in confusion. They obviously didn’t expect Icarus to deny them their dinner.

“Because…because I don’t have any money!”

Silence met Icarus’ outcry.

“Money?” Another turtle shaped beast questioned.

“To pay the ferryman of course!” Icarus said convincingly, hands on hips as he stood, balancing precariously and acting far braver than he actually was. Silently he thanked his mother for the mythical bedtime stories she’d insisted on telling him well up until he was eleven. After that she was far too busy for even a quick “good night.”

“The ferryman?” The first monster scoffed though his eyes were blinking rapidly with uncertainty.

“Of course! I know the ferryman.” The smallest exclaimed excitedly, “my cousin dwells in his territory. The ferryman takes the spirits of the dead across to the Underworld. Costs you a fair bit too. I’ve actually seen the poor souls who wait for eternity at the docks cos they were a bob too short.” The creature seemed quite proud of himself and his knowledge, however all the other monsters looked quite perplexed.

“I have a friend waiting for me,” Icarus hurriedly lied. “He’ll lend me some money and I’ll return right back here, I promise, all the better for it. It wouldn’t be fair to take a meal from you understanding kind…er…sirs.”

The monsters literally beamed at the unexpected praise, obviously not having received such compliments from their other meals, and within moments it was decided that Icarus would live and later return with some money.

He even got himself a guide out of the cave systems by none other than Earl, the one who’d inadvertedly confirmed Icarus’ bluff and was the smallest man-eater. (Comparably small, he was at least twice the size of a horse!)

“You can ride on my back if you’d like.” Earl offered, all smiles. Icarus suppressed a shudder of fear as he saw every sharp tooth in Earl’s head.

“Sure. It would be an honour.” Icarus squeaked. I must be going crazy! I’ve finally cracked! I’m riding on the back of a mutant lizard! A lizard whose eyes lit the way before them like big silver moons with a ridged spine that made balancing quite a challenge. It was like riding a moving island, the rippling water disappearing into the dark edges of nothingness. Earl was surprisingly warm despite his cold-blooded heritage and reminded Icarus of his mother. He wouldn’t stop talking!

“Ahuh,” Icarus said when Earl paused expectantly. He spoke so quickly with one word slurring into the other that Icarus had no idea what he was on about. Earl continued, satisfied that Icarus was listening. Nothing he said made sense. What was an Otherworld? Where was Alegria? Finally the cave walls began to grow pale in the growing light and Earl stopped.

“Here we are. I’m afraid you’ll have to go the rest of the way by yourself. I look forward to meeting you again.” Earl licked his lips with a grin. Icarus gulped, fully aware that if he had his way he’d never see the insides of this cave again!

With a less than enthusiastic wave, Icarus said farewell to his ride and began carefully wading through ankle deep pools of iridescent blue, gravitating towards the promise of light. The spongy rock walls proved not to be made of stone but a bizarre plant and with every step changed colour, from light green to an almost blue black.

The sun’s rays brushed against his skin unexpectedly and Icarus was relieved of the heavy weight his fear of the dark had given him. He was alive! And not eaten!

Written by Ferne Merrylees

“Bow!” a dozen voices piped up and I stepped back to allow the herd of white uniformed midgets to swarm pass. I gathered their name cards, checked that all my students were accounted for and hadn’t yet escaped, and strolled to the front of the class. There they all waited, standing strong from highest to lowest grade, their coloured belts firmly tied.

“Attention stance.” I snapped my feet together, hands by my side and they copied.

“Self control,” they dutifully shouted and bowed again to each other and myself. No head butting this time. Thus we begin every class.

After running around the dojo to the soundtrack of the Lion King, the kindymites were ready to be trained into killing machines. Well at least formidable opponents. Making a ring around the centre red mats, they stood confident, proud and ferocious, none reaching higher than my waist.

“Upper block! Ichi!”

“Ichi Sensei!” They shouted in Japanese. Despite the eldest only being 5 and a half, all of my students could fluently count to ten in Japanese. After their basics, I taught them their self-defence, their special kata and how to spot dangerous adults and bullies. Finally the class was coming to an end.

“Three second square!” I ordered and they hurdled themselves quite enthusiastically into the middle square where they sat “Legs crossed! Backs straight! Hands on knees!”

“Okay kindymites, who can tell me what ‘dinner before dessert’ means?” Today’s mat chat was like any other, a dangerous activity especially around Christmas time. Thankfully that volcanic time of year was still three months away.

Small hands shot up into the air, waving frantically for attention.

“Excuse me! Excuse me! Excuse me!” Cried the littlest and I hid a grimace.

“Yes Nathaniel?”

“My house is made of bricks!”

Oh dear. And very quickly and gently I returned the conversation back on track.

“Dinner before desert means you do the things you have to do first so you can have the fun stuff afterwards. Let me tell you a story,” they all huddled closer, eyes wide with anticipation. “There was once a little boy and a little girl. The little boy ate his dinner first and then had his dessert whilst the little girl ate her dessert first and was too full to eat her dinner. Who do you think has the strongest muscles?”

“The little boy!” They all called out, the boys rather smug.

“And what sort of food is good for you?” I pointed to Anna who sat shyly at the back.

“Carrots?” She quietly offered and I nodded. Every child mentioned a piece of fruit or vegetable.

“And what shouldn’t you eat lots off?” I asked.

“Dogs,” stated Jamie confidently. Controlling my laughter (the parents weren’t as successful) I watched as the children nodded to themselves wisely.

“Okay kindymites. Normal lines! Ichi! Ni! San!” They bustled into place, belts around their knees, no longer neat and tidy.

“Attention stance!” I said, feet together.

“Self control! Thank you for teaching me.” They bowed and I let them escape into the real world.

Written by Ferne Merrylees