up. Of sinking to the ground and letting the poem die in my brain, unheard by anyone but me. But then something occurred to me. Do you like choral music?’
‘Eh?’ I said, puzzled by the sudden question. ‘Er, yes. No. Well, I don’t know. Er,
choral music
?’
‘It isn’t to everyone’s taste, I know,’ said Ovidios. ‘But I love chorales. And that was the solution to my predicament. I needed a choir.’
The two gnomes stared at him uncomprehendingly and I too felt that he’d somehow lost the thread.
‘I hurried back to my pit,’ Ovidios continued resolutely, ‘and gathered my fellow sufferers around me – all the residents of the
Graveyard of Forgotten Writers
. And then I delivered a speech.
‘“Listen!” I cried. “I’ve just been pervaded by the Orm!”
‘“Oh, sure,” someone said mockingly.
‘“Happens to me all the time!” cried another.
‘Laughter and giggles on all sides, then silence fell. Raising both arms, I began again from the beginning: “I know it sounds rather odd, my friends, especially under present circumstances. Believe it or not, though, the fact is that my inner eye has conceived a revolutionary epic poem which, unless it is recorded in some way, will soon be lost for ever because there’s no paper anywhere and it’s already fading from my memory. It came to me when the fire engulfed us and I’m convinced that it’s an Orm-given gift. I also know, however, that many of you don’t even believe in the Orm, so why should you believe such a fantastic story? For that reason, I simply want to ask you all for an act of friendship, whether or not you think I’ve lost my wits. Please just do as I say. It isn’t very difficult.’
‘“All right,” said someone. “What are we to do?”
‘“It’s quite simple. I shall now recite the poem aloud, strophe by strophe, and I’d like you to memorise one each. I shall station myself in front of you and very slowly declaim each strophe loud and clear. Please retain it in your memory until you get an opportunity to write it down. That’s all.”’
Ovidios’s gaze became transfigured as he recalled these events. He was positively looking through me now.
‘And that was the origin of
The Miracle of the Graveyard of Forgotten Writers
, as it later became known in Bookholm. It was anything but a miracle, of course; it was simply a form of choir practice, but of that we were just as unaware as we were of the fact that this was the moment when all our lives took a turn for the better. It would never have occurred to us in our current state, soaked to the skin and plastered with mud from head to toe.’
I sat back feeling thoroughly relieved, my friends. His story also seemed to be taking a favourable turn and I was feeling in a better, almost silly mood. I kept having to stifle an urge to laugh aloud, even though there was no real reason for it. The two gnomes lit another pipe.
‘The laughter and the stupid remarks died away after the first few lines I recited,’ Ovidios went on. ‘I saw looks of amazement being exchanged, for although we were all failed writers, we did know exceptionally fine literature when we heard it. Even those of us who didn’t really believe in the Orm grasped that they were sharing in something quite out of the ordinary. Tears started flowing after only a few strophes and on many faces I saw sheer rapture, undisguised envy or pure delight as their owners memorised the lines. Their eyes glowed with the fire of the Orm and it wouldn’t have surprised me to see sparks flying between us. I went from poet to poet, and when I’d finally recited every strophe I heard some of my listeners sob and saw many sink to the ground because their legs had given way. Others laughed aloud, but for joy. My poem had poured what all of us had experienced during the inferno into timeless verse. It had come from the heart. At once a paean to life and a hymn to death and resurrection, it left no one unmoved. I sank
‘Eh?’ I said, puzzled by the sudden question. ‘Er, yes. No. Well, I don’t know. Er,
choral music
?’
‘It isn’t to everyone’s taste, I know,’ said Ovidios. ‘But I love chorales. And that was the solution to my predicament. I needed a choir.’
The two gnomes stared at him uncomprehendingly and I too felt that he’d somehow lost the thread.
‘I hurried back to my pit,’ Ovidios continued resolutely, ‘and gathered my fellow sufferers around me – all the residents of the
Graveyard of Forgotten Writers
. And then I delivered a speech.
‘“Listen!” I cried. “I’ve just been pervaded by the Orm!”
‘“Oh, sure,” someone said mockingly.
‘“Happens to me all the time!” cried another.
‘Laughter and giggles on all sides, then silence fell. Raising both arms, I began again from the beginning: “I know it sounds rather odd, my friends, especially under present circumstances. Believe it or not, though, the fact is that my inner eye has conceived a revolutionary epic poem which, unless it is recorded in some way, will soon be lost for ever because there’s no paper anywhere and it’s already fading from my memory. It came to me when the fire engulfed us and I’m convinced that it’s an Orm-given gift. I also know, however, that many of you don’t even believe in the Orm, so why should you believe such a fantastic story? For that reason, I simply want to ask you all for an act of friendship, whether or not you think I’ve lost my wits. Please just do as I say. It isn’t very difficult.’
‘“All right,” said someone. “What are we to do?”
‘“It’s quite simple. I shall now recite the poem aloud, strophe by strophe, and I’d like you to memorise one each. I shall station myself in front of you and very slowly declaim each strophe loud and clear. Please retain it in your memory until you get an opportunity to write it down. That’s all.”’
Ovidios’s gaze became transfigured as he recalled these events. He was positively looking through me now.
‘And that was the origin of
The Miracle of the Graveyard of Forgotten Writers
, as it later became known in Bookholm. It was anything but a miracle, of course; it was simply a form of choir practice, but of that we were just as unaware as we were of the fact that this was the moment when all our lives took a turn for the better. It would never have occurred to us in our current state, soaked to the skin and plastered with mud from head to toe.’
I sat back feeling thoroughly relieved, my friends. His story also seemed to be taking a favourable turn and I was feeling in a better, almost silly mood. I kept having to stifle an urge to laugh aloud, even though there was no real reason for it. The two gnomes lit another pipe.
‘The laughter and the stupid remarks died away after the first few lines I recited,’ Ovidios went on. ‘I saw looks of amazement being exchanged, for although we were all failed writers, we did know exceptionally fine literature when we heard it. Even those of us who didn’t really believe in the Orm grasped that they were sharing in something quite out of the ordinary. Tears started flowing after only a few strophes and on many faces I saw sheer rapture, undisguised envy or pure delight as their owners memorised the lines. Their eyes glowed with the fire of the Orm and it wouldn’t have surprised me to see sparks flying between us. I went from poet to poet, and when I’d finally recited every strophe I heard some of my listeners sob and saw many sink to the ground because their legs had given way. Others laughed aloud, but for joy. My poem had poured what all of us had experienced during the inferno into timeless verse. It had come from the heart. At once a paean to life and a hymn to death and resurrection, it left no one unmoved. I sank
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