Farewell

I am in mourning.

In less than a week I learn that the two men I regularly abandoned my husband to frolic with have, in PG Wodehouse speak, handed in their dinner pails.

I learnt that David Gemmell is dead - the misdiagnosed cancer that he battled to survive as he wrote his first novel came claiming dues, interest and more. That first novel he wrote, Legend, was just an appetizer; he developed and enlarged Druss, painted him in splendid hues. He created a hero like none other:

Druss the Legend. Invincible Druss. Captain of the Ax. Deathwalker. Silver Slayer.

Gemmell developed Druss as a role model. Warrior and veteran of a thousand battles though he might be, he was also an old man fighting battles that should not have been, shoring up lost causes and undertaking last ditch quests.

"Never violate a woman, nor harm a child. Do not lie, cheat or steal. These are things for lesser men. Protect the weak against the evil strong. And never allow thoughts of gain to lead you into pursuit of evil."

That was the code Druss lived by. I could advocate it to our politicians and leading lights. Druss is what all men and women should aspire to be. Perfectly in harmony with himself and the world, and ever striving to set things right. Druss might be a fictional character, but he is the best crusader I ever met.

"You don't drink. There are no women. You eat no meat. What do you do for recreation?"

"We study," said Serbitar. "And we train, and we plant flowers and raise horses. Our time is well occupied I assure you."

"No wonder you want to go away and die somewhere," said Rek with feeling.

A temple of warrior monks being recruited for a lost cause. A snippet from 'Legend.'

There are more gems than I can quote at you. The subtle humour was always there and got better and better. Now Gemmell won't finish the tales of Troy. Lord of the Silver Bow might well be the last novel that came out. I mourn him.

Bob Smithies a k a Bunthorne is no more too.

Bunthorne gave me such pleasurable hours of cerebration, because he was definitely a "compiler's compiler." A scholarly man, his crosswords were always challenging and they broadened my GK Quotient when I managed to complete them or tried to fathom how the solutions were arrived at, the next day.

He introduced me to words like odalisques and more; a deeper knowledge of Gilbert and Sullivan, Rudyard Kipling and the just plain strangeness of English language. He was just the ticket for somebody who uses English as a second language to learn it better.

Solvers would throw up their hands and quit before giving battle when they saw Bunthorne's name. But he was scrupulously fair and you could always solve his crosswords, by and by. For me the 'by and by' became fairly regular and my husband would groan when I announced gleefully, 'it is Bunthorne today, honey.' I just had to see his name, to rub my hands in anticipation of a battle. Sometimes I'd win it; sometimes not. Solving Bunthorne was somewhat like undertaking a quest.

There were many gems of clues he set. Some seem ironic now. Albion and Death seem interchangeable here, to me.

Albion's treachery, according to French mind. Why speak of it? (7) Perfidy

But I take comfort from one of the best clues he ever set, his own favourite, admittedly .

Amundsen's forwarding address (4) Mush!

It's so typical of Bunthorne. He expected you to know chapter and verse about the name mentioned, and get the joke.

Not any more, though. I wish I had taken my appreciation to the point where I actually wrote and told him how much I relished the challenge of his crosswords when I had a chance. Now he won't be reading any letters and I am writing this post of bereavement.

Uncompromising they both were, Bunthorne and Gemmell. Entertainers they were, too. They gave me hours of pleasure, years of company. Now they are no more.

"Goodnight, sweet Prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest."