CZM Book Club: "John Simnel's First Goshawk" by Tegan Moore

Margaret reads you a story about a boy who could have been king but instead talks to birds.

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Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:01):
Cool Zone Media.

Speaker 2 (00:06):
Book Club book Club, book Club book Club. Hello and
welcome to Cool Zone Media book Club. I'm your host
or reader or the person who's talking to you right now.
My name is Margaret Kiljoy. And this is the only
book club where you don't have to do the reading,
because I do it for you. Sure, you might say

(00:27):
to yourself, there's a lot of podcasts where people read fiction.
How is that different? And the difference is that this
is called a book club, so it's a book club,
it's also a podcast. It's weird how things can be
more than one thing at the same time. This week,
I've got a short and I think a story you

(00:49):
all will quite enjoy. I guess I'm always reading you
short stories, but this is on the shorter side of
short stories. It's a story called John Simnel's First Gosshaw Book.
It's written by an author named Teagan Moore. At First
was published in twenty twenty by the literary fantasy journal
Beneath Ceaseless Skies. And if you're thinking to yourself John Simnel,

(01:13):
I know all about John Simnel, then you are thinking
differently than I was when I read the story. Because
even though I read history books, for a living. I
don't know everything about English history because I spent a
lot of my life being like, well, I don't like them,
and that's the wrong medieval because I obviously I'm obsessed

(01:34):
with medieval shit. But you know, not specifically an expert
in English history, even though I run a history podcast
and have covered a ton of English things on the show.
There's just a lot of it, Okay, there's a lot
of the oldies sword times in England, y, and so
I did a bunch of research about John Simnel. I'm

(01:55):
gonna tell you about it, but first i'm gonna tell
you about the author. I'm gonna tell you about Teagan Moore.
Teagan is an aspirational farmer living on twenty Muddy Acres,
about an hour outside of Seattle, Washington. She's been published
in magazines including Asimov's Science Fiction Tour, dot Com, Clark's World,
and others. She has a dog agility instructor, can't not

(02:16):
look at crustaceans, and has a biologically improbable, entirely separate
second stomach for containing dumplings. Deagan's great. You should read
more of her stories. So this story is called John
Simnel's First Gossawk, and the first time I read it,
I was like, Yep, that's a name, and then didn't
think about whether or not it had any historical significance.

(02:39):
And then after I picked it for this show, I
was like, I should really google this, so I did,
and I think that this story is enriched by just
the slightest bit of background. Last week on Cool People
Who Did Cool Stuff, which if you're listening to this
it could happen here feed. You should really check out
the Cool People Did Cool Stuff feed, which is where
my history podcast is. Last week I talked about Joan

(03:02):
of Arc and the hundred Years War between France and England,
and in that story, Henry the sixth is sort of
the main antagonist, even though he's a little kid. Henry
the sixth didn't manage to rule France in the end
because a lady with a sword turned the tide of
one hundred year War and slowly the French drove him out,
putting a different asshole named Charles the Seventh on the

(03:24):
French throne because you really can't win when you have
a king. But back in England, Henry the sixth kept ruling,
and then a ton of fuckery happened, and this is
all like fourteen hundreds time or so. And the important
thing is, at the end of all this fuckery, a
guy named Henry the seventh came into power. But the

(03:46):
fuckery continued during this fuckery just the academic word for
complicated shit that I don't really feel like is worth
explaining or understanding. That's what fuckery means in this context
admits this fuckery. A common born boy named John Symnell

(04:06):
was groomed to become a pretender to the throne. Basically
he looked like he could be related to this like
one royal who was locked up in the Tower of England,
Tower of London, whatever, the prison for rich people, and
so some people who didn't want the current king set
up this common born kid, John to be the fake,

(04:28):
rightful heir of the throne. When John was ten years old,
and so he became the figurehead of a failed rebellion
called the Yorkist Rebellion. He was crowned in Dublin as
Edward the sixth. The reason he was crowned in Dublin
the Irish supported the Yorkist rebellion because the Yorkist faction
mostly just left Ireland alone like that was like kind

(04:50):
of how that was? Like Their plan for Ireland was
like huh, like, I guess we could call ourselves in
charge but just not actually do anything. And the Irish
people were like, yeah, that sounds good. We'd rather you
left us the fuck alone. Whole lot of that throughout history,
wanting England to leave you alone. Anyway, being a pretender

