The Holy Land, 1138
The incessant barking of dogs penetrated his wine-soaked sleep and reverberated around his head. With a groan Joscelin de Barry groggily swiped a hand across his stubbled face. He rolled over on the make-shift pallet and encountered the soft body of the whore he had bedded the night before. In the glaring morning light she appeared less exotic than she had in his intoxicated fantasies the previous evening. The kohl that had darkened her sultry eyes was now smudged across her cheek, and her matted hair smelt of stale sweat and wine.
His friend Ralph had managed to lure away the prettiest girl before anyone else had got even a fleeting glimpse of the sable curls that tumbled down her retreating back. Ralph had a peculiar gruff charm that was popular with women and belied his physical defects. He was a great bear of a man, tall and barrel-chested with blunt features and a shaggy mane of red hair. He was also the younger son of a powerful English baron and had been sent to the Holy Land to prove himself capable of command before returning to his responsibilities.
Joscelin and Ralph had become friends after a drunken fight over some tavern dancer. They had swapped tales of their past whilst nursing black eyes and hangovers. While Ralph had no wish to return to the shackles of the homestead, Joscelin sought only to forget the past, and so together they found refuge in riotous living. Though that way of life certainly had its price, thought Joscelin ruefully, as he rubbed his aching head.
Grimacing at the movement he sat up, his hand reaching automatically for the sword that lent against the pallet. He gazed pensively at the curved Saracen blade, a symbol of his own outcast state. As the bastard son of a Frankish crusader and an Armenian woman he did not fully belong with Ralph and the other knights. He was more Saracen than Frank with his dark colouring. And yet he had spent his childhood in the cold and damp of a French castle, disliked and distrusted. He had returned to his birthplace seeking acceptance but had found little. Now he hired his sword to whoever needed his martial skills.
Surrendering to the unremitting growls of the dogs Joscelin stood up, pausing briefly to admire the ample curves of the woman who still lay slumped naked over the bed, before stumbling outside. Squinting and cursing he let his eyes adjust to the piercing sunlight before scanning the horizon. He screwed his eyes up against the harsh glare and finally saw what the dogs had already heard. He broke into a run, yelling a warning at the top of his voice.
Ralph emerged from one of the buildings bleary eyed,
“What the hell Jos?”
“The Saracen’s are making a sortie.” For a moment they were silent but there was an unspoken question in Ralph’s eyes. Why hadn’t Joscelin warned them earlier? However there was no time for recriminations as they heard the first sounds of battle. “Alert the others and quickly. We need every sword out there.” Though the Franks had the superior numbers, the Saracens had the element of surprise, and in a fight Joscelin knew that could be every bit as dangerous.
The battle raged noisy and fierce when Joscelin entered the fray. Everybody yelled their own battle cries until they were hoarse. Some bellowed for God, others roared for family honour. Joscelin added his own voice to the melee, reverting to the tongue of his birthplace. Part Frank, part Saracen he fought for himself and for the friend who he saw in the distance, tall and vigorous struggling against three mounted Saracens. He tightened his grip reflexively, rivulets of sweat making the hilt of his sword slippery. Joscelin swung his blade in a high arc cutting through flesh and sinew as he attempted to clear a path to his friend. But he found himself hemmed in tight and unable to break through the combatants that surrounded him.
With sickening dread Joscelin yelled a warning to his friend, but the sound was lost amongst the clamour of swords. He could only watch impotent as Ralph fought on ignorant of the impending danger from behind. Surprise flew across Ralph’s features as he felt the first bite of the blade. His head was cracked open like an egg under the battering impact of the sword’s edge. His skull split easily, blood and brains running down his face to mingle with the red of his beard. He was dead even before his knees buckled beneath him and sent him sprawling over the sun-baked ground.
Joscelin watched numbly as his friend died before him. He was barely able to parry the blows intended to cripple him as his senses reeled in shock. His body continued to move with practiced ease, his sword striking home with cold unfeeling accuracy. Yet his mind remained remote from his actions, unable to escape the memory of Ralph’s bloody face turning to him with an appeal for help.
He was scarcely aware of the jubilant cries of the Franks as the last Saracens were routed. He broke free of the jeering knights and ran to Ralph’s side. The cloying smell of his friend’s blood caught in his throat, as did the knowledge that he should have protected him. Tortured by regrets Joscelin felt bile fill his throat and his stomach clenched. He retched, collapsing to the floor as his body shook from the force of his emotions. He had drunk too much and bedded a whore when he should have been alert. If only he had been alert. He had failed not only Ralph but all the other broken men that lay still under the remorseless beating of the sun. They had all relied on him to know where the danger was. This time the cost of his failure had been too high.
