CZM Book Club: "Svend and His Brethren" by William Morris, Part Two

last week. In part one of Zvend and his Brethren, we haven't even met Zvend of the Brethren having instead, we met Cecilla in this story by William Morris written in eighteen fifty six or published in eighteen fifty six, who knows when you fucking wrote it. Probably eighteen fifty six. We met Secilla, who lived in a country holding back an empire and they were losing badly and she sacrificed her own happiness to go be with king and she's not happy about it. And that's where she's at right now.

And I'm reading this story because I think it inspires a ton of stuff that comes later. And I see

almost no one talking about the story. I was like, Dear, the internet is Vend and his Brethren a big deal in literature, and everyone knows about it because it's William Morris and clearly is an inspiration for those who walked away from omelass and the internet was like, here's two paragraphs of one person talking about his vend and his brethren, So you talking about it with your friends is the first talking about it because we discovered it, much like

I'm attempting to make some sort of vague reference to colonialism and how people pretend to discover things that clearly people have known about, Like William Morris is not a minor figure in literature. I'm sure other people have talked about it. I just couldn't find anything. But we're gonna talk about it a little bit after we finish reading it. But first we're going to finish reading it, and by we,

I'm me, okay, this story kind of fast forwards. You'll probably notice that, Come, Harold, said a beautiful golden haired boy to one who is plainly his younger brother. Come let us leave Robert here by the forge to show our lady mother this beautiful thing. Sweet master armorer, farewell are you going to the queen? Then? Said the armorer yay, said the boy, looking wonderingly at the strong craftsman's eager face. But nay, let me look at you a while longer.

You remind me so much of what I loved long ago in my own land. Stay awhile till your other brother goes with you. Well, I will stay and think of what you have been telling me. I do not feel as it I should ever think of anything else for long together, as long as I live. So he sat down again on an old battered anvil and seemed, with his bright eyes to be holding something in the land of dreams, A gallant dream, it was, he dreamed for.

He saw himself, with his brothers and friends about him, seated on a throne, the justice king in all the earth, his people, the loviness of all people. He saw the ambassadors of the restored nation that had been unjustly dealt a long time ago, everywhere, love and peace, if possible, justice and truth at all events. Alas, he knew not that vengeance so long delayed must fall at last in his lifetime. He knew not that it takes longer to restore that whose growth has been through age and age

than the few years of a lifetime. Yet was the reality good, if not as good as the dream? Presently, his twin brother Robert woke him from that dream, calling out, now, brothers, Vend, are we really ready see here? But stop kneel first there? Now I am the bishop. And he pulled his brother down on his knees and put on his head, where

it fitted loosely enough. Now hanging down from left to right, an iron crown fantastically wrought, which he himself, having just finished it, had taken out of the water, cool and dripping. Robert and Harold laughed loud when they saw the crown hanging all askew, and the great drops rolling from it into Ven's eyes and down his cheeks, looking like tears.

Not so, Svend. He rose, holding the crown level on his head, holding it back so that it pressed against his brow hard and first dashing the drops to left and right, caught his brother by the hand and said, may I keep it, Robert, I shall wear it someday. Yeay, said the other, But it is a poor thing. Better let shore put it in the furnace again and make it into sword hilts. Thereupon they began to go Zvend,

holding the crown in his hand. But as they were going, Shore called out, yet, I will sell my dagger at a price, Prince Vend, even as you wished at first, rather than give it to you for nothing. Well for what said Svend, somewhat shortly, for he thought Sure was going back from his promise, which was ugly to him. Be not angry, Prince, said the armorer. Only I pray you to satisfy this whim of mine. It is the

first favor I've asked of you. You will ask the fair noble lady, your mother from Shore the smith if she is happy. Now, willingly, sweet master Sure, if it pleases you, farewell, And with happy young faces they went away, And when they were gone, Sure, from a secret place, drew out various weapons and armor, and began to work

at them. Having first drawn bolton bar of his workshop carefully, Svend, with Harold and Robert, his two brethren, went their ways to the Queen and found her sitting alone in a fair court of the palace, full of flowers, with a marble cloister round about it. And when she saw them coming, she rose up to meet them, her three fair sons. Truly as that right royal woman bent over them lovingly.

There seemed to be little need of Shore's question, so Sven showed her his dagger, but not the crown, and she asked many questions concerning Sure the smith, about his way of talking, and his face, the color of his hair, even till the boys wondered. She questioned them so closely, with beaming eyes and glowing cheeks, so that Svend thought he had never before seen his mother look so beautiful. Then Sven said, and mother, don't be angry with Sure, will you, because he sent a message to you by

me angry and straightway. Her soul was wandering where her body could not come, and for a moment or two she was living as before, with him close by her in the old mountain. Land. Well, mother, he wanted me to ask if you were happy? Now did he' s Vend? This man with brown hair grizzled as you say it is now? Is his hair soft? Then? This shore going down on to his shoulders and waves, and his eyes do they grow steadily as if lighted up from his heart?

And how does he speak? Did you not tell me that his words led you whether you would or no? And to dreamland? Ah? Well, tell him I am happy but not so happy as we shall be as we were. And so you, son Robert, are getting to be quite a cunning smith. But do you think you will ever beat sure? Ah? Mother, No, he said, there is something with him that makes him seem quite infinitely beyond all

other workmen I have ever heard of. And if you want to buy products from the finest work people in all the realm, I suggest the sponsor of this podcast medieval weaponry. No one's sad when they have a sword or a dagger, mace, morning star, flail, spear spears are quite lovely. We also probably have other ads. Let's find out, and we're back memory. Coming from that dreamland smoke upon her heart more than the others. She blushed like a young girl and said, hesitatingly, does he work with his

left hand, son, Robert? For I have heard that some men do so. But in her heart she remembered how once long ago, in the old mountain country, in her father's house, someone had said that only men who were born so could do cunningly with their left hand. And how sure then quite a boy had said, well I will try, And how in a month or two he had come to her with an armlet of silver, very curiously wrought, which he had done with his own left hand. So Robert said, yea, mother, he works with his left

hand almost as much as with his right. And sometimes I have seen him change the hammer suddenly from his right to his left, with a kind of half smile, as one who could say, can I not then? And this more when he does smith's work in metal than when he works in marble. And once I heard him say, when he did so, I wonder where my first left hand work is, ah, I abide my time. I wonder, also, mother,

what he meant by that. She answered no word, but shook her arm free from its broad sleeve, and something glittered on it near her wrist, something wrought out of silver, set with quaint and uncouthly cut stones of little value. In the council chamber among the lords sat Vend with his six brethren, he chief of awe in wielding of sword or axe, in the government of people, in drawing the love of men and women to him, perfect in

face and body, and wisdom and strength, was Vennd. Next to him sat Robert, cunning and working of marble or wood or brass, all things he could make to look as if they lived from the sweep of an angel's wing down to the slipping of a little field mouse from under the sheath in the harvest time. Then there was Harold, who knew concerning all the stars of heaven and flowers of earth. Richard, who drew men's hearts from their bodies with the words that swung to and fro

in his glorious rhymes. William, to whom the air of heaven seemed a servant when the harpstrings quivered underneath his fingers. There were the two sailor brothers, who the year before, young though they were, had come back from a long perilous voyage with news of an island they had found long and long away to the west, larger than any that his people knew of, but very fair and good, though uninhabited. But now over all this noble brotherhood, with

all its various gifts, hung one cloud of sorrow. Their mother, the peace Queen Cecilia, was dead, She who had taught them truth and nobleness so well. She was never to see the beginning of the end that they would work. Truly, it seemed sad. There sat the seven brothers in the council chamber, waiting for the king, speaking no word, only

thinking drearily. Under the pavement of the great church, Cesllah lay and by the side of her tomb stood men, old men, both Valdemar the King, and sure so the King. After that he had gazed awhile on the carve and face of her he had loved so well, said at last, and now, sir carver, you must carve me also to lie there. And he pointed to the vacant spot by the side of the fair alabaster figure. Oh King said sure, except for a very few strokes on steel, I have

done work. Now, having carved the queen there, I cannot do this thing for you. What was? It? Sent a sharp pang of bitterest suspicion through the very heart of the poor old man. He looked steadfastedly at him a moment or two, as if he would know all secrets. He could not. He had not the strength of life enough to get to the bottom of things. Doubt vanished soon from his heart and his face under Shore's pitying gaze, he said, then, perhaps I shall be my own statue.

