Super-Warrior-Killing-Machine

Neve put on trousers and shirt. After the crashes and bangs, now all was quiet. She eased open the bedroom door, and listened. The music was no longer playing. She looked into the bathroom. There, too, was quiet, the water no longer running. She looked at his door. To open it? Or to knock first? She knocked. No answer. She eased open the door. The room was empty. No Raesan. No tent. No CDs and ghetto-blaster. So he had gone, entirely gone.

She didn’t understand how a day so perfect had changed to this. They had sat upon Glastonbury Tor and he’d told her of the three Arthurs, though she’d laughed and said she didn’t believe him, that there’d been only one.

“There may have been more than the three,” he’d said, half-turning to face her. “It’s a title, Arthur, yeh. Like Regin-yorl.”

“Like dux?” she had said. “Defender of a region?”

He’d pulled a face. “Na. More like . . . Bear-God-Inspired Super-Warrior-Killing-Machine.” And he’d laughed.

The first Arthur had been named ‘son of Camulod’. But Raesan hadn’t been much in the land at that time, being instead with Ardhea and Hegrea in Llydaw, that’s—

“Brittany,” they’d both said together.

Arthur, son of Camulod, was elsewise known as Caradoc-Bear.

“Oh,” Neve realised then who Raesan meant. “Wasn’t he king or something at Camulodonum?” Her knowledge of Roman history didn’t extend far beyond Boudicca.

“He was a resistance-fighter in the early days of Roman occupation, and he had the right of the fight. The emperor of Rome, yeh, had told to Caradoc’s father – or was it his uncle? Well, some such kin who was king – that they would be friends and be mutually supportive. Surprise, that was a Roman-packaged lie. For when the king died, in came the emperor’s men and destroyed all the fancy wall-ringed settlement. Torched it so they could build another more to their liking. Well, was Caradoc supposed to embrace them, yeh, say how happy he was they’d done that? Na. But he and his tribe wouldn’t have been in that shit-pit had they listened to their Gallic kin. Oh, we knew about Roman traits, knew them well. They’d already trampled on us.”

He spoke as if he had personally suffered the spears and swords and . . . Neve dared not ask, but had he lost a lover to the Roman machinery?

“I spit on the Romans and spit trebly upon that hill tribe queen, his own kin, who handed him over to the emperor’s men, saying she ‘feared Roman retribution elsewise’.”

“Queen Cartimandua?”

“Yeh, her. My little pony.”

Neve didn’t understand the reference but understood the savage tone. Raesan definitely didn’t like her. “You said there were three?” Neve prompted to lift him from the mood.

“The next was Gereint.”

“Welsh?”

“Briton. And a traitor to himself and his people, yeh. I tell you, he never deserved the title.” There was more spitting. But Raesan had known even less of that story, only that Gereint had served in the emperor’s army and had supported a British emperor. To Raesan, with his disgust of all things Roman, that had been bad enough, but then when the emperor died Gereint had marched upon Rome and seclared himself Emperor instead. More spitting followed. “How did that make him an Arthur, hey, you tell me that?”

Neve had prompted for the third Arthur, and for the same reason. “He was the Arthur who fought the Saxons, yea?”

“The Goth, yeh – or at least his father was Goth. Uther—”

‘No, wait. You’re saying Uther Pendragon was a Goth? Like, Gotland, Scandinavia, Sweden, Goth?”

“There’s a problem, yeh? Excuse me, Lady, but wasn’t Odinn born in Gotland? Wasn’t Odinn a Goth?”

“You speak like he existed,” Neve blurted before she could stop it.

“Odinn and Arthur, I have said, were the same. Now you want me to tell you this, yeh? So hush. Uther had served in the emperor’s army. But Uther deserted – he wasn’t alone, it was every man for himself in those bleak days. Uther deserted and instead swore to a new lord, to a one-time underling who sought now to be king of Dumnonia. This king was in a good place too; of old he’d had good trade with the Mediterranean sailors.”

“Cornwall. Tintagel?”