Today was a Tuesday. On a Tuesday, Max Power liked to visit his local cafe for breakfast, read the paper, and spend a little time out. Exercise, he told himself, is crucial to old and young alike. An aged man, Max wasn't quite as full of power as he once might have been, requiring a cane to walk any great distance. Today he made the observation on his way out that he seemed to be stooping more than yesterday. An observation he would continue to make until his death.
On his way out of his apartment, he noted a certain Floyd Levin standing in the small lobby, with an armful of pamphlets. Floyd was a known crazy, spreading his conspiracy theories and inane babble throughout the town. This reputation was a boon to Max, as conspiracy theorists make for more interesting gossip than elderly gentlemen with amusing names. For this Max was thankful, and he believed he shared something of a kinship with Floyd. On his way out, Max greeted him.
“Good morning, Floyd.” Floyd turned, his eyes lighting up with a queer enthusiasm. He was moderately tall, and dressed almost in imitation of a French revolutionary. Shorts falling beyond his knees, loose shirt, messenger satchel slung over his shoulder and sagging from the weight of its contents, all topped off with a baker boy cap. Here stood a man with a message.
“Hey Power! Morning man! Listen, you gotta hear this.” Floyd filled with an excited energy.
Max, none to eager to listen, continued to walk through the small lobby – more of a glorified communal porch. But alas, in his old age he could only walk so fast, and thus he was prisoner of the youth. He offered a nod and an ear.
“This is disgusting man, listen to this. They've bred a dog that can lay fuckin' eggs, and they're using 'em to cheaply supply supermarket chains and shit. Trust me on this, it's all on here.” He gestured towards his stack of pamphlets wildly. Max wanted to scream, yell at Floyd and tell him that there's simply no way that's true. But alas, old and decrepit, he could only continue to shuffle by. “What do you think about that? Disgusting right? Fuckin' scientists...”
“Very interesting, Floyd.” he mumbled, with obvious forced enthusiasm, as he stepped outside.
“Tell your friends, man! They gotta hear!” Max Power nodded. He didn't have any friends.
It wasn't so much the swearing, or the enthusiastic advertising of cause that bothered Max. It was the purely nonsensical message. Dogs don't lay eggs, that doesn't happen, that's not possible. He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, partially because of his descent down the apartment stairwell, but mostly because he was entirely enraged. In his youth, he devoted himself to worthwhile pursuits. He would never have spread conspiracy nonsense. He had an imagination, and that was praiseworthy, but that kind of idea was better kept to oneself. There was a place for wild ideas divorced from logic, and it wasn't on pamphlets.
Unfortunately, Floyd wasn't the only one with an imagination.
Max arrived at his regular café shortly after opening time. He was the second customer of the day, as there was already a sharply dressed fellow sat near the door, taking great gulps of his coffee while skimming the news. On his commute no doubt, a busy looking fellow like him, thought Max. The owners dog lay beside the counter, dozing. An unusual sight, in a city café, but also a familiar one for regulars.
“Good morning Mr. Power, the usual breakfast I presume?” said the man behind the counter. Max still didn't know his name, and to his recollection, it had never been important.
“Yes please. I'll be here by the door. Table 2.” With all the seats and tables visible from the counter, it was a pointless declaration, but Max made it out of habit. He sat down slowly, a satisfying ache settling into his joints as he arranged himself on the chair. He began to look around as he waited, his youthful mind busy at work. His eyes fell on the owner's dog, he was reminded of Floyd's pamphlet. It took a great deal of trained self-control to prevent a frown from settling on his face. He had enough wrinkles already, and there was no sense in providing a catalyst for their development. Unfortunately, his imagination lay down some wicked rails for his train of thought, and he began to consider the logistics. Dogs don't lay eggs, that's not how it works. Dogs are mammals. But a hybrid of bird and mammal? Of reptile and mammal? Could it be possible? His meal arrived, interrupting him.
“There you are, Mr. Power sir. I've done something a little different to the regular, so just let me know if it's not to your tastes.” Power muttered his thanks, and picked up his knife and fork. Just as he was about to tuck in, it hit him. Seeing the egg on his plate was too much, and he began to have flashes in his mind somewhere between curious imaginings and horrible projections. A great lab, spanning miles. Disgusting membranous eggs, with sorry looking dog foetuses floating inside. His eyes darted over to the sleeping hound by the counter, then back to his fried egg.
He broke out in a cold sweat. His palms felt slick and soft. He began to tremble and his vision swam at the edges. His breathing grew fast and he could feel his heart pounding...
Max Power collapsed over his breakfast.
To return once more to matters medieval I leave you with two related facts.
Saint Christopher, who carried Christ across the river, was often depicted in Byzantine art as a cynocephali or ‘dog-head’.
The Anglo-Saxon bishop, Saint Swithun, is most commonly known for the folk tradition of forty days of rain after his feast day (15th July); however his only miracle was the restoration of a basket of eggs that had been broken.
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