And there with all he sat down on the edge of the low marble tomb and laid his right arm across her breast. He fixed his eyes on the eastern belt of windows, and sat quite motionless and silent. And he never knew that she loved him, not but sure when he gazed at him, awhile stole away quietly as we do when we fear to wake a sleeper. And the king never turned his head, but still sat there, never moving, scarce breathing. It seemed Shore stood in his

own great hall, for his house was large. He stood before the dais, saw a fair sight the work of his own hands. For fronting him against the wall were seven thrones, and behind them a cloth of samite of purple, wrought with golden stars, and barred across from right to left with long bars of silver and crimson, and edged

below with melancholy fading green like a september sunset. And opposite each throne was a glitter suit of armor, wrought wonderfully in bright steel, except that on the breast of each suit was a face worked marvelously in enamel, the face of Cecilla, in a glory of golden hair, and the glory of that gold spread away from the breast on all sides and ran conningly along with the steel rings in such a way as it is hard even

to imagine. Moreover, on the crest of each helm was wrought the phoenix, the never dying bird, the only creature that knows the sun. And by each suit lay a gleaming sword, terrible to look at, steel from pommel to point, but wrought along the blade in burnished gold that out flashed. The gleam of the steel was written in fantastic letters. The word westward and also gleaming steel are medieval weapons. Here they are the ads that are only for medieval weaponry.

And were back so sure gazed till he heard footsteps coming. Then he turned to meet them. And Svend and his brethren sat silent in the council chamber. So they heard a great noise and clamor of the people arise through all the streets, and then they rose to see what it might be. Meanwhile, on the low marble tomb, under the dim sweeping vault, sat, or rather lay the King, for though his right arm still lay over her breast, his head had fallen forward and rested now on the

shoulder of the marble queen. There he lay, with strange confusion of his scarlet gold wrought robes, silent, motionless and dead. The seven Brethren stood together on the marble terrace of the Royal Palace that was dotted about on the bluster of it with white statues. They were helmeted and armed to the teeth. Only over their armour, great black cloaks

were thrown. Now the whole great terrace was a sway with the crowd of nobles and princes, and others that were neither nobles or princes, but true men only, And these were helmeted and wrapped in black cloaks, even as the princes were. Only the crests of the prince's helms were wrought wonderfully with that bird, the phoenix, all flaming with new power, dying because its old body was not

strong enough for its newfound power. And those on that terrace who were unarmed had anxious faces, some fearful, some

stormy with devil's rage at disappointment. But among the faces of those helmed ones, though here and there you might see a pale face, and there was no fear or rage, scarcely even anxiety, but calm, brave joy seemed to be on all above the heads of all men on that terrace shown out Zeven's brave face, the golden hair flowing out from his helmet, a smile of quiet confidence overflowing from his mighty heart, and the depths of which it was dwelling just showed very little on his eyes and lips,

while all the vast square, and all the windows and roofs and even of houses over against the palace were alive, with an innumerable sea of trouble, raging faces showing white upturned under the undersea their many colored raiment. The murmur from them was like a sow of the first tempest wind among the pines, and the gleam of spears here and there was like the last gleams of the sun through the woods when the black thunderclouds come up over all, and soon to be shown through those woods by the

gleam of deep lightning. Also sometimes the murmur would swell, and from the heart of it would come a fierce horse, tearing shattering roar, strangely discordant of war, war, Give us war, o King, thence then stepping forward, his arms hidden under his long cloak, as they hung down quietly, The smile on his face brought somewhat sent from his chest a

mighty effortless voice. Over all the raging hear, o ye people, war with all that is ugly and base, peace with all that is fair and good, No war with my brother's people. Just then, one of those unhelmeted, creeping round about stealthily to the place where Sven stood, lifted his arm and smote at him with a dagger. Whereupon, Seven, clearing his right arm from his cloak with his left, lifted up his glittering right hand, and the trader fell

to the earth, groaning with a broken jaw. First, Ven had smitten him on the mouth a backward blow with his open hand. One shouted from the crowd, I murderers, Ven, slay our good nobles, as you poisoned the king your father, that you and your false brethren might oppress us with the memory of that devil's witch your mother. The smile lifts Ven's face and heart. Now he looked very stern

as he said, here, o ye people. In years past, when I was a boy, my dream of dreams was ever this, How should I make you good and because good happy when I should become king over you? But as year by year passed, I saw my dream flitting, the deep colors of it changed, faded, grew gray in

the late light of coming manhood. Nevertheless, God be my witness that I have ever striven to make you just and true, hoping against hope continually, and I have ever determined to bear everything and stay with you, even though you should remain unjust in liars, for the sake of the few who really love me. But now, seeing that God has made you mad, and that his vengeance will speedily fall, take heed, how you cast out from you all that is good and true hearted? Once more, which

choose you peace or war? Between the good and the base. In the midst of the passionate faces and changing colors stood the great Terrace, cold and calm and white, with its changeless statues. And for a while there was silence, broken through at last by a yell and a sharp whir of arrows, and the cling clang from the armor of the terrace. As Prince Harold staggered through, unhurt, struck

by the broad point on the helmet, What war? Shouted vend wrathfully, and his voice sounded like a clap of thunder following the lightning flash when a tower is struck what war swords for vend round about the king, good men and true sons of the golden hair, show these men war. And as he spoke, he let his black cloak fall, and up from their sheaths sprang seven swords, steal from pommel to point. Only on the blades of them,

in fantastic letters of gold, shone the word westward. Then all the terrace gleamed with steel, and admit the hurling of stones and whizz of arrows, they began to go westward. The streets ran with blood, the air was filled with groans and curses. The low waves nearest the granite pier were edged with blood because they first caught the drippings

of the blood. And those on the pier who durst stay on the pier saw the ships of Sven's little fleet leaving, one by one, For he had taken aboard those ten ships whoever had prayed to go, even in the last moment, wounded or dying. Even better so, for in their last moments came thoughts of good things to many of them, and it was good to be among the true. But those haughty ones left behind, sullen and untamed, but with horrible, indefinable dread on them what was worse

than death or mere pain, howsoever fierce. These saw all the ships go out of the harbor, merrily, with the swaying sail and dashing oar, and with joyous singing of those aboard. And Sven's was the last of all whom

they saw kneel down on the deck unhelmed. Then all sheathed their swords that were about him, and the Prince Robert took from Sven's hand an iron crown fantastically wrought, and placed it on his head, and he knelt, and he continued kneeling still till as the ship drew further and further away from the harbor, all things aboard her became indistinct, and they never saw Spend and his brethren again.

Here ends what William the Englishman wrote. But afterwards, in the night time he found the book of a certain chronicler which Saith in the springtime. In May the five hundred and fiftieth year from the death of Spend, of the wonderful King, the good knights, sailing due eastward, came to the harbor of a land they knew not wherein they saw many goodly ships, but of a strange fashion,

like the ships of the ancients, and destitute of any mariners. Besides, they saw no beacons for the guidance of seamen, nor was there any sound of bells or singing, though the city was vast with many goodly towers and palaces. So when they landed they found that which is hardly to be believed, but which is nevertheless true. For about to the quays and about the streets lay many people dead or stood, but quite without motion, for they were all white,

or about the color of new hewn freestone. Yet were they not statues, but real men, for they had, some of them ghastly wounds, which showed their entrails, and the structure of their flesh and veins and bones. Moreover, the streets were red and wet with blood, and the harbor waves were red with it, because it dipped in great drops slowly from the quays. Then, when the good knights saw this, they doubted not but that it was the