(05:10):
to the throne didn't go well for our young John,
but since he was all of ten years old, he
was spared. He wasn't executed when the whole rebellion collapsed
and he was put to work in the king's court. First.
He was like the roast spit turner, you know, when
they like kill a bore and then they have to

(05:31):
like turn it on a spit. That was his job,
which is a step down from king, although morally it's
probably a step up. In the end he ended up
a falconer. That's your history lesson. Now here's the story
John Simnel's First Goshawk by Tiagan Moore. In the light

(05:52):
of a single candle, the goshawk and I regard each other.
Sleep presses against our eyes, but we are both obstinate.
The hawk has run out of foul names to spit
at me. He does not blink, so I try not
to blink. The sallow light is golden in his livid
golden eye. One of us will break and the other triumph.

(06:14):
Though in the muffled dark of my room, I wonder
if I might instead go mad. Or perhaps you're mad already.
The goshawk suggests. This is how you break a hawk.
Wait him out. It's simple but not easy. Eventually he
must sleep. If the falconer is alert to see the
moment his hawk concedes slips away to sleep despite his fear,

(06:37):
then the bird begins to be his. It is a
game of minds, not of dexterity, but strength. If the
falconer sleeps, he simply begins the excruciating weight again the
next day. If the hawk sleeps, however, then the bird
has lost forever. And this is how you break a boy.

(06:58):
Tell him he is king, simple but not easy. You
must watch him hawk like to see how he slips
beneath your lies. You must seem to believe it enough
that the boy believes too. You must crown him and
put him at the front of an army. If he fail,
there is always another, handsome hazel eyed boy somewhere in

(07:20):
the world, any one might do. If the boy believes
that he is king. Though, and this is true, whatever
circumstances befall him, however low he is brought, he can
never completely unbelieve. I have toiled a lifetime at the
hard labors of the low born, so much longer than

(07:41):
the time I spent his claimant to the throne of England,
designated by God in legitimate secession to take the crown
back from Henry Tudor. For only one short year was
I misled? One year which I, a small and frightened boy,
spent under the spell of my own belief. One year
in a lifetime of years, Yet which of these returns

(08:04):
to me again and again? I hold my hawks to
the right. The glove must be made to fit. Most
of the King's falconers hawk to their left. I prefer
the right. My forearm there is hardened, scarred from years
at the turnspit, and smelted tough. It is an animal job,
like an ass at a mill. I have heard that

(08:27):
in some great Flemish houses they turn the spit with dogs.
I imagine the work is worse for a dog with
the riches of slow baked meat forever just beyond reach.
Worse if they've once tasted it and know they'll now
have none. The sky lightens, slow and patient as it
bleeds into my room. The paling dawn swims flecks of

(08:48):
silver and my tired vision. The goshawk and I have
watched each other all the night. He looks to me,
and his head tilts, taking my measure, he turns away.
He's on me, lacking snub me. I say, I don't care.
You aren't the first. His breast feathers puff enoughense. Few

(09:10):
other falconers speak to their hawks. Certainly none have heard
the hawks speak in response. Or perhaps they are wiser
than I and simply pretend they cannot hear, much like
you could pretend not to hear the ads that are
now interrupting your story. But I want to say that
this episode was brought to you by peasant rebellions exerting

(09:32):
the power of the working class over the rich. Since
before anyone bothered writing history down in books, You too
can revolt against the modern day monarchs. All you need
is a pitchfork, a torch, one hundred friends, and more
interest in doing right than living to be old. Peasant revolts.
They're fun until you google what drawn in quarter it is,

(09:54):
and then they're no longer fun. Peasant revolts, and whatever
these other the ads are, and we're back. The shaping
of a free mind into a tamed one is a

(10:16):
fascinatingly predictable process. You begin by stripping away good comes
only from the master's hand. They receive nothing if it
is not from you. Dress your beast so finely that
it is impracticably conspicuously plumed in clothing unfit for an
innkeeper's boy. If at home it eats pottage and barley bread,

(10:38):
then feed it roast, mallard and stewed fruits from your
own rich table. Give promises like tidbits, dreams like sugared almonds. Next,
you must test the quality of what you've captured. Is
the best suited. Hold it up to a trusted few
for evaluation. Once fattened and finally dressed, if it is

(11:00):
of any caliber, it will pass well enough. Then you
hone it. Feed it by hand, gentle it, Teach it
good French and a little Latin, show it courtly manners,
and how to believe it deserves more than it has.
Once the beast is trained, examine its skills at work.

