Atop Cerro Negro

The yawning crater feels open and deep,
With an aching blue sky
Atop walls so steep.
We stand at the base and marvel at the size.
Nature’s destructive beauty
Laid bare before our eyes
My hiking boot blisters my heel as I run,
And my bare shoulders too
Blister in the sun
That’s beginning to sink
Toward the distant ocean
But still requires a reapplication of lotion.
At the summit we pause to eat our small meal,
And take pictures to show the exhilaration we feel
To our loved ones at home who won’t really care,
Except to comment on how the wind tousles our hair.
And soon, as we all must, we begin our descent,
And head homewards in jeeps full of bodily scent.

I'm not usually competitive, but...

Okay, so my first time entering a poetry competition yielded no results. That probably should be more demoralising than it is. The rules stated that the entries had to not have been published elsewhere beforehand. I took this to include online media (i.e. this blog), so the poems I entered were a mix of things I either had lying around, finished or semi-finished, and one that I scribbled about ten minutes before the deadline. To be honest, I think that's probably why I don't feel so bad about it. It was a last-minute idea that didn't go as I'd hoped. Oh well.
Anyway, since the competition is now over, I assume it's okay to stick the entries up on the blog, so I'll be doing that over the next few days. Here's the shortest one. I originally wrote it as a song verse, but the rest of the song never got written. It would have been good though, I'm sure of it.

Oh the howling gale blows
But not as loud as my nose
The rain on the windowpane
Could well drive me insane
But that I’m stocked well with porter,
With whiskey and rum,
And I’ll sing songs and tell stories
Until Doomsday comes.

Isabella meets the stranger.

Isabella shivered and clutched the blanket tighter around herself. The sole candle in the room had flickered and died when the stranger rushed over to the small window. In that instant she knew she'd made a serious mistake. The local men were on their way through the forest, but this one was on his guard. There was no light for them to aim now. Indeed the whole setup had been risky. She should have known, she thought. This one wasn't like all the others. He had a sinister way about him, a dodgy sort of chap. Sounded like he was from further east, when he spoke at all. He didn't have a farmer's hands, either, they were too slender and quick. But he had seemed weary, and eager for refreshment of all sorts. He looked to have money, and Isabella was only too happy to play him along. She needed the help of the men in the village. She would get her share, once Angelo the butcher greased the palms of certain local officials. Angelo could gut a man in seconds. Isabella knew this, she had seen it as a child. He had killed her gypsy father, when he made the foolish mistake of returning to the village. She bore no grudge, he had always taken care of her and her mother. Now Angelo was advancing through the trees alongside Bernardo the farmhand and Luca from the inn.

How the stranger knew they were there shocked her, although her attention had been quite distant. Her cabin was a little way from the village, secluded in some trees, with a small paddock on one side, holding a donkey and two goats. The stranger had retrieved his cloak, and extracted from within a concealed pocket a velvet roll, which he unrolled to reveal a series of short knives. He unlatched the door quietly, then turned violently towards Isabella.

"You must now help me. Or else you will follow your friends. You must make the sounds of making love. They must not suspect a thing." This change in demeanour from the quiet traveller at the inn shocked her into compliance. While she moaned quietly in the corner, mostly to herself, the stranger took up a position near the semi-open door. He stared patiently into the darkness, and presently noticed a movement near the edge of the trees. He knew what to expect, Giovanni Vertese (for indeed it was he!) as he had pulled similar stunts all his life, from Venice and since leaving there, never leaving an eye-witness who could send help hunt him down. Until recently. His sojourn in Savoy was only a temporary stop on his way to France, to evade capture by the authorities, who wanted to hang him as a murderer from Trento to Torino, and had but one old hag's word as evidence. He had avoided the major routes, and stopped in this isolated village to rest and eat. Damned if a rustic peasant with a meathook would be his end. Gio saw his moment, and let loose one of his small knives with deadly accuracy. A stifled gurgle and he heard, rather than saw, the large man from the inn fall into a bush.

