The Gull Attacks

It’s a Tuesday, which means I’m sunbathing. I’ve found that doing so in preparation for a significant artistic undertaking has led me to my greatest successes, as well as my greatest failures. It’s a sort of spiritual exercise. I sit here, open, naked, and I feel the sun’s warmth on my skin. It’s a sort of cleanse. In doing so, I’m enabling my inner nature—or whatever you may call it—to come flowing out onto the page. As a poet, it’s a personal practice. And likewise, poetry is a personal art, one that may reveal the beauty of the writer, if they allow themselves to become open. Understanding this has set me ahead of the game, insofar as being wholly, completely authentic.

My contemporaries, oppositely, have irrevocably attached themselves to inauthenticity, in one way or another. Athelward, a perfect example of a dull and repetitive poet—I loathe to admit he shares my profession—has spent his life suckling the nearest fat aristocrat with money to spend. His works more closely resemble that of a wanting teenage girl than a distinguished and skilled poet (a particularly egregious example of his poetry comes to mind, a piece titled The Battle of Maldon—completely unoriginal and trite). The rest of my peers here aren’t any different, pelting out one low verse after another. It’s all meaningless, but, to their advantage, the overwhelming majority of the local lordship are ignorant of what makes truly beautiful art. They’d rather hear of their own exploits, romanticized beyond reproach than something that reflects the world around us.

This is the circumstance which I am forced to navigate. Understandably, then, my previous works have amounted to very little. My latest, The Gull Attacks, had it’s life cut short after having been circulated up the chain of royal Northumbria. It goes as follows:

The Gull Attacks

Lo there, and hold

In the view that there gull

Whomst dives deep, bold

Towards ye who stumble

With beak and claw he tears asunder

Suffer now under that there gull

And bear ye mark of wings like thunder

It’s an impressive piece! One that had taken me upwards of fourteen months to perfect, with its final release in the summer of 1011. But, as an artistic expression that challenges its readers on an intellectual level, it did not get far in the court of the local lord, the King of Northumbria, Alfred the Third.

Alfred the Third, referred to as ‘Alfred’ or just ‘the king’ from this point forward, is not an intellectual. He isn’t smart. He doesn’t appreciate fine artistry, and unfortunately, he serves as the trendsetter here in his kingdom. His advisor on arts and culture intercepted The Gull Attacks after I’d released it for his consideration and wrote me back. His response reads:

I didn’t understand this, and likewise, I didn’t enjoy it. Please cease sending the court your stories.

- William Clarke, cultural and artistic advisor to King Alfred III

This was troubling on two fronts. First, it’s not a story. Second, my chances to make a real impression on the court have begun to dwindle. I’ve had other outstanding poems in the past, of course, but The Gull Attacks is clearly my greatest yet (as an aside, it’s somewhat embarrassing to share the content of my earlier works with others, especially when I’ve created better works since; perhaps it’s a curse of mine to be touched with such artistic mastery that my previous efforts seem somewhat quaint in comparison). Regardless, my window of opportunity is closing, that much is clear. To solidify my place within Northumbrian history, I must put something together soon.

* * *

By now, the sun has been beating on me for a while, and I can feel a headache coming on. Art is born from pain—good art, I mean. The Gull Attacks, for example, was written under the agony of having been kicked by a horse (a few times over the course of fourteen months). That sort of acute suffering is a tool used to sharpen the mind, and in doing so, will allow me to generate true inspiration. And here, along the rugged, rocky expanse of Briton, it seems as though inspiration would be easy to come by. The Gull Attacks was subtly grounded on my experience of watching two fishermen be hassled by ‘wings like thunder’. A previous work of mine (not suited for retelling at the present moment) captured the raw emotion of a young woman being bitten and dragged out to sea by a large seal. It all coalesces into what I will refer to as the poet’s experience. The desire for those scenes, to bear witness to them and everything new, is precisely why I left the foothills of Wessex and traveled north, eventually settling where I lie now.

My lodge is located on the eastern edge of Noreshire, a medium-sized town bordering Alfred’s castle. It is, in fact, as far away from the town center as I could have possibly built it. As a poet, having some sort of refuge from the noise of everyday life—life within the walls of Noreshire—is virtually a requirement. And out here, it’s calm. I sunbathe on Tuesdays, a luxury afforded by the open sky and vast fields of Northumbria. The rest of the week is dedicated to practicing my artistry. I do get the occasional traveler, usually someone on their way to the king, but most of the time, it’s quiet.

From my periphery, I sense some motion. I sit up from the ground and notice a pair of men on horses approaching.

“Ho there,” I say, getting up. “Who are you?”

