The Lord’s Prayer in Old Wenthish

Old Wenthish, for those who don’t yet know it, is a fictional Germanic language I’ve been working on – specifically one influenced early on by Ingvaeonic, but not within the Ingvaeonic family itself. It’s spoken in the later centuries of the first millennium on the Wenthar Islands, a fictional archipelago of low-lying, windswept, North Atlantic islands in the vicinity of Rockall.

And here’s their paternoster, with a few explanatory notes:

Ūser fadar, thu tha isi1 ā2 hibnē:
gahāilgōda sī
3 thenha4 namō,
cuemē thenha cuinnengarēca
5,
uearthē
6 thenha uiliō
an middegardē
7 sua sama ā hibnē.
Geb
8 ūs ādagē ūser dagelēcen hlāibia9
ād frageb ūs ūser scuild
10
sua sama fragebād uī ūser scuildēdom
ād ne t
eoh ūs in cuistongo11
ac befri ūs aba droehtthō
12,
amen.

1: usually, a locative verb is to describe positions; in this case, the choice of the existential verb indicates an essential property (God’s being in heaven is part of what is meant by ‘God’) rather than an accidental location.

2: heaven is considered something God is “on”, rather than “in”. This may reflect influence from Old Irish, but is also a natural decision in Germanic languages (c.f. English “on high”)

3: the subjunctive form of the copula; throughout this prayer, the optative sense is conveyed simply by subjunctive verb forms. The copula takes two arguments, but both are in the nominative, and their order is optional, with the adjective fronted here for emphasis (is is often the case with adjectival predication).

4: the reduced form of the possessive, used when no specific contrast is implied.

5: kingdom, from cuinnenga, ‘king, warlord’, and reach, ‘realm, domain’. The more intuitive (for English speakers) cuinnengadōma is also a valid word, but primarily conveys the sense of ‘kingship’ (the quality or property), rather than ‘kingdom’ (the geographical entity).

6: the transformative copula, but also used, as here, for the enactment, instantiation or implementation of abstract nouns – a loose translation might be “come to pass” or “come to be”

7: ‘the middle enclosure’ (c.f. “middle-earth”, “Midgard”). It would also be possible to speak of earth, but this would primarily indicate earth or soil, rather than the world. Nonetheless, an earth is an colloquial phrase for ‘in the world’, ‘on earth’ or ‘in life’.

8: this is a rather direct language, and a plain imperative is not considered inappropriate for requests, even of God.

9: bread (c.f. “loaf”). The cognate to English “bread”, brād, also appears, and can be used for cakes and loaves of bread, but primarily has the sense of ‘swelling, bulge’. This is probably because the Old Wenthish still primarily made use of unleavened bread (PGmc. *hlaibiz), with the term for the newerfangled leavened, risen bread (PGmc. *braudaz) becoming primarily associated with the swollen appearance of bread after rising.

10: flaw or wrong(doing). The sense here is therefore closer to ‘sin’ or ‘crime’ than to (as is found in many English translations) ‘debt’, although a scuild is distinct from, vaguer than and more innocent than a scathō (injury, harm, crime), pecced (sinful act), anfoled (injustice, crime) or cairi (crime, felony). The cognate term is used in an old Northumbrian version of the prayer, though not in those from southern England.

11: here the translation follows the Old English – cuistong, not unlike Old English “cost(n)ung” primarily bears the sense of a tribulation, trial, or test, even a hardship, rather than the more seductive sense of modern English “temptation”. This reflects a wider uncertainty over the appropriate translation of the Greek term that has vexed translators into many languages.

12: evil, particularly of a theological kind; the abstract noun derived from droht, ‘evil, unholy, morally wrong’, which itself is a loanword from Old Irish.

 

 

And a tentative translation (sure to be revised later) into Modern Wenthish (the contemporary descendent of the above):

Ur faðer, thu as er á hibhenne,
lątte thy nąmme yheilow’ð a’liegge
lątte thy conge-reach a’cwemme
lątte thy ønske a’weorthe
an midyarde sam as á hibhenne.
Ląt thyssel a’yebhe us ydaynne ur dáyly hláf
an so lietch thi, Ab
áy a’fayebhe us ur schiydde
also sam we fayebhen schiyd-effaren with us
áy ná a’leððe us ynat ná cystung
achnion a’byfrion us av driythi
an so lietch thi, Ab
amen.