The lack of moonlight made it easier for both sides, but Giovanni had the advantage of being indoors. He rounded on Isabella. "Shut your mouth now, gypsy girl. Tell me. How many are out there?" She looked back at him, terrified yet growing angry. "At least five, you filthy son of a Turk. You will never leave here alive." Giovanni's face split into a grin, accentuated by his missing teeth and he leered at her. "Five you say? This should be fun." At that point he whipped the door open, as he heard the running footsteps of the butcher and farmhand. The farmboy was stopped short by a cane to his windpipe and shortly afterwards lay on the floor with blood pumping from the main artery in his leg while he gazed in wonder at the silver knife which had sprouted from the wound. The butcher was a different matter. He had remained outside and out of view, evidently intending to launch a surprise attack from somewhere. Isabella looked at poor Bernardo. He was only a kid, she thought. She'd helped him out from time to time, as he had her, and it was rather sad to see him go this way. She'd seen men die before, though. Armies had marched through Savoy for years, and where there are armies, there were local people willing to "help out". As she was lost in her thoughts, however, she became aware that the wailing in the room was not solely Bernardo's, but also her own. The stranger turned from the window, and drew a longer blade. He quickly put poor Bernardo far beyond the pale. Isabella screamed and ran to the door. This was not how it was supposed to happen. As she ran to the door, she saw Angelo to one side, underneath a window, and started towards him. He reached up to grab her by the hand, and as he did so, his face froze. "Angelo. Angelo, what is it?" But it was too late. She saw the hilt of a large dagger protruding from between his neck and shoulder blades. Looking upward, she saw the stranger hidden in the eaves. She turned and began to run, expecting to feel a knife between her shoulders at any moment. But there was nothing. Until a moment later, she felt the stranger scoop her up over his shoulder and he ran, jingling like a merchant of Genoa, through the small strip of trees to the inn nearby where his horse was stabled. He handed her roughly to the ground, and quickly saddled up. He looked at her with his unflinching green gaze and said
"You're coming with me to France"

Feicim féin le súilín d'éan

i dtús na hoíche
feicim
an lá dár gcionn
feicim
idir an dá linn
feicim

an shower sin i nDáil Éireann?
Feicim!

Aiféala

here's an old poem from 2009 that I just found scribbled in an old notepad

Ar na Staighre Spainneach, tógaim grianghraif di
Turasóir álainn, meangadh gáire uirthi
Amharc eadrainn, lán le paisean
Cúpla focal, agus d’iompaíos liom
Ag breathnú siar anois, tá fhios agam nach ndearnas
Leath-iarracht dul i ngleic léi
An radharc is fearr sa Róimh

Thoughts on a rainy night

In the dark hours of night with the sodium glow
permeating the sky and making me feel low
I stand in the downpour and get soaked to the skin
I raise my face to the sky and senses reel in
they've been gone for a while, as I wandered in rags
accosting strangers and tourists begging for fags
screaming at ghosts, clawing at the air
sleeping with women who weren't really there
I met cowboys and Indians, liars and crooks
I met men who appeared from the pages of books
they taught me to see the real world that we're in
I tried to warn people, but they wouldn't listen
they call me a madman, a hobo, a drunk,
it seemed like my senses were all in a funk
but the rain washes away my physical sheen
my body is ready, my mind is pristine
I'm watching them both from a really great height
And I know the rain can't wash away the truth in the night

I've been doing a bit of narcissistic photography recently, especially since the weather's so good, it's nice to play outside. If anybody uses Instagram, I upload a lot of my photography on there. Look me up under the username 'dermhurl' - same as Twitter and Youtube. No real other reason for this blog post, I just feel like I haven't done anything in a while. I've spent the last 2 weeks reading 'Rubicon' by Tom Holland, which I should have easily finished in a few days, if it weren't for the constant distractions one tends to find on sunny summer days. such as the following snaps:

beside the whitewashed stone shed in the home place, Co. Donegal

looking across the bay to Clare

down by the Plassey wreck, best known from the opening credits of 'Father Ted'

looking west towards America

leaning on a hedge in 'the street', Bruckless Co. Donegal

Máiméan - scéal. scríofa.