The men dismount and walk up. “We’ve summons from the royal court,” one says. “We’re looking for a writer around these parts.” The other, a pudgy man, holds out a piece of paper and hands it to me.

On behalf of his Highness, King Alfred III,

The court is seeking an educator. One who can read, write, transcribe, and mentor the eldest heir of the kingdom in matters of art and literature is requested by royal authority.

“Is there any particular reason you’re naked?” One of them asks.

“It’s a personal practice. I’m a poet.” I eye them for a moment. “Are you seeking me out specifically?”

“We were told there was someone out here who wrote,” the pudgy one says.

“Who told you that?”

“King’s advisor, William Clarke.”

The other one squints at me, looking concerned, “Are you, uh . . . by any chance the guy who wrote something called The Seagull?”

I pause for a moment. “Yes.”

They nodded and went quiet.

* * *

I get dressed and the fat one helps me onto the back of his horse. It’s about an hour’s ride through town and to Alfred’s castle gate. Noreshire, bordering the most significant marker of authority in what amounts to the whole northern half of Briton, is understandably—unfortunately—stocked with bureaucrats and peddlers. It’s difficult, insofar as being wholly draining. You can’t walk more than a few seconds without encountering some traveling backwater hick trying to sell you cheap jewelry or wooden idols. Or an young socialite haranguing a castle guard for entry to the royal court.

Being a poet both by trade and by nature, it’s easy to identify that these people are the scum of the earth. If I were to stop and read them The Gull Attacks, it’s artistry would not only go unrecognized, but also enrage them. In my own experience, trying to engage them with the beauty of verse, of the poet’s experience, is a dangerous exercise in frustration. Early into my career, back when I thought people could be saved, I attempted to make that connection between artist and man, but I’ve found that most lacked the cognitive ability to appreciate poetry as a whole. Oftentimes, after straining to get them to understand a simple concept—something small to start out with—they’d give up almost immediately and begin getting aggressive. When I lived in Wessex as a young man, I’d been hit enough times by enough philistines to realize that they’re beyond redemption. Art, it seems, is that sort of liminal barrier that separates those with acuity and those without.

We ride through the castle gate and into the inner courtyard, where a few men in armor direct us to hitch the horses and proceed inside. Two great wooden doors open wide as we enter, revealing a wide foyer, and immediately, the scent of roasted lamb and herbs washes over us. The interior itself is lit with hanging barristers, torches, and a large fireplace set against the far wall. The floors were made of stone, but were well-covered with thick rugs and animal skins. Ahead of us sat a large chair atop a small series of stairs. There were clumps of people conversing, and their chatter filled the warm air.

The two men who’d brought me here motion toward an older man dressed in robes. “That,” one of them says, “is William Clarke.”

William, by now, had noticed our entry and was walking over. His gait is quick for an old man, and his face wears an expression of determination. “Gentlemen,” he says as he gets near, “thank you for your work in finding our writer. Truly, your speed and efficiency are recognized here. Please,” he gestures towards a corridor, “get some food and rest.”

“Aye, we’re off now,” says the pudgy man, patting my shoulder. “Best of luck to you.”

“Now,” says William, “I have to thank you for coming on such short notice. I trust you weren’t preoccupied?”

“Truthfully, I was working in preparation for a significant artistic undertaking.”

William purses his lips and nods. “I am certain that this is somewhat confusing for you, being asked to come here. Did our couriers show you the notice?”

“It mentioned the need for an educator.”

“That’s correct. We need one who can teach and mentor our king’s eldest heir. His upbringing, you understand, has a direct and tangible impact on his ability to rule when that time comes.”

“Certainly, I agree. But I must admit that I am puzzled here . . . you see, I’ve written a large number of poems. I’ve sent one here before, and it seems as though my work was perhaps too ethereal, too intricate, and may not have received the most welcoming reception.”

“You’re The Seagull writer, correct?”

“Yes, well, it’s titled The Gull Attacks.”

“Ah,” William says. “Yes, you’re the one we’re looking for.” He pauses for a moment. “I feel as though you may need some background as to our approach here. Please, follow me.”

He turns and leads me towards a corridor on the other side of the foyer. We walk for a while in silence, passing other officials as they move about with purpose, and we eventually descend a small staircase towards a doorway terminating at the end of the hallway. The lighting, as we proceed, seems to grow weaker. I can hear a sound emanating from the other side of the door—something resembling humming.

We stop before entering, and William turns toward me. “What we’re aiming to do here, is establish a multi-tiered educational program.” He pushes the door open, revealing a small room and a large, chubby teenager sitting at a table, mumbling to himself and slapping a piece of paper set in front of him. Not angrily, but more so in a playful manner. His cheeks are bloated and his eyes seem to bulge out as they peer downwards.

