Set in Zanzibar in 1910, it is the story of two people falling in love from different worlds. Susan immerses herself in Zanzibar. Asim falls in love with this woman from the nation that killed his wife. Susan is a spy. Asim is the chief advisor to the Sultan of Zanzibar. Germany and France are holding secret negotiations to form a Pan European alliance, which would isolate Britain and destroy her power. Susan and Asim are caught up in all this and their love is finally dashed on the cold, hard reality of international high politics.

Cethosia - a children's story

Tales from the Apple Orchard - a story set in Tasmania, Australia where style and story telling are explored.

 Graeme's (Ed) Novel just published on Kindle

(If you do not have a Kindle, you can download a free version from AMAZON)

 
The title, thought not the story, was inspired by a song by Leonard Cohen, "Dance me to the end of love"

In Graeme's words:

I first heard the song at a folk festival in Signet Tasmania. It was performed by a band called 'Monsieur Camembert'. It captured the essence of the book that was forming in my mind.

On a boat trip to Tasmania, Australia, to attend the folk festival, I shared the dinner table with a young woman, and over dinner she had told me about her recent trip to Africa, it is always best to get a woman talking about herself, that way she thinks you are more interesting. One of the highlights of her trip had been a visit to Zanzibar. She told me about a sailing tour she had taken on a dhow from Old Stone Town - the capital of Zanzibar. One of her strong memories was barking her shin on a wooden crate, which had been carelessly thrown onto the back of the dhow. It turned out to be a roughhewn coffin.

That stuck in my mind. It was the genesis of an idea that was the basis for the novel.

Leonard Cohens poignant and beautiful song seemed to capture the essence of the story.

In Leonard Cohen's own words

The Song, 'Dance Me to the End of Love'  although structured as a love song was in fact inspired by the Holocaust.

'Dance Me to the End Of Love' ... it's curious how songs begin because the origin of the song, every song, has a kind of grain or seed that somebody hands you or the world hands you and that's why the process is so mysterious about writing a song. But that came from just hearing or reading or knowing that in the death camps, beside the crematoria, in certain of the death camps, a string quartet was pressed into performance while this horror was going on, those were the people whose fate was this horror also. And they would be playing classical music while their fellow prisoners were being killed and burnt. So, that music, "Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin," meaning the beauty there of being the consummation of life, the end of this existence and of the passionate element in that consummation. But, it is the same language that we use for surrender to the beloved, so that the song -- it's not important that anybody knows the genesis of it, because if the language comes from that passionate resource, it will be able to embrace all passionate activity.

Now Available on Amazon's Kindle $4.99 - Over 400 Pages

Their souls danced, honouring his promise.

The ancient dhow stirred in the soft morning breeze, moving through the water like a sated lion, snuffling about the other boats on the harbour; some scurrying, some at anchor, some darting before a brief gust of wind. The lateen sails a bustling panorama of blood-red and sun-bleached white.

Aft, the woman's eyes searched the skyline, drinking in the architecture of Stone Town, the heart of Zanzibar; its jagged, cluttered silhouette so familiar, so much a part of her soul.

Abruptly, her eyes ceased their restless searching, jagged by an invisible hook, transfixed by the grand buildings on the northern shore, Beit-al-Ajaib, the House of Wonders, Palace to the great Sultan of Zanzibar. The distinctive architecture captured in the tropical light: coconut white outlined by contrasting shadow plays of pepper black.

A smile, ever so slight, started to play on the edge of her mouth then disappeared. A memory that should have been fond instantly turned to sharp unbearable pain. Her eyes hardened and moved on.

Without warning the captain threw the rudder over. Stumbling, the woman barked her shin on a wooden box, a rough-hewn coffin. She recoiled, knocking over an untidy stack of cane baskets. Imprisoned in the baskets, rusty cockerels, their scruffy heads straining through the latticework, snapped at her, cried out to her; their raucous din overwhelming her, drowning her.

Dimly, through the fog of noise, the strident swearing of the sailors in Kiswahili seeped into her conscious. Understanding, she smiled mirthlessly.

The coffin had been carelessly stowed, a chore, rather than a labour of respect or love.

Now Available on Amazon's Kindle $4.99 - Over 400 Pages