Bhíomar ag bun an tsléibhe. Ní mór dúinn fágáil, bhí an oíche ag titim anuas. Bhí teas sa ghréine go fóill, agus tar éis an dhreap, ní raibh éinne dínn nach raibh tart fulaingteach orainn. Cuimhnigh mé go raibh uisce sa charr agam. Iontach dearfach. Bhí Cholm an duine is deireanaí síos ón tsliabh. Agus, mar is gnáth, bhí seisean ag tiomáint. Muide thíos ag fáil bháis ón tart agus eisean ag siúl mar ná raibh aon dualgas air ar domhain. Shroich Choilm an charr, agus shín sé a lámh ina phóca chun eochair an charr a fháil.

"Ó MO DHIA!!!!! CÁ BHFUIL NA FECKIN EOCHRACHA!!!!!"

B'é sin an chéad rud a chualas uaidh. Fear ciúin ann de gnáth, ach nuair a bhreathnaigh mé thall ina threo, bhí sé ag déanamh hurlamaboc den chineál nach chreidfeá dá raibh aithne agat air. Gach uile rud tógtha as a phócaí agus caite ar an talún. Chuile rud caite as a mhála chomh maith go dtí nach raibh pingin aige nach raibh i gcnoc beag ag a chois.

"Jhaysus, caithfidh siad bheith fágtha agam ar bharr, áit a raibh an phic-nic againn..." ar sé agus ní fhaca mé fear chomh dólásach agus díomách riabh, agus é ag smaoineamh faoin sliabh a dhreap arís. Ansin thosaigh sé ag rith, ar ais i dtreo bharr a sléibhe. ní raibh sé imithe i bhfad nuair a fhuair muid amach nach raibh an charr faoi ghlas in aon chor. Chuaigh Dáire, Caomhín, Aindrias agus mé féin sa tóir ar na heochracha laistigh den charr. Bhíos féin ag tógáil rudaí amach as tóin an charr, nuair a chonaic mé iad ansin: ar an talamh. Ar an feckin talamh. Nach muide uilig na heejits cheart? Bhíomar.

Nuair a bhí fhios ag gach éinne go raibh na heochracha faighte, bhí sceitimíní orainn ar fad, thosaigh Caoimhín ag rince ar díon an charr, bhí sé chomh áthasach. Rinne muid iarracht scairt a chur ar Choilm. Bhíomar in ann é a fheiceáil, agus é fós ag rith, igcéin uainn. Bhí an fón aige fanta ar an talamh sa chnoc bheag. Faoi dheireadh, agus na guthanna beagnach imithe uainn agus le cabhair ó chorn an chairr, thug sé faoi deara muid, agus thuig sé céard a bhí i gceist.

Deich nóimimt ina dhiaidh sin, bhíomar ar ár bhealach abhaile.

The Golden Hills

The cattle they were sleeping, and the hillside it was bare,
Even the farmers were getting out of there,
Monaghan was freezing, the ice was cool and still,
When Richard Conroy and his miners found gold up in the hills.

Clontibret, they all say, is a sleepy little town,
And the most gold they’ve ever seen might be a half a crown
But the news of the find shook them all up to the gills,
When Conroy and his miners found that gold up in the hills.

The councilmen unwrapped their shovels and their picks,
Loaded up their Transit vans, and headed for the sticks.
With silence and intent, the moved in for the kill,
To stake a claim, and make their name, in Monaghan’s golden hills

The press soon smelt a story, and came from far and wide,
To see the hills from where soon would flow a golden tide.
Such a crowd had not been seen before in these quiet hills
Since Sir Paul McCartney got himself hitched to Heather Mills

Well, now it’s two months later, and the cynics still abound,
They say Clontibret’s gold deposits never will be found.
It’ll never stop the optimists, who seek their glass to fill,
And they still continue searching for the gold in them there hills.