“This is King Alfred’s son, prince James the First.”

I begin to speak, but don’t.

“I’d like to explain what it is we’re trying to achieve.”

“He’s retarded.”

“No, no, not retarded,” says William, “he’s soft of the mind. A major difference, one that can be overcome with the right education.”

“I’m confused. You want me to teach a retarded kid?”

“Yes, partially. You see, for James, we can’t jump right into excellency. It’s too difficult for the untrained mind to immediately understand something grand in both scope and form, especially in regards to reading and writing. It’s virtually impossible. So instead, we’d like to work him up to that sort of level. We want to start him off with something easy and banal so that he can begin to understand the concepts.”

“But,” I say, “my poetry isn’t easy. It isn’t banal. It’s artistry.” I stare at James. “I think there’s been some sort of mix up. My work is certainly not entry-level stuff.”

“I really don’t know how to explain it to you, but I’ve read your story, The Seagull thing, and I can just say that after discussing it with King Alfred, we feel that it’s indicative of someone who can provide a sort of, eh, beginner introduction to art and literature.”

“Jesus Christ.” l look at William, “What do I get out of this?”

“You have to understand,” he says, voice growing stern, “this is a matter of national security. The governing ability of our future leadership, and everything that goes into it, is a matter of national security. Him being able to understand the written word is necessary. You’ll start him off, and then once you’ve done what you can, our other contacts will pick up from there.”

“What other contacts?”

“A few others. One’s named Athelward. He’s from these parts, too.”

“Fuck.” I pause for a few moments. “Do I have a choice in this?”

“No.”

* * *

Some time had passed since William left me to tutor James. I’ve been sitting here, watching him slap paper this entire time, mumbling something. I can’t discern what. The room we’re in is, what I assume to be, James’ bedroom. It features some furnishings (a few cupboards line the walls, a few of which are stocked with ink and paper; a large bed is situated in the corner; and a table set in the center of the room), but is otherwise lacking in every way that made the main foyer so grand. The stone floor is bare and cold to the touch. Our sole source of light is a few candles scattered here and there.

“James,” I say.

He stops slapping and looks up at me. His eyes appear vacant.

“Do you know how to write?”

“Uh huh,” he spurts out. He sits up, pulls out a quill from his pants pocket, and draws a single line on the paper.

“Hmm.” I sigh. “Do you know . . . words? Can you write down a word?”

He stares at the paper for what feels like a long time. This is an uncomfortable task, I must admit. Being here, watching this . . . kid, trying to get him to do something. I’m out of my element. While there have been times in the past where I’ve showcased my work, trying to get a small audience to understand the intricacy behind my poems, teaching something so basic feels markedly different.

“James,” I say, motioning to the paper, “may I show you what I mean?” He hands me the quill and slaps the paper twice. I take it, gingerly, and flip the paper over to it’s clean side. On it, I write: The horse rode to town. “Now, can you recreate that as best you can?”

I give him back the quill and I can sense him gripping it with force. He mumbles something and begins scribbling something on the paper, but hides it behind his arm, so that I can’t see.

Eventually, he finishes and slides it back to me:

O’er lowland and rock shore alike

There, in its prime, stride a beast like no other

Tall and long in stature, and wild in eye, it match ye rider

Hold, Boudicca, and note thy rike

Of free expanse, of our free sist’r and free broth’r

Ride, ye beast, hold her high, let her shout of a land lit brighter

To war and battle cry

For home and race alike

For us now, she will die

“What the fuck,” I say. The words are flawless—literally flawless. Its rhythm goes along, beat by beat. It’s utterly captivating. I turn towards James, who sits there rocking side to side, continuing to mumble. “How the fuck did you do this?” I ask him, but he doesn’t answer. This must be some kind of joke; I get up and open the door just enough to peek through, and yet, there’s no one around.

I sit back down. There’s simply no way this is possible. “James,” I say, pointing to the paper, “can you do that again? Can you write another poem there?”

He sort of nods, but, considering how large his cheeks are, it’s difficult to say for certain. Regardless, he grabs the quill and begins scribbling again. This time, I lean forward, making sure to note his writing.

Where Alph, that sacred river, ran

Beyond incense-bearing trees

Gave life to e’er a humble man

Of Kubla Kahn’s decree

And now, in weathered dreams again

That humble man, a memory

Finds Alph, rolling there, leading him

Towards high reverie

“My God.” I lean back into my chair, and James resumes slapping the paper. What the fuck is happening? That wasn’t some sort of inexplicit miracle—not twice in quick succession. Not twice.