(11:20):
Make the trials easy so that failure is not catastrophe.
Sit it beside you at dinner, and bid it speak.
The dinners will grow grander, the guests wealthier. Its performance
is more complex. It should be dutiful, but not slavish,
proud as befits the high born, but also demonstrating bidability
and tact. Only after much practice or the long training creances.

(11:45):
Shed your creation unhooded and loosed upon the greater stage.
Even then, it will always wear thongs at its wrists
if escaped or even freed. Is something tamed and trained
in this way ever its own sovereign. The master makes
his mark not only on the body, but the mind.
He is always there, silently governing, even if his touch

(12:08):
is unseen. On the third day, the gosshawk closes his
eyes on his perch. I let him sleep until supper, too,
aching with exhaustion and relief to sleep myself. Then I
wake him to celebrate by carrying him out to the
sunny grass beyond the meuse. I bring him a haunch

(12:29):
of rabbit. He examines the meat with one eye and
turns his head away. You'll have to trust me eventually,
I say, oh aye, says the gosshawk, voice rough and listless,
And you'll trust me too, I wager. He lifts one leg,
tugging the jesses, and my fist A man's words from

(12:49):
the mouth of a bird. I am mad with the
lack of sleep. The sunlight is so warm and tender.
By close my eyes here I may sleep standing up.
All boys think they are important. All you have to
do to win one's heart is to agree. Father Simon
told me I had been mislaid, a royal cuckoo in

(13:11):
a sparrow's nest. This made my mother a whore and
my father a cockold. But I did not consider the
implications of the claim beyond its first greatest consequence. The
king does what he likes, after all, and who's to
stop him? Who's to judge? I would do what I
liked when I was king if I obeyed well enough.

(13:34):
Simon told other people other things about where I was
come from and what my name was. They were free
to choose amongst their preferred truths. I was not when
I was called Duke of York. I believed I was
the Duke of York when it became advantageous to be
Earl of Warwick. Instead, I was Warwick whole heart, and

(13:54):
spoke warmly of my uncle Edward, who had only days
before been my father in Ireland. When I was King
Edward the sixth, I believed that best of all, I
was only ten years old when I was captured, and
my false names stripped like layers of guilding, taken from
me along with the fine clothing. I was taught again

(14:16):
what to perform. After all these rehearsals. It was hard
to take a role which did not come with finery
horse to ride the blessings of nobility. I played it,
though I put my heart behind contrition, bewilderment, innocence. It
didn't matter if the role was true. I only needed
to convince the court. Treasonous nobles are beheaded for treasonous commoners.

(14:43):
Oh but death is so much worse, almost as bad
as these ads. This podcast is brought to you by Swords.
Get yourself a sword. Have you ever lacked confidence? Do
you think that maybe what you really lacked was a sword?
I think so. Swords they're what you can use to

(15:05):
cut people. And we're back. The hawking master comes to
try the goshawk. After I've had him a month at

(15:26):
my side, he makes his kill. He flies to fist.
The master offers a silver of cold mutton in exchange
for the sparrow my hawk has taken. The hawk raises
his broad barred wings and threat He hands the bird
to me. Bloody minded, he says, you've still work to do.
M now, Yes, sir, I say, wrapping the jesses around

(15:49):
my fist. If you won't man fully, there's no use
keeping him, Yes, sir, I repeat, obediently, bloody minded, The
goshawk mutters aggrieved. Once the hawking master is gone, he
has slept. I have slept. There is no reason I
should still hear him speaking. Yet all this month he

(16:09):
has spoken. His words show him to be indeed bloody minded.
I hide my smile. I fly the goshawk alone, far
from the meuse. He is a blade through the sky,
an arrow when he falls into his stoop. Neither this
hawk nor I were born into the service of the king.

(16:30):
For me, that past life was squalid and ignorant. The goshawks,
though with some other beast, entirely. He brings me a
gory jed eyed starling, its black feathers flecked with brilliance,
remind me of Simon's priestly robes. I let him keep it.

(16:50):
After my Royal Army's defeat at Stokefield, I was imprisoned,
not in the tower, but some nameless dark hole where
I might be ignored. No, not ignored. There were rotten,
mouthed men there who paid me attention I did not like.
I was not a prisoner of the tower like a nobleman,
but in squalor with common wretches. The death prescribed trees

(17:13):
and as commoners as something small boys talk about, wide eyed,
squeezing out every drop of sweet dread, but only if
they can't imagine playing any part in it. It's less
pleasant to dream of it if the dream might be
your life. Henry called me to him, and like any
tamed thing, I went willingly, though stupid with fear. Even

(17:34):
walking to my doom, I felt terror and pleasure, both
for I was not forgotten. Every boy likes to think
they are important. The King forgave me and sent me
to turn the spit. I thanked God, though it was
animal work. The rest I was allowed to do on
my own, though I never suppose that I'm free. The

(17:58):
goshawk will eat from my hand. He will return to fist,
and he does not bait, but he will not give
up his kills mine. He hisses at the hawking Master.
Wicked man, useless man. The hawking Master does not hear him.
No other man seems to hear the hawk's voice, or
at least none will admit to it. I have not

(18:20):
the courage to ask. Perhaps I am mad. Perhaps the
hawk is mad too. He certainly comports himself like a madman.
The hawking Master offers the hawk a whole dead pigeon
for a scrawny, fledgling crow. The hawk strides for the
Master's fingers with his wrathful golden beak. Eat that yourself,

(18:41):
he says, This one's mine. He does not belong in
the muse, his body fierce but soft, his eyes golden
and terrible. This closed in place offends him, offends God's
hand which made him. He glares at me when I
collect him the next morning, and mutes in a great

(19:01):
silver spurt of shit. Goshawks are always the most trying,
the hawking Master says, as we undo the goshawks, jesses,
I put two back to the forest before I kept
one on my fist. I will have another hawk in
the springtime. I am at liberty to try again. We
are all tamed by our circumstances. None of us is free,

(19:25):
or perhaps we are all exactly as free as we
wish to be. The hawk lifts from my fist, from
the glove that covers my turn spit scars. It is
a good glove, well fit to me and simple. The
hawk makes one turn over our heads and drifts away
into the sky. I suppose he is his own gosshawk now,

(19:49):
and that's the end of the story. When I asked
Hegan if there was anything important for you all to
know about this story, she told me to say that
she is the direct descendant of both the goshawk and
John Symnell, and has shipped the two together. Well, rather
history did. Because I don't see why Tagan would have
lied to me about being a direct descendant of a
pretender to the throne and a bird. I don't know.

(20:15):
If you meet Tagan, you'd be like, yeah, that makes
some sense. I like the story for a lot of reasons.
I like this story because it's like simple and well told,
and I like what the story talks about, and it's
funny because it's like, you know, me, I like stories
that where the metaphor is fairly blunt, you know, like

(20:37):
it's pretty easy to see the connections that are being
drawn between a commoner who is tamed into believing that
he could be king and a bird, you know, a
falcon or whatever, a gossawk. And I like it because
it points out the ways in which you know, they're like, oh,

(20:59):
once i'm king, i'll be free, and then you're like, well,
you're still just you know, you still have other masters,
and like we basically it's like the act of being
tamed is what undermines your freedom or leaves you in
this situation that whatever this story does a better job
of explaining it, then I could explain it, and you know,

(21:20):
just to I really like the lines we're all tamed
by our circumstances. None of us is free, or perhaps
we're all exactly as free as we wish to be. Also,
I think it's telling that the gosshawk that wants to
be free has to be bloody minded anyway. Peasant revolt.

(21:42):
It always ends, well, that's our final sponsor, shout out. Well,
I guess there's probably more ads at the end. But
I don't know anyone who listens to the ads the
end of podcasts. I guess you do if you're like
just listening to a bunch of podcasts while you're doing
something else and you're like, oh, whatever cu'es up next
to be good, in which case you probably will have
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(22:02):
if you're listening to this on the Cool People Who
Did Cool Stuff feed, you should also check out it
could happen here. And if you're listening to this it
could happen here feed, you should check out Cool People
Who Did Cool Stuff? And you should check out all
the podcasts from Cool Zone Media and not any other podcasts.
Except I can't really say that because I have podcasts
that aren't on this network, like Live like the World
Is Dying, which is on a different network called Oh God.

(22:25):
I get Cool Zone Media and Channel zero Network mixed
up in my head constantly because one of them. I'm
on one network called CZM and another network called CZN.
What are the odds? And none of the words are
the same Cool Zone Media and Channel zero Network. They're
all different words, but they have similar It's not an acronym.

(22:47):
If it's it doesn't make a word, whatever abbreviation. I
should be done. I'm done, goodbye, see you next week.

Speaker 1 (22:57):
It could happen here as a production of cool Zone Media.
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You can find sources for It could Happen Here, updated
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