Feeling lost?

When you've happened to lose
that thing you most need
there's only one man
who can help you indeed

He doesn't ask much
whatever you can give
and he'll always be there
for as long as you live

So say it three times
and mean it as well!
His name is St. Anthony
couldn't you tell?

mind how ye go

Catharsis: a fairy tale

I'd been travelling for nearly three months. This was as close to a home as I was likely to experience for some time to come. My hosts were lovely, gracious people, wonderful cooks, and understanding of my need to meditate quietly, write my journal, and digest the experiences that I had had up to that point. Don't get me wrong, I revelled in their company, as enjoyable as any I'd had up to that point. We ate and drank our fill most evenings, went for walks in their beautiful springtime countryside during the days, and often as not spent the wee hours singing songs and telling stories. My hostess Christiania had spent some years in Eastern Europe, and had such a trove of songs as I couldn't imagine a girl of her age possessing. It was on my fifth day there, that I saw them. It was almost as if it was something that was meant to happen. A catharsis of sorts, I suppose you might say. It was close to dusk, and I had come to the veranda to smoke an evening pipe before dinner. I heard Ludwig in the kitchen, preparing some portion of flesh from a carcass he had shot and skinned himself the day before. I had begun recording some thoughts in my journal, and looking out on the peaceful pastoral scene before me, I started to feel a profound melancholy. I could only imagine it was sorrow at having to leave this place so soon. I had to spend another two months heading northward across uncharted territory before I could return to my offices in the regional capital. There were other settlers in the region, even some frontier towns, but I doubted any could match the joyful mixture of refinement and rustic self-reliance that this couple displayed. As I tamped the bowl of the pipe, sitting on a carved wooden bench, I saw a flash in my peripheral vision. I whipped around, thinking one of my hosts had troubled to come and offer me a light, and found myself alone. The thought ran through my mind that I would always be alone, and the melancholy seemed to settle even firmer on my shoulders. It was then I saw the second flash, as if someone had struck a match in the long grass, but it had been just as quickly snuffed out. I thought then of some of the old stories my grandmother had told me, of the fires of the Good Folk, and I also recalled some of the tales Christiania had related over the fire on previous evenings. And just as if they read my thoughts, I saw another flash to my right, and an answering flash to my left. Rising from the bench, I leaned on the railing of the porch, my pipe unlit in my left hand, and gazed awestruck across the sloping meadow leading toward the small stream at the foot of the hill. It seemed as though each blade of grass were home to a dancing flame, now visible, now gone. The stand of trees on the far edge of the brook lit up occasionally, and brought the hoot of an owl to life. The weight on my shoulders lifted perceptibly, and I almost felt something speak to me. I knew that this was nature's way of telling me it was time to move on. The introspection I'd been brooding on was pointless, and the past felt like just that: the past. I felt elated. The dancing lawn was my burning bush moment. I knew what I had to do. At that point I felt a soft hand on my wrist. "Fireflies" she murmured. "They always arrive this time of year. I've never seen quite so many though." She looked at me with an amused glint in her eye, as if she knew what I was thinking. "You've never seen them before, have you?" She was right. We stood in silence for a long moment after that, as the twilight deepened into the dark of night. By and by we smelt the aroma of roasted meat, and turned to go inside to the roaring fire and a beautiful meal.

Dreams?

I am currently reading 'Lord Jim' by Joseph Conrad, which is extremely dense with descriptive passages. It's rather impressive when you consider that English was not his first language. Nor was it his second. It was something around the sixth language he learned. Good man Joe. His intoxication with the East is apparent throughout, and passes on something of the impression of what India must be like. I very much want to go there. I've always dreamed about travelling, to wherever life and fortune might take me..