“The very place. But this king’s wealth attracted pirates, yeh, so he used Uther and his men to defend the settlements all along the coast there.”

“And there he begot the third Arthur upon the king’s wife?”

“So says your romances. Na. Uther had his own wife. And his son grew, and his son walked in his father’s footsteps. And yeh, that one was super-warrior-god-inspired. The previous two had been merely Caradoc-Bear, and Gereint-Bear. But this one, this one was The Bear. And everyone wanted him. Tribes clubbed together to afford him and his men. But he wasn’t there just to hold off the Saxons, or not only them. They were bleak days, as I’ve said. Those who fancied themselves as kings, formed the old tribes around them. Rising like Phoenix, they were, out of the ashes of Rome. So then it was tribe fighting tribe. And those who could afford the fiercest fighters, yeh, they were the ones who won.”

“And then Arthur was killed by Mordred, his son and nephew.”

Raesan laughed. “Yeh, yeh, ‘course he was.” He laughed again. “Na, Mordred wasn’t kin – though he was one of Arthur’s own men, and that was as wrong. He was jealous, yeh, of his commander’s glory. But your fancy tales do tell it right, they did both die in their shouldn’t-be-fight.” Raesan made as if to shoot left and right guns, miming a ‘shootout at the OK Corral’ – and his too-realistic sounds scared away a half-grown calf who had left the herd to investigate them. “Here!” Neve tried to recall it but it wouldn’t return.

“So now you’re to tell me that Arthur wasn’t brought here?” she said. After all, in his version nothing else of the romance remained.

“Na, Lady, they may have brought him here – but not to be received by your namesake. Even then here was a stronghold of angel-speakers. So now, sorry, I’ve destroyed all your stories.”

“No, I’d rather the truth. And it was my mother into all things Arthurian, not me. But did you know there’s a story that Arthur sleeps beneath Richmond Castle?”

“That’ll be the Bretons, yeh. They carry the tales no matter they roam and it was a Breton who built the castle there – your kinsman-ancestor Alan. But Arthur, by the tales, he sleeps everywhere.”

“He sleeps beneath Dowsingham Hills,” Neve said and waited while Raesan laughed deep from his belly. “Arthurs Sleep,” she said.

“But, Lady, that’s not even a hill. There are no hills in Norfolk.”

Technically, Raesan had abducted her. But he had taken her to Glastonbury, to King Arthur’s country – to the focus of her mother’s dreams – and from the moment she had stepped from his car the tensions between them had drifted away. They had sat atop Glastonbury Tor at the summer solstice, there ought to have been crowds, yet they were alone. It wasn’t that no one else knew the day. She’d been watching, in the distance, the cars arrive, the sun glinting off glass and chrome. No, Raesan had been holding the people away so that they could be alone there together.

Then they had stopped into a café along the High Street before heading home. It was table-service and the service was slow. Neve had been on edge lest Raesan do something to attract unwanted attention. But his talk had been quiet enough – though the content . . . Neve didn’t understand what he was about.

“Remember this place in the winter, yeh.” He spoke, leaning in close. “Remember, before all these houses, yeh, when people lived only in little turf huts?”

”Did any folk live here?” she responded as quietly. She didn’t want him to blast it out loud that he’d lived here in 3000 BC.

“Not many, you’re right. No, it was all marsh then. A person gets lost in that marsh, without the help of a heron.”

“I thought the heron a guide to the Otherworld.”

“Were it not for that heron, Eld Freilsen would have had you.”

“Eld Freilsen? Eld as in Elder?” Raesan had said he was the lord here in times long gone.

Raesan shook his head. “Na, Lady, no memories left? Eld is Erbhelmn, yeh – remember the language spoken here before Urinod sent Krisnavn to establish the tin cultures? It means Lord. Yeh, before the Atonement, Freilsen was tight-in with Zemowit. But long before that he was no nice person – though I understood him, alone of the Asars. He was frustrated, at having to wait three hundred years cos that little Ardhea – na, I did like her, Ardhea, but you’d now call her a minx, showing to Freilsen that image, and making him . . . want.”