fearful punishment on this people for sins of theirs. Thereupon they entered into a church of that gray city and prayed God to pardon them. Afterwards, going back to their ships, sailed away, marveling and I John who wrote this story, saw all this with mine own eyes, and that's the story. I like this story so much. I even like it better the second time I eat it, right, because there's a kind of lot going on that I didn't necessarily catch the first time. But it's so interesting to me, okay,

for a lot of reasons. One, I can see the inspiration on Tolkien really clearly in this right, because you have this kind of like good noble king thing going on, but you also have like an evil king, or like a king who thinks he's good but he actually sucks, like the first king, you know. And and he's like, oh, I love my wife, and she's like, I'm not into you. I wish I was still dating that fucking smith, you know.

And it's so tragic when he's like, I'm gonna just lay down and die here upon the statue of my dead wife, and she's like, I don't even like you. You know, I married you as like I gave up my life to marry you in order to keep my people like free and happy, and you know, and you still have got these like okay, and then the seven Brothers are like all good and true, and that's like

very fucking like English like whatever, you know. But what was so interesting then is this Like but then the nobles who are all gathered up round are like, no, we want war. We just want to like fuck each other up, right, That's just like, man, can't wait, just fuck each other up, you know. And so they're like, all right, well we're gonna get out of here, like we're good and noble and true, and so we're just

gonna leave. And they're going to basically Iceland. Right. It's like always a little sketchy when people are like westward right, you know, when they're English, because well, I'm recording this from a colony that is the result of that, you know. But I'm almost certain that they're talking about Iceland because they referred to it as an island they referred to as uninhabited. And also like specifically, I know William Morris was like into Iceland, and you've got this whole like

kind of Vikingish vibe. Right, They're all like names vend and shore and stuff, you know. So I think they all like basically fuck off the Iceland. And then they come back and then violence has trapped them into this perfect stillness, you know, that's like ever changing, and their wounds are always there and the blood keeps dripping forever. It's so cool. Thank you all for listening to this story.

If you want to hear me read stories. If you want to hear me read stories, you can do so by continuing to listen to this podcast, or I read about history on my podcast Cool People Did Cool stuff, or you can come and see me talk because I'm on tour right now, unless it's the future, in which maybe, but as you listen to this, I might be in Portland, Maine, or in Rockland, somewhere rural Maine, I don't know. Look up box car Books. That's where I'm going to be

the day this comes out. But I'm on tour. I am reading stories. I'm reading folk tales set in the world of the Sapling Cage, which is my new novel that you might like. I hope you like it. I also hope that you're doing well and that you don't like take like like like I'm not like, oh, this story has like all the right morals or whatever, like now fuck that right, But instead it's just it's just

interesting and like, am I wrong? Is this not the precursor to those who walk away from ome loss because you're describing this like perfect beautiful city, but that has like a dark secret. And I really like you can tell that this man ended up like he's kind of also seen sometimes as like the first eco socialist. Right. He loves nature and he also loves craft stuff, right, and he's like, actually, crafts and nature like go hand in hand, and and it's shown in both of the

stories I've read by him so far. But I love that they're describing and being like, oh, look at this beautiful thing where they're taming everything by way of using smartness to make lies and laying waste of valleys and everyone lives as surfs and it sucks, like it's so good. Like this guy he wasn't even like a socialist yet when he wrote this, but you can see where he's

gonna end up. It's also interesting because he ended up an atheist, right, But this story is like totally God focused, right, But that's just like, I mean, it's the style at the time, and it's the way people were thinking about things and not context. Anyway, I already did my plugs and here I am talking about the story again, so I'll just be done and I'll talk to you next week by It Could Happen Here as a production of

cool Zone Media. For more podcasts from cool Zone Media, visit our website coolzonemedia dot com or check us out on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you listen to podcasts. You can find sources for It Could Happen Here, updated monthly at coolzonemedia dot com slash sources. Thanks for listening.