This is Córdoba in Spain. I was there recently, and loved the place. I also went to Seville:

While I was in Seville I had a most unusual sequence of dreams. This led me to wonder if travel encourages more vivid and lucid dream states. Is it that the brain is taking in so much new information and sensory experiences that it increases the amount of dreaming in order to clear more room on its "internal hard drive" as it were? I'd be interested to hear from other people who are regular travellers and find out their views on this. If one was to travel extensively for four to six months, for example, does dream activity become heightened, and if so, how long does it last after they have arrived back to wherever they started from. I know very little about dreams, psychology, Freud and all that, but this particular experience led me to wonder a bit more about how it all works.

thoughts

the previous two posts were written in a fairly short space of time. it's been weighing on my mind recently that I haven't been doing as much writing as I'd like. I went along to the local poetry evening today and was once again reminded of the vast scope that poetry entails and the endless opportunities for inspiration that are out there. I hope this means I've overcome the block I was experiencing. I'm making no promises though. I also did not blog about life on the road this year. There was a reason for that. danged if I remember what it was now though. Anyhow, I was once again made very aware of the vastness of the US, and the huge range of life and experience going on all over it. I would like to say that I kept notes, even mental ones, but that would be untrue. All I have is a jumble of disjointed anecdotes involving a huge number of genuine characters, and a feeling that I'm one step closer to some form of understanding.

this view across Austin is beautiful, and the colonial-style architecture reminds us that Texas has a long and colourful history.

Cresting the ridge of a pass in the high Appalachian country, Kentucky

a fiery sunset over the buttes and dunes and sagebrush of the Mojave Desert, California

a houseboat anchored in the Mississippi River, beneath a sign epitomising the upper Midwest and Plains region, in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

The Captain's warning to a sailor who started getting Notions above his station.

Don’t be so dismissive, mate
Of race, gender or creed
Because everybody’s got something
They want or they need
to be happy, to be rich, to drink rum and act wise.
And will all cling to the lifeboat if the ship
Happens to capsize.
Ponder your own faults
The things that affright
You and leave you to shudder and shrink from their sight
And yet you pass judgement
on those who admit to
being less brave when the storm finally hits
because you personally can handle
the howling of gales and tie a neat reef knot
in the foremast topsails
But you know they have courage
and would face you down
and might acquit themselves better in a bare knuckle round
so the captain’s cabin is no place to throw stones
and there’s no place for haters
‘neath the Skull and Crossed Bones
“Heal thyself, physician, or I’ll see you becursed,
and let the crewmen rest easy, without fearing the worst.
For Davy Jones is waiting to swallow us all
whether tis by noose or by knife or by cannon ball that
we finally succumb to the disease they call life
and we don't need your judgements to cause us more strife."

A Big Man

Foxy McFagan
From far Follyertha
Travelled through wars
and deaths and rebirths
He was the man Uncle Sam wished he was meeting
And the man who moved cities
with the food he was eating

Ol' Foxy McFagan
with fulsome frowns
looked at the mountains
and they followed him down
Foxy ran across lakes and dived up through the sky
and after he left them
the deserts were dry

he rode an old mule
with worrying ways
so he hobbled its legs
and stuffed it with hay
he lit the hay on fire and roasted it through
and ate the mule's innards
and he ate the outards too.

he kept the mule's hide
scarred, scorched and sleek
and made a huge tent
where he slept for a week
not a person could wake him, his snores drove them deaf
he woke with a sneeze
and felt much refreshed

Foxy McFagan
from far Follyertha
could leather a volleyball
clean through the earth
his arms were the size of mighty Hoover Dam
and the people he'd meet would say
"That's a Big Man."