Neve was glad when the waitress appeared to take their order. Then the food wasn’t long in coming. The café served only vegetarian dishes but Raesan didn’t object, munching into a wholemeal pasty. “Just like my mother used to make.”

It was the first time he’d mentioned his family other than to say of his Uissid-brothers. It was preferable to his strange talk of Ardhea and Freilsen. “What was your mother like? Do you remember her from so many years?”

“Could I forget her? Her? But she was a tail-wagger,” he said, disappointed.

Neve frowned. She didn’t understand the word.

“Put horns on the chief.” He waggled his fingers up by his head. “Were it not for Kerrid . . . but she was wrong to say I didn’t love her, that it only was me being grateful.”

Neve thought he would cry. She noticed his hands, his nails scraping over the thumb-pads. “I’m sorry. I’ve disturbed painful memories.”

She had wanted to puzzle on that all the way back but she feared he would pick up on her thoughts and again be distressed. Instead they sang together to his sing-along-motoring music. But who had been wrong to say he didn’t love her? And who was the ‘her’ he didn’t love?

And then, when they reached home . . .

It had been a wonderful day. But now it was late and Neve was tired, and she had work in the morning. She left Raesan in the front room playing his little hand-held game while she climbed the stairs, undoing her buttons as she went, in thoughts of a bath. She turned on the taps as she passed by the bathroom, and finished undressing in the bedroom.

But when she opened the door, there Raesan had stood at the top of the stairs. Just looking at her. She pulled the bathrobe tighter about her. “Whatever it is, Raesan . . .” she pointed to the bathroom. “Will it wait?”

“No.” He was in front of her door though she’d not seen him move. He spread his arms, hands against the jambs, effectively blocking. Downstairs she noticed music now playing. But Raesan didn’t know how to control her ‘machine’. It was Lou Reed’s Perfect Day. “I thought . . . well it has been. Perfect I mean.” He smiled. And brought his face in close as if to kiss her. She backed away.

But that was a wrong move. He followed her into the room, and closed the door behind him.

“I’ve sown beautiful seeds – didn’t we have a great time? You said it, too, yeh, the best day you’ve ever had, that’s what you said. And I told you all those stories of Arthur cos I knew that’s what you’d like. And I didn’t once touch you. Now’s time to reap.”

She felt a tug on the belt of her robe. She snatched it from him and stepped further back, careful to angle herself away from the bed.

“No, Raesan. We’ve been through this before. It’s not going to happen. Friends, that’s all. Now, I’ve work in the morning and I want a bath. Please leave the room.” But she knew if he wanted he could just take. He could be into her head, even making her want it. How to protect herself from that?

“That’s right, Lady, no protection, not this time round.” His hand snaked out and caught her wrist, his fingers tight around her. “But please don’t fight. I don’t want to hurt you.” Then why force his mouth upon hers, her body pulled hard against his. Even without his Asaric tricks, she was helpless against him. What could she do.

She prayed. Never in her life had she prayed, even feigning in assembly at school. But now she prayed. Please, dear Lord, please, dear Lord, please deliver me.

He leapt away as if she were poison. Looking at his hands as if they’d been burned. And he raged, his halo billowing, swirling, becoming a whirlwind that crashed through her house, tore through the rooms, glassware and pottery smashed in its wake. Then quiet.

Had he left? Amid the crashes, it was hard to distinguish the slam of a door. She waited. No further sounds.

“Raesan?” she called down the stairs.

No answer.

She took the stairs slowly. What if he was waiting down there with a knife? She didn’t understand what had happened. All this time, alone, together with her. Why now? From the bottom tread she could see into the kitchen. No, no one was there. She opened the front room door. The room was empty. Yet she’d not heard the sound of any doors opening or shutting. She locked the front and back doors then sat on the settee and she wept.

. _____ .

She must have gone to bed though she couldn’t remember. Yet that’s where she was when the sound of Lyn Jones tumbling down next door’s stairs drew her out of the dream. She’d never been so glad to hear that sound. Nor so pleased to see a light from the landing. But Grandma had always had a light. She used to say of being a child, of the bender by the campfire; she’d never known a lightless night. And neither had Neve. Even at school the dorms had been lit by nightlights, as much for the dorm-stewards to see what mischief the girls were up to, as for the safety as the girls as they stumbled to the toilets in the night. She was wearing pyjamas; when had that happened? She had dressed again after Raesan attacked her. But she didn’t want to think about that. She was hungry.

She flicked on all lights as she passed them. In the kitchen she scrolled through playlists. She wanted something to settle her while she fetched a snack. Rock. She set it to random. Alice Cooper, Poison played. She jumped it a track. Deep Purple, Living Wreck. She laughed at that. With cheese sandwich before her she sat at the table.

It helped to review the dream, she’d read that somewhere. It was the gremlins again. They’d waited until she’d slipped into bed, until she nigh was asleep. Then they’d crept in, when she was too deep into sleepfulness to fight them away. Limbs heavy, wouldn’t move. Though she tried, she couldn’t even scream. Powerless.

Powerless, they’d lifted her up from the bed and carried her right through the wall. That was freakiest of all. And that wall was thick and seemed never to end. But that was as well for something terrible waited beyond.

Powerless. That’s what it had been with that flight to Milan. She’d been fine, she’d boarded the plane. It had only been when . . . after take-off, when . . . On a boat if it sank she could swim. Though she’d likely not make it to safety, at least she could try. But on a plane, if something happened . . . she couldn’t fly. Powerless, dependant upon another. A pilot. The humiliation, that return flight when she’d squashed herself into a corner and screamed. No! She was not going to board it. No! And Miss Burton had offered to stay with her and they’d journeyed home by boat and train. That first train had been crowded, and the weather hot. Oh, but that was preferable. Better than being lifted up in a tight-sealed box. She couldn’t be rid of the list of calamities that could end a flight in disaster. So many reasons for a plane to crash. Never, she never would fly again.

“And so still I have the nightmares.” She wiped her eyes. But wasn’t it cathartic to cry? And as she looked up, there was a figure outside.

She stood, the better to see. But now it was gone. She leaned against the sink, straining over, but . . . but she was sure she had seen it.

. _____ .

Next episode, 25th June: Alone

Awaiting Ragnarok

Hey! Toli the teller of tall tales here with a story of Anglian origin. Cos I am an Angle, see, not a Saxon. It’s those Normans, they can’t distinguish. They call this land England then call us Saxons, all lumped together. That’s like calling a bean-harvest a harvest of kale! So, as my liege lord would say, let me elucidate. Those soft southern bastards, kissers of the Norman arses, they are the Saxons. While we hard northern fellows, rebels to the very, we’re Angles.

That sorted, I’ll start. But forgive the way that it’s told. See, this being an Angles’ tale, I have to tell it the Angles’ way – the way it was told to me, as far as I can remember it, anyway.

1. Woden was King of the Angles in the Migration Days; he led us to England, to be our new land.
2. His son was Caser, though he didn’t last long.
3. After him, the next to be elected was Toottman Casering.
4. And his son, Trugil Toottmaning, succeeded him.
5. And after Trugil was Hrothmund Trugling, the Wuffing-father of Rendlesham.
6. And Hruth Hrothmunding succeeded him.
7. His son Wilhelm Hruthing took the high seat to Helmingham where he fathered the Helmings.
8. His son Wea Wilhelming was elected King of East Angles, the first of that name.
9. Wuffa Weahing then was king after him.
10. And Tootla Wuffing was king after Wuffing.
11. Then came Rædwald Tootling. King Rædwald gained the most prominent fame. Bretwalda, the Great King over all of England; Imperium, Rex Anglorum, Bede called him. Buried now beneath his great haug at Sutton. From far and wide they brought their funeral gifts to him. Long will our people speak of him.
12. His brother Eni Tootling was for a short year king after him.
13. Next came the Great King’s son, Eorpwald Rædwalding, who was the first of the Wuffings to renounce the old gods, the gods of their fathers, which was to bring heavy curses upon them. Eorpwald shortly after was murdered by Ricbert.
14. And for three years Ricbert returned his people to the worship of Woden.
15. But next to the high seat of the East Angles came Eorpwald’s young brother, Sigbert called Saint, who until then had been hiding overseas with the Franks. There he, too, renounced the faith of his fathers, and took instead to the southerners’ god. Then so great was his love of heaven, he removed his arse from the high seat and gave it instead to a kinsman Ecgric, son of Eni Tootling. But that did not avert the Norns’ fury and neither did his god protect him. For King Penda and his Mercians attacking, Sigbert’s people dragged him, protesting, from his heavenly monastery and, with no more than a staff in his hand, he was slain in battle – along with Ecgric Ening.
16. After those two kings, Anna Ening took the high seat. But despite he was busy swiving his wife, so many the saints he begot from his lions, still King Anna Ening was slain in battle, by the same King Penda. (Another king their god of peace had forsaken.)
17. King Anna’s brothers Ethelhere, Ethelwold and Ethilric all followed in fast succession. In ten years, so many of the Ening-kings killed. (One would think they’d made the wrong choice, forsaking Woden for Christ. But of that I’ll say nothing.)
18. And so at last came Aldwulf Ethilricing.

And in his days Bishye was bishop of all the East Angles. And in those days too came peace with Mercia, for King Penda died and his son King Wulfhere Pendring cared little but to press against the southern kingdoms.

But now a new cause for battle arose.

Between the land of the East Angles and that of Mercia lay the fenlands. Less habitable land than two persons could squat on, yet five tribes dwelt there: the Willa, the Wixna, the North and the South Gyrwa. The North and the South Gyrwa had long turned against the old ways. But the Willa and Wixna had not. And now released from King Penda’s attention, the Wixna sought to increase their lands – at the cost of the East Angles.

The fourth battle was fought along the edge of the heath-lands, and Bishop Bishye there attended his king. He raised his staff and called down the curses of his southern god. But the Wixna, their foe, called upon a god stronger. And great slaughter was wrought there that day.

As the sun sought its night-boat so Bishop Bishye picked his way through the feasting of crows to give succour to the sore-injured and to send to his heaven the dead souls. Nought he thought for his safety for the battle was done. Yet he shivered when he saw the woman approach him. Beautiful she, and hung all in white, but she’d a string of bones trailed behind her.

“Bishop Bishye,” she greeted, her voice deep as the halls of Holle. “You steal my night’s carting. My Lord Woden will not sing glee-songs.” Then she folded her arms and waited to hear what he’d say.

He laughed. “Over yonder lie your pickings. The Wixna. But these Helmings, Wuffings and Inings are mine. All, in the days of King Rædwald, set aside their heathen ways. Now they are the most honest of Christian men.”

She answered his laugh with a scoff of her own. “Yet they’re warriors still. And I see just with the cast of my eye, that many still wear my own Lord’s rune.” And she cocked her head at him.

“We cannot eradicate superstition amongst them,” he admitted.

“You cannot eradicate their desire to live, when you would cast them down,” she spat in return.

“How so?” he asked her. “They go now to Heaven.”

“Ay, ay, ay, ay, and no more to live? Warriors, Bishop Bishye, not simpering priests who’d rather pray than to swive with a woman. I ask you, priest of the Pure God, have you ever enjoyed the flesh of a woman?”

“Certainly not!” His face flared red, outraged at the thought.

To which she chuckled. “Then I’ll make you a deal. Come with me now and I’ll give to you such pleasure that surpasses your every notion of heaven. And if I should fail, all this day’s dead, the Wixna amongst them, you may send to your own god.”

Bishop Bishye looked at the dead, at the Helmings, the Wuffings and the Inings. He looked at the dead of the Wixna. And if she should fail all these dead he may send to his god. So many souls to be saved: five hundred East Angles and likely as many of the Wixna too. And what must he do but to refuse to find pleasure in what she gives him. He looked from the woman again to the dead. And what pleasure could a woman give that surpassed his notion of Heaven?

