As previously stated, I’m starting my latest Daily Writing Exercise today and will be running it until Easter, meaning it’ll be not quite a week longer than my typical 30-day exercises, but I did want to include an Easter countdown week sort of thing, because I’d probably do that anyway…
In real life, tomorrow is, of course, St. Patrick’s Day and I’m at least 97% sure I’m going to do something related to Carog, which is Realmgard-Ireland tomorrow, but in anticipation of that, I figured it was a good move to write something to re-acquaint everyone with Niamh, the half-Carog…ish? …ian? (I suddenly realise I haven’t actually settled on the adjective) Goblin and probably my most prominent/only character from Carog at this point.
Obligatory reminder that it’s pronounced “Neev.” Don’t look at me. I have little, if any, control over the rules of Irish orthography…
Copyright J.B. Norman
“So, hey,” Kat says to the big, burly brute standing guard outside one of the roughest pirate drinking establishments in the Dock District of Porthaven.
“On your way, Miss,” the guard says tersely.
“About that,” Kat says.
“Yes?” the guard asks, cocking an eyebrow in anticipation of her answers.
“Well,” Kat stammers. “The thing is…”
“Yes?”
“Sorry. I’m not really sure how to handle this. Thinking up small talk off the cuff and all isn’t really something I’m good at. But, hey, it’s part of the plan.”
“And what plan is that?” the guard asks cautiously.
“Oh, I was supposed to come up and start chatting you up and keep you distracted so Niamh could sneak in through the back and snatch that weird little chicken statue you guys stole from the Prince’s palace’s atrium.”
“Wait,” the guard says, his brow furrowing as he realises that doesn’t sound quite right. “What?”
“And,” Kat says, glancing into the alehouse’s front window and catching a flash of green on the inside. “I think it’s about time.”
“Time for what?” the guard asks.
Kat cautiously backs away and shields her face with her arms just in time for the front window to burst outwards and shatter.
“Go!” Niamh cries, leaping through the window, using her momentum to go into a forward roll as she hits the ground, then darting away down the street.
With an apologetic shrug to the guard, Kat wheels and dashes off after Niamh.
Blinking, the guard still isn’t entirely sure what happened, but as his gaze shifts from the broken front window, to the shards of glass strewn across the street, to the pile of plundered loot inside the alehouse that is now conspicuously bereft of a certain little ceramic chicken, he decides that the others are going to say this was all his fault.
And, so, he decides to make himself scarce.
He’s heard that Pelayo is just lovely this time of year. And he has always wanted to see the red cliffs of Duradero for himself. And that cute lady pirate he met at the Brotherhood of the Coasts’ last general meeting said to look her up if he was ever in Guarda Ribera.
Now seems as good a time as any…
“So,” Kat says, her chin resting on the arms she’s folded on the table as she ponders the little chicken statue. “What is the deal with this things, Niamh? This is, like, the fourth time you’ve had to steal one of them.
“Steal back,” Niamh notes insistently. She takes it as a point of professional pride that she only ever steals things from the bad guys who stole them in the first place in order to return to their rightful owners.
“Steal back,” Kat murmurs.
“I think they’re from Gallicantu originally, but they’ve been all over the place for about a year now,” the Half-Goblin explains. “But people are going crazy for them all over Realmgard. They’re all made my hand, so no two are exactly alike. I think that’s why everyone is stealing them from everyone.”
“They’re just clay chickens!” Kat protests.
“Actually, they’re faience chickens,” Niamh says.
She shrugs.
“And, I don’t know, I think they’re pretty cute. Some of them have hats!”
A couple things to unpack here.
This is yet another story that has really leaned into inexplicable popularity of little faience chickens — the fact that it’s been a thing for “about a year” refers to the fact that Captain Goblinbeard, which made the first reference to faience chickens, was published about a year ago.
The fact they’re originally from Gallicantu is at least kinda-sorta a reference to the fact that Gallicantu translates to something like “by means of the rooster’s cry,” a reference to a particular church in Jerusalem (the name itself referring to the whole ‘before the cock crows, you will deny me three times‘ episode in the Passion narratives.
I mostly just thought “Gallicantu” sounded cool and decided it would be a great name for Realmgard-France, given the longstanding association of France with roosters, in part arising from the fact that the Latin word gallus means both “person from Gaul” (i.e. the region of modern France) and “rooster.”
Moving on, I’m tentatively envisioning that Guarda Ribera is the capital of Pelayo. The name literally translates to something like “River Guard” and is apparently a word for kingfisher — that’s at least true in Galician, where the word is “gardarríos,” but I haven’t been able to kind an explicit reference for the word in other Iberian languages.
I ultimately got the phrase from the medieval Christmas Carol Ríu Ríu Chíu, which uses the phrase “Guarda Ribera” and in most versions, the Guarda Ribera is the kingfisher scaring away the wolf from the lamb by making bird-noises at it (ríu ríu chíu being the sound of the kingfisher’s cry), but I’ve also seen translations where “Guarda Ribera” just means the river itself is protecting the lamb.
But I’ve never seen any of the translations give a reference of explanation for either interpretation and — this may shock you — I’m not well-versed in medieval Catalan.
Incidentally, the metaphor behind the song is that the kingfisher is God protecting Mary from the devil and affirming pretty explicitly the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception as a necessary part of Christ’s Incarnation — which refers to Mary being conceived free of Original Sin, not to Jesus being conceived by the Holy Spirit (that’s what the Annunciation is; the feast day is coming up on the 25th — incidentally, that’s also the date the One Ring was destroyed, a very deliberate choice on Tolkien’s part).
Aaaaaand it happened. My explanation for my story is longer than the actual story…
Well, at least it’s good writing practice, which is the whole point.
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