Introducing... Bruce Livingstone, Pirate Hunter

Having a TV crew following him around wasn't making Captain Bruce Livingstone's new commission any easier. They were annoying, they were demanding, but worst of all, they had no clue about shipboard life. The sound recordist had already bashed his skull off a bulkhead at least twice, so far as he knew, and they were barely a week out of Perth. 'Do the bugger good, probably,' thought Livingstone. He had been given command of HMAS Maralinga after his previous command, HMAS Toowoomba was decommissioned. It had been a dirty old tub, and patrolling the northeast coast from the Torres Strait down to Cairns had been a hell of a job. Fever and disease were rife up there, and if that wasn't bad enough, the people smugglers had upped their game. Their detection systems and weaponry were twice as technologically advanced as the Naval Command had led him to believe. One of his sailors had been shot from a rusty little barge that he wouldn't even expect to see ferrying passengers between Port Pirie and Whyalla. He had survived, and received a huge lump of compensation. The incident had highlighted the Toowoomba's elderly deficiencies, and it had been put out to pasture. 'Probably running powder out of Brisbane' Bruce mused miserably. He had enjoyed his time on her, despite the rigours of the job.
Not that he was unhappy with the new assignment. His experience dealing with the smugglers had elevated him on the list to take over from veteran captain, James White Sr., as captain of the Maralinga. It was a frigate, the biggest ship Bruce had yet commanded, and he liked that it was named for a town in his home state of South Australia. 'Bogans united, eh, old girl?', he muttered, as he stared out at the vast blue expanse of the Indian Ocean. They were about 200 nautical miles northeast of Mauritius, and had passed within sight of the island of Rodrigues early that morning. The TV crew had collared him on the way from breakfast. "Do you know what island that is? Could there be any pirates there?," the blonde presenter asked him. "Rodrigues is part of Mauritius, and their government are part of the anti-piracy agreement signed by the UN. Anyway, there's too many bloody tourists there anyway. Now excuse me, I've things to see to." With that Bruce stepped into to the bridge. "Do these kids know anything?", Bruce asked his first mate, Steve McMahon, after the door had clanged shut. Steve looked at him wearily, then shrugged. "Gives the crew something to talk about, at least." He directed his attention back to whatever he'd been doing. The TV crew obviously had no idea about what the pirates were actually up to, and Steve obviously didn't care. "They're probably expecting Blackbeard or something," he continued, from the position he was occupying in the corner. "Reckon the crew probably are, too."
Aside from what had been in the brief, Bruce had been researching the pirates himself recently, even before getting the news that he was to lead a team of 'international peace-keepers' patrolling the sea lanes between the Gulf and Madagascar. His interest in the sea had been a passion since childhood, devouring books on the history of the oceans, especially the Indian Ocean, where he now sailed. Bruce knew from the journals of the RAN and the online Naval Archives where the main pirate nests were likely to be, and he had decided to base himself near the island of Socotra, known as a regular refuelling point for the pirate's captured prizes. Bruce wasn't the type to preen, but there was no harm in making himself look good on camera. After all, even the Chief himself might see the show when it aired, and there was no harm in being the assertive, yet affable "Bruce Livingstone, pirate hunter."
Bruce was musing on his possible TV career when a junior officer called to him. "Captain, we have reports of a commotion on the foredeck, looks like somebody's gone overboard." Bruce caught up his binoculars. "Where exactly?" he asked. "Port bow, just forward of the guns, sir," came the reply. The guns were blocking his view. "Come with me, Steve." He dropped the binoculars on the desk and made for the door. "I'm going to see what's going on." This was likely to be the most interesting event for the next few days, and he might at least be there to see it. "Wonder who it is." Steve caught up with him. "Reckon the dip will have sobered him up at least." Bruce smiled grimly at Steve's directness. As they reached the main deck, a sailor ran up and saluted. "Captain, sir, we've noticed a person floating about 400 yards to port, should we launch a boat to pick them up? Only, they could be dead, these are dangerous waters." Bruce thought about it for less than a moment. "We'll launch. Lieutenant Commander McMahon will organise it." He turned to face Steve. "Here's something else for the crew to talk about. Keep me informed." "Aye, sir" came the salute, as he was already halfway up the ladder to the bridge.