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Wolf in the Fold, by Simon Green

I’ve not been doing well with reading, recently. Mired in a Soviet monolith of an epic, I’ve been trying to sneak in a few nostalgic comfort-reads and the like, but even that hasn’t been entirely successful (the penultimate Discworld novel, in particular, is easy to read, yet also disheartening). So I turned once more to Simon Green’s Hawk and Fisher novels – I haven’t read this particular one before, but they’re the kind of thing you know is going to be unchallenging and mildly entertaining. I had a little while before I needed to sleep, this being a weekend, and so I thought I’d make a start on Wolf in the Fold.

Later, at an ungodly hour of the morning, I realised I’d accidentally read the entire novel in one sitting. True, it’s under 200 pages so it barely counts as a novel, but still – I haven’t done that in a while. Turns out, Wolf in the Fold is actually… well, kind of good.

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Raising Steam

This review is one of (presumably) the final parts of my complete Discworld re-read project.

And so, it has come to this.

When I first started this re-read project, people warned me: Raising Steam (one of a handful of Discworld books I had not yet read) is not very good. Throughout the project, I’ve been wondering: what does that mean? How bad is not good? Can it really be so much worse than, say, Unseen Academicals?

Yes. It can be, and it is.

I have always said: there’s no such thing as a bad Discworld novel. There are brilliant ones, good ones, and merely adequate ones. But none are ever outright bad.

I was wrong.

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The Turbulent Term of Tyke Tiler, by Gene Kemp

Note to self: don’t let three months go by before before reviewing a book!
Further note to self: wait, what? OK, I have excuses for April, but did we even HAVE a March this year!?

When I was a child, in secondary school, the words “Carnegie Medal” did not fill me or my friends with excitement. The venerable prize for children’s fiction was for us more like a warning sign on a book’s front cover – it generally indicated that the novel that bore it in its blurb was going to be respectable, improving, and age-appropriate. Which is to say: it would have content appropriate for children ten years younger than us, written in a dour, worthy style that appealed to the quintagenarian grey-cardigan-waring English teachers who awarded it. It was not the absolute kiss of death for a novel – Terry Pratchett somehow won it one year – but it signified that a book should be approached with caution. Worst of all, it made a novel eligible to be one of the despised set texts that we would be cruelly forced to, in the loosest possible application of the term, “study”.

Nonetheless, the honour role of the Carnegie (first awarded 1936) is bristling with “classics” of children’s fiction, whether tedious or enchanting. Arthur Ransome won the first for Pigeon Post, and subsequent winners have included Mary Norton’s The Borrowers (1952), Philippa Pearce’s Tom’s Midnight Garden (1958), Alan Garner’s The Owl Service (1967), Richard Adams’ Watership Down (1972), Gilian Cross’ Wolf (1990), Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights (1995), David Almond’s Skellig (1998), Terry Pratchett’s The Amazing Maurice and His Educated Rodents (2001), Jennifer Donelly’s A Gathering Light (2003), Neil Gaiman’s The Graveyard Book (2010), and Patrick Ness’ A Monster Calls (2013)… and 1977’s winner, The Turbulent Term of Tyke Tiler, written by Gene Kemp.

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Selected Poems, by Fulke Greville (ed. Neil Powell)

A friendly warning: this isn’t a brief post. It goes on for quite some time… sorry about that.

 

Fulke Greville, 1st Baron Brooke, lived from 1554 to his murder in 1628. He was therefore an approximate contemporary of Shakespeare (1564-1616), Marlowe (1564-1593), Jonson (1572-1637), Donne (1572-1631), Sidney (1554-1586), Spenser (1552-1599), Chapman (1559-1634), and half a dozen other giants of English poetry and letters.

Greville is, probably deservedly, rather less known than any of these. To be honest, until recently, I’d never heard of him. And yet, when some time ago I was making my way through an anthology of English verse, it was Greville who, amid this stellar era, caught my attention: not because of any obvious genius, but in a way because of the exact opposite – amid the easy rhymes and conventional attractiveness of the many flowers of late Elizabethan poetry, Greville sticks out like a thorn bush.

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Sluggy Freelance, Chapters 66-69, by Pete Abrams

So, I’m back with Sluggy Freelance, for what will be, for the present, my penultimate review. If you’re unfamiliar with Sluggy – the sprawling gag-a-day/sitcom/adventure/drama/horror/thriller webcomic now in its 21st year – my previous review sketches out the basic concept of the comic, so there’s no point me repeating myself, and I’ll just press on…

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Sluggy Freelance, Chapters 63-65, by Pete Abrams

Sluggy Freelance – a sprawling epic that has kept its devotees hooked since the 1990s. One of the most venerable webcomics, Pete Abrams’ Sluggy began more than twenty years ago, with newspaper-style, three-panel, gag-a-day (not very good) strips, and developed to become, without exaggeration, one of the most complex, varied, surprising and ingenious narratives I’ve ever encountered.

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