I stare at James, who, by all accounts is incapable of speaking a single coherent word, but is somehow able to pelt out expertly-crafted poems in, what? Seconds? The Gull Attacks took me fourteen months—over a fucking year—to perfect. But a retard put together something even better.

I snatch the paper between slaps and stow it in my coat pocket. “Listen to me,” I say to James, “don’t do anything.” He looks at me with that sort of . . . I don’t know, blank expression. “I’ll be back, but for right now, I need to you stay put. If anyone asks you to write something, don’t.” I stand up and head out the door, running towards the stairs and the corridor back to the main foyer.

* * *

There, William is approaching the chair in the center of the room with a set of papers under his arm, and I rush over to intercept him.

“William, sir—”

He turns to me in surprise. “You! Watch yourself! Why are you back here so quickly?” He grabs my shoulder, “You’d better get yourself down there and resume your work.”

“Please, I need some more information: have you ever tutored James yourself?”

“No.”

“You’ve never seen him write?”

“No.”

“Has anyone ever seen him write anything?”

“No,” he says, his voice getting sharp. “I’m an advisor to the king, understand? I don’t have the time to watch over him myself—James can barely speak, he’s soft in the mind, I doubt anyone’s ever seen him jot more than two words before—”

“Is this our man?” a voice echoes from the chair. Atop it sat a man, middle-aged with gray flecks in his hair. He’s dressed in white.

William turns from me and does a quick bow, “Yes, it is, sire.”

“Good! Come here, both of you, I’d like to discuss how things are going with,” his voice went a little lower, “James.”

William, with his hand on my back, pushes me towards King Alfred. “Sire,” he begins, “I’ve just sent our man here to start James’ tutoring, maybe about an hour ago.”

“All right, well, that wasn’t too long.” Alfred eyes me. “What’s come of it?”

“Uh, there’s not been much development yet, you know. We’re just starting out, and as such, James is, uh . . . beginning to get acclimated to the English language.”

“Okay. I understand that you’re sort of the introduction to this whole thing, right?”

“That’s correct, sire,” says William.

Alfred looks at me, “And that’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone’s got their lot in life; perfect case in point, some of us can be truly great writers and poets, while others can be skilled at different things. I read your, hmm, what was it—the bird poem, and I immediately thought: ‘Wow, this guy would be great for an introduction to literature,’ you know, something small to start with.”

“Truthfully, your honor,” I say, reaching into my coat pocket, “I’ve been working on these for some time.” I hand him the paper. “They’re, I think, a cut above anything you’ve read by me before.”

Alfred and William share a look. “All right,” the king says, “let me see.”

* * *

“Wow,” Alfred says, leaning back with the paper in hand. “That’s really something. You can sort of feel the beat of the words as you read them, you know? That sort of rhythm. That’s . . . wow.”

William looks at me. “These are truly impressive. Are these finished? Your poems, I mean. Are they going to be published?”

“Well,” I say, “I do want to spend a little more time with them, but they’re in the final phases, certainly. The last part may be the most difficult—naming them, and then the distribution.”

“Absolutely,” says Alfred. “I can absolutely see that.” He and William share a nod. “You know, I think we may have been, hmm, perhaps too quick in our initial judgement of you. The Seagull was a sort of warm-up, I’m sure, to your poetic abilities.”

“The Gull Attacks was a masterpiece by my own standards,” I say, “but it’s for a certain audience. Its subtle intricacy may elude most readers. These, oppositely, have that sort of mass appeal.”

“Oh yes, definitely.”

“I had to actually dumb myself down in order to even write them.”

“That’s fascinating,” says William.

“Indeed,” says Alfred. “I’d like to offer you something—and this isn’t how we normally do things, but I’m left with a sort of artistic hunger from your work—I’d like to offer you a court position here. I’m sure William would agree with me when I say that we’ve been moved by your poetry.”

“My God,” I say. “I’d be honored, sir.”

“Please,” he says, “it’d be nothing but a benefit for us here—art, as I’m sure you’re aware, is an integral part of any ruling body. And your art is something we can’t lose.”

“Now,” says William, “sire, I feel as though we should revisit our discussion of James and his education.”

“Yes, of course.”

“With the revelation of our good poet’s abilities here,” he motions to me, “we may want to save his tutorage for later.”

“He’s too advanced, you mean?”

“That’s right. I’m suggesting that we replace him with someone like Athelward for now, and once the beginner lessons have been completed, we can then bring in our man here.”

“You’ve got an excellent point. James is, well, he needs to be acclimated to writing. You,” Alfred says, looking at me, “your work is just on another level at this point. It’d be too much for him.”

“No, no, sire,” I say, beginning to sweat. “You must understand, we’ve made great progress over just the past hour. I truly don’t mind, James is an excellent student.” I lean in, “This, as I’m sure you know, is a matter of national security. I don’t think I’d trust someone like Athelward to be able to handle the matter.”

“Hmm,” Alfred pauses for a moment. “That’s true—the weight of this situation is tangible. You may be correct . . . since you’ve been ingratiated, it may be somewhat of a faux pas to remove you now.” He leans back, deep in thought. “Yes, I think that’s the way to approach this. Go on, and return to your tutoring. Athelward can wait.”

“Thank you, sir.” I shake his hand, bow, and head back to return to James.

“And one more thing,” says the king, “please, as soon as you can, bring us another one of your poems. I’d like to share it with the entire court.”

* * *

Moving through the corridor and down the stairs to James’ bedroom seems more natural this time. The stone brick walls and dim lighting takes on more of an intimate tone as I descend and, upon reaching the door, I feel this is what I was meant to do.

While it is somewhat troubling to take what isn’t wholly mine, I cannot help myself. The poetry’s beauty is inarguable, and if one were to really think about it, I am simply helping to broadcast it out to where it’ll be most appreciated—and make no mistake, James’ art would’ve never seen the light of day had I not taken the initiative up there. But, more importantly, with a court position comes recognition, and with recognition comes authority. Here, finally, I can distribute my own work with royal approval. Have it be recognized as the masterpiece it is. James is just going to help me get established.

I open the door to find James facedown on the floor, next to the table.

“James,” I say, “come on. Get up.” I give him a gentle kick to his side, but he doesn’t respond. I give him a harder kick . . . still nothing. “Fuck.” I get down and roll him with great effort. His rotund body slumps over, and I can immediately sense that he isn’t breathing. His wrist is red, with the quill stuck deep into the vein. Looking down, the entire front half of his body is soaked in blood.

I stand up and grip the wall. “Jesus Christ.” On the table lies a paper marked with scribbles—I clench it with trembling fingers, and notice that it reads:

As I sit here, my mind remains a fog

Thick fingers graze my face, which takes strange form

And beneath this wick’d stone, my life, a cog

For what dull purpose does my blood run warm?

To slap thy paper, write at thy command?

To be hid away beyond thy loved sight?

A life like mine, I cannot understand

I don’t think I can carry on my fight,

Can’t carry on this lost and empty life

To be born this way, I’ll return the same

My lifeblood

Spills over

I bolt up the stairs and into the foyer. “Please!” I shout, “I need help!”

The room goes quiet, and the king stands up, “Guards!”

“It’s James, he’s dead!” I yell.

A group of armored men push by me and sprint down the corridor. “My God,” says Alfred, running now, “what happened? My son! What’s going on?”

“Here,” I push the paper into his hands, “read it! He . . . I think he killed himself.”

The kings eyes scan the poem, flicking from side to side, line to line. “What is this?”

“My lord!” The group of men return, hoisting James into the room. “My lord! He’s not breathing. There’s no pulse!”

Alfred’s stares at James’ limp body, “My son . . .” The king’s eyes fixate upon the quill in James’ wrist. “You . . .” he says, turning towards me, “you, what the fuck did you do!”

A pair of guards draw their swords on me. “My king,” I begin, “that paper was left on the table when I found him . . . you must believe me!”

“Is that a joke? You know James’ condition! He can’t even speak, let alone write anything! This,” he says, gripping the paper with white knuckles, “this is your work!”

“No! Sir—”

“Shut up!”

“He wrote it himself, I swear to God!”

“Guards, hold him!” Alfred paces back and forth, and then looks at his son. “You there,” he says to one of the guards, “hand me your weapon.”

“God, no! No, no, I didn’t do anything! Why would I? Look at him, it’s his wrist! Why would I kill him? This was suicide!”

The king stands before me, blade in hand. “You’ve ruined my life.” And I feel a sharp intrusion into my stomach.

* * *

The feeling doesn’t hurt, and to be honest, it doesn’t feel like much of anything. Like the sensation of being lowered into water. I fall to my knees and then onto my side. People are talking, but everyone sounds as though they’re whispering through a curtain. And the floor, I can feel it’s warmth now. This is the moment, I think, the one where every color is swirling in perfect clarity, one in which all of my senses have been titillated and are now coming down from that high. I feel as though I’ve been out sunbathing for some time. And in my mind, I can see the words and the verses all coalescing into what I’ll call the poet’s experience.