“Challenge accepted,” he said. “Deal’s on.”

Alas, to spare the blushes of priests and maidens, the rest of this tale cannot be told but must be left to bud and blossom in your own imagination. Enough to say that that same night Woden’s hall was swollen by the souls of five hundred East Angle warriors and an equal count of the Wixna, there to feast and to drink and to fight and to brag until their final battle of Ragnarok.

~ ~ ~

Crimson’s Note:
Bisi, or Bifus, was bishop of the East Angles until 670 CE. After his death, so many by then were the converted Christians, the East Anglian see was divided between the Norfolk seat at Elmham and the Suffolk seat at Dunwich.

Of the king list given by Toli, those from Tootla Wuffing (Tyttil son of Wuffa) onwards are historically attested.

As to the rest of the tale, I cannot vouch for its veracity. But I can say this. I promised Toli I’d not interfere with his tellings, but when he whispered in my ear of what happened that night, I said no, he could not tell it all.

The Snake-Demon and Him

In the previous episode of Feast Fables, Serande finally allowed Kerrid to enter the Web. But where was the Spinner? She was supposed to greet her. Instead Kerrid learned how the Web’s oracle’s worked when she collided with Spelan’s Web-light and his memories spooled into her. At least now she understands why Spelan is the twisted beast that he is, and it’s not surprising that the snake-demon has taken to him. But she has yet to spin Spelan’s light into the future, to know what more he has planned for her.

Join Kerrid now in the next episode, A Boy Possessed, to get some answers on that.

Return Match

Wednesday, Ms Cox’s day off. Neve had hoped to get away early. It wasn’t only the need to escape this oven – all afternoon the sun had burned through the window; “It only happens two weeks either side of the solstice,” Cox had told her  – but also she wanted words with Raesan. And it was bad enough that the detour to bank to deposit the takings would delay her but then at the last moment in came a customer. And she didn’t even buy a reel of white cotton, just flicked through the craft packs, looking for a gift for her aunt’s birthday, she said. Neve locked the door behind her. At last. She cashed up, gathered bag and jacket, locked up and headed left, to the bank.

Being alone, with only an occasional customer to distract her, had given Neve ample time to think. And what she’d thought didn’t please her. “That bastard, he doesn’t care who my grandpa was. Of all the selfish . . .” she hadn’t the words to express it “. . . bullshit artist!” she borrowed from Uncle James.

It wasn’t that she doubted the truth of his memories. It would have taken a thorough study of medieval history and a vivid imagination to bamboozle her with it. Everything he’d shown her, everything he’d said, everything checked out exactly. And apart from refusing her sight of Regin-yorl, he’d kept nothing from her. But then when he’d thought she wouldn’t want more of his memories – because she knew who her grandpa was – he’d had these sudden sulks, punctuated by sudden bursts of anger, and then laughter.

This wasn’t about finding her grandpa, no matter his insistence it was. It was nomore than a ruse to keep her roof over his head.

She couldn’t blame him. It must be rough to live alone in a tent. But she did wonder how genuine his concern of the broken Oath. She suspected it had only now occurred to him, the consequences of their success. If they found her grandpa then bang would go his claim on her.

The takings thunked into the nightsafe, she settled the headphones into place. Ms Cox had insisted. “A mugger could be up behind you and you’d not know it.” Neve had wanted to answer that yes she would. But instead she did as she was told. Small town, people noticed her, people who knew Ms Cox, people who attended the same church. No need to antagonise her employer further; she didn’t want another written warning. The chilled guitar riffs of Jeff Beck’s Steeled Blues helped soothe her.

So Raesan wanted her roof. Then best he gave her what she wanted. And that wasn’t to know more about Gunnhild and Alan, nor to feast her eyes upon Regin-yorl. Rather it was to unravel the mystery surrounding the Cesars. For if she was right of Regin-yorl being her grandpa, then one of the Cesars was her great-grandma.