Bruce wondered who they would bring aboard. It was unlikely to be one of his own crew, as they would not have let themselves float 400 yards without raising some sort of alarm. The likelihood was that it was a corpse, especially since they had not raised another vessel on the radar all that day, meaning that the body had been floating for at least 3 to 6 hours. Under the blazing November sun, that was almost equivalent to a death sentence. He watched the boat swing out on its davits and converge on the floating object. He wouldn't have noticed it himself, not from here. Just then his radio crackled with static. "Captain, sir, we've picked up a girl. Medic says she's alive, but only just." "Thank you Mr. McMahon, bring her to the ship, and see what can be done for her," Livingstone replied. He raised the field glasses again and noticed the film crew fussing agitatedly at the rail beside where the launch would be raised, while junior officers attempted to herd them to a safer distance. He narrowed his eyes, and turned away. He would attend to his other duties until further news arrived. Steve would field any questions. He had a way with words. Bruce often told him he should have been a politician. "You can say absolutely nothing with a lot of words." It meant that he could be silent and aloof while making decisions. They made a good team. 'Steve ought to get plenty of airtime on this TV show.' Bruce checked himself. He shouldn't be thinking about the TV documentary as anything other than a minor nuisance, and certainly not thinking about himself as a TV star. He forced himself to put it out of his mind as he recorded this incident in his log, and took care of some other business. He was examining a satellite image of the northern Somali coast when Steve returned to the bridge. "Captain, can you come down to sick bay, Doc John's got some interesting news to report." Bruce glanced up and nodded. "Right with you, Steve."
As they ducked through the hatch into sick bay, Medical Officer Richard John leapt up from where he sat writing a report. He saluted the Captain, and cleared his throat. "Sir, the girl hasn't regained consciousness, but she should live. She will have extensive skin damage from the long exposure to the sun. I've estimated she's been afloat for nearly twelve hours, and was probably conscious for most of that time, because she has very little water in her lungs." He paused for a breath, looking for a reaction from the Captain. It was his first time sailing under him, and this was their first professional interaction. The Captain's green eyes glinted. "First Officer McMahon informed me that you had interesting news. This isn't something I needed to come down here to find out." The Captain looked as if he was about to turn and leave. John ploughed on. "Captain, sir, I hadn't gotten to the interesting part. We've decided she's of South Asian heritage, and what is her natural skin tone is deeply discoloured by bruising all over her body. An extreme fall, such as from an aircraft, could have caused it, but we've also discovered chafe marks on her wrists and ankles, from a coarse-fibre rope, most likely, and concluded that she was a prisoner of some sort, and received a beating. No signs of sexual assault though, which is strange." The Captain looked thoughtful as he pondered the report. John waited nervously for his reaction. "Thank you, Doctor," he finally said. "Send your fully detailed report straight to me when it's ready, and make sure nobody else sees it. I also want to be alerted straight away when the girl revives." John was relieved the Captain had taken his conclusions seriously. "Aye Captain" he saluted smartly. As they were leaving, Steve looked back and added "keep that bloody film crew out of here as well." The medic nodded, and returned to his report.

Character Sketch - Giovanni Vertese

Giovanni Vertese was a man on the run from Fortune. Fortune had deserted his grandfather in the Bosphorus, long before his birth, and Fortune had left his father bitter and poverty-stricken in a damp apartment in a poor quarter of Venice. La Serenissima held no allegiance for him. Giovanni grew up hearing his father curse the Doge, curse the Sultan, curse the Greeks, and curse his father. Before his grandfather's fatal decision to defend the Greek capital, they had been wealthy merchants trading in fine silks and textiles. Now, the family scraped a living making cheap clothing from cut-offs scavenged on the wharves. Giovanni learned the scavenging trade early. Not just cloth, either. He had sewn pockets inside his tunic capable of holding all sorts of items. Apples and oranges were most common, but he often came home with pockets lined with candle butts, nails and other useful objects.
After a few years, he grew too tall and gangly to be as useful, though he was still nimble on his feet. He was too restless to be a tailor, and refused to live in the same squalor that had embittered his father. Giovanni resolved to flee the city. He saw the sea as the root of his family's woes, and so, unlike most young men of Venice, he took to horse, and faced west.