Bran and Cafall
May. 28th, 2004 08:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eve_primeSo for the second time in two months, I've read a book in which a character named Bran has a dog named Cafall. "The Grey King" by Susan Cooper is a little gem of a book that I read in its entirety between 5:30 and 7:55 p.m. today. The tattered clouds around the mountaintops reminded me of the pictures I posted yesterday, though of course ours are not sinister.
The other book was "The Last Light of the Sun" by Guy Gavriel Kay, the latest in the set of books that include the Sarantine Mosaic and "The Lions of Al-Rassan." These are novels with fantasy elements that are based in medieval European history, but with created cultures that mirror the flavor of those on which they are based rather than actually being those cultures and lands. The earlier books had been set in the Byzantine Empire and in Spain of the Reconquista, respectively. This one weaves together cultures based on the Anglo-Saxons, the Vikings, and the Celts (specifically the Welsh), in Kay's usual poignant style, though with happier outcomes overall than one might expect. I was especially pleased with what he did with the Vikings, being true to their violence while still creating both a protagonist and a hero for us to care about.
Anyway, "Bran" is a classic name out of Welsh lore, and "Cafall" was the name of Arthur's dog, so it's fair enough to have the two paired up more than once in Celtic-derived fantasy lit.
Last night at bedtime, there was a yellowjacket buzzing about the bare light bulb above the stove. I stood there a while pondering what to do about it -- I wasn't going to swat it, and I didn't see a good way to catch it, but if I just ignored it and turned out the light it would move to the next lightest room in the house (the bathroom with the nightlight, I would think), and then be around when D. awoke in the morning. Abruptly, before I could form a plan, the poor thing accidentally dashed itself against the light bulb and, burnt I suppose, fell like a stone against the stove and lay there twitching. This at least let me scoop it into a glass and take it outside. In the morning, at least nine hours later, it was still in the glass, and, rather horrifically, still twitching. Poor creature.
The other book was "The Last Light of the Sun" by Guy Gavriel Kay, the latest in the set of books that include the Sarantine Mosaic and "The Lions of Al-Rassan." These are novels with fantasy elements that are based in medieval European history, but with created cultures that mirror the flavor of those on which they are based rather than actually being those cultures and lands. The earlier books had been set in the Byzantine Empire and in Spain of the Reconquista, respectively. This one weaves together cultures based on the Anglo-Saxons, the Vikings, and the Celts (specifically the Welsh), in Kay's usual poignant style, though with happier outcomes overall than one might expect. I was especially pleased with what he did with the Vikings, being true to their violence while still creating both a protagonist and a hero for us to care about.
Anyway, "Bran" is a classic name out of Welsh lore, and "Cafall" was the name of Arthur's dog, so it's fair enough to have the two paired up more than once in Celtic-derived fantasy lit.
Last night at bedtime, there was a yellowjacket buzzing about the bare light bulb above the stove. I stood there a while pondering what to do about it -- I wasn't going to swat it, and I didn't see a good way to catch it, but if I just ignored it and turned out the light it would move to the next lightest room in the house (the bathroom with the nightlight, I would think), and then be around when D. awoke in the morning. Abruptly, before I could form a plan, the poor thing accidentally dashed itself against the light bulb and, burnt I suppose, fell like a stone against the stove and lay there twitching. This at least let me scoop it into a glass and take it outside. In the morning, at least nine hours later, it was still in the glass, and, rather horrifically, still twitching. Poor creature.