There was something odd about them. Old Cesar? The lesser nocks might age, indeed become grimmen, but the way Raesan had explained it that was due to their mortal component. Yet Old Cesar was an Asar, first-born, and had no mortal blood. So that wouldn’t explain it. And why three with all the same name? And why didn’t Raesan know which one was Regin-yorl’s mother?

She had replayed her memories –Raesan’s memories – but all she could find, and that learned from facial expressions, flitting eyes and two overheard conversations, was that Amblushe didn’t like them, Zelina was jealous of them, and Vyvain held them in angry contempt.

But Raesan wanted her grandpa to be Edmund Gunnhildsson, so it was best to keep her interest in the Cesars to herself. At least now she was better able to shield her thoughts from him – or was it that he no longer bothered to probe. She must feign a belief in this Edmund. She’d already tried several search criteria but so far the internet had yielded her nothing. That didn’t surprise her; Gunnhild would have made sure their heads were kept low. When Nihel died soon after Alan she probably sought comfort with the younger brother, Stefan. She probably followed him to Brittany. She’d have been safer there than there in war-torn England, and more places to hide.

She started on Raesan as soon as through the door. “You said of Eldsland, that it was a state generated by the Asars. So after the Atonement, when no more Asars, there was no more Eldsland. Am I right?”

“Lady, Lady, what’s this, yeh? You’re all heated-hot. Sun’s too much, is it? Na, I know what it is. ‘Presumed Lunar Tension’. Sit, Lady, yeh, I fetch you a drink.”

“I am not agitated, though you can fetch me a juice.” She’d make use of his services if he insisted. This was how he had been, almost fawning, ever since his night away without explanation. “It’s just, well, with Eldsland gone I was wondering where the Bellinn are now.”

“Dispersed.” He waved his hands airily and headed to the kitchen to pour her a mango juice.

She sat by the table, a mat quickly placed before Raesan could spill sticky juice on the highly polished antique surface.

“Lirabien Marskonung, yeh, he ferried them to Iceland and Greenland and Norway. Though some went to Normandy, too, and to Brittany. He took them wherever, yeh. Most went. Few wanted to remain here.”

“But some did? So what of them, those who remained?” Her thoughts were racing. A ferry to France; she could make a summer holiday of it. She was entitled to time off. But she’d have to take Raesan with her. He could drive, she could not, and she doubted the Bellinn would be living a riot in Paris. More likely they’d taken to the back-of-beyond villages.

“Lady, I wasn’t party to it. I looked for them. Looked on and off. But they don’t want to be found.” He shrugged, a return to the morosity of when they’d first met. “Only ones I ever saw were the aging, decaying. The grimmen, the ones the Bellinn don’t want. Poor ugly discarded sprites, yeh, they only want to survive. They’re your tales of boggarts and brownies, you know, your knockers and gnomes. Woeful creatures. But best you don’t ever meet them. They’ll have your Asar blood, like I’ve said. They’ll prey upon you.”

“Then how am I to find my grandpa?”

The fall of his mouth seemed genuine. She was right, he’d not thought this through. He started to pace, a cooling breeze circling with him.

“Raesan, you must know where they are. That day we met, you said you’re outcast from them.”

“I know of a couple or two,” he admitted. “But you won’t find your Grandpa Eddy with them.”

She waited. He offered no more so she prompted, ”Well? Who, where, why?”

He shrugged again, now leaning against the kitchen’s base-units, his back towards her as he looked out of the window. “In the 60s, yeh. They had, like, hippy communes. They could still be there, I suppose. They were working the old crafts, like you do, yeh. Sewing and . . . handy-stuff. And they’d sell their wares at the craft fairs. Lots of people did that then, weren’t just the Bellinn, so none thought them different. Then others, I suppose the less handy, yeh, they acted as street entertainers, buskers and . . . well, yeh. But that, Lady, is all that I know of them. I’ve not seen them, Lady, and as I said, they don’t want me. They don’t understand.”

He didn’t turn, his aura a tight yellow band as he strared out of the window.

“I’ll go change. Then rustle us up something nice to eat. Yea?” She left him standing there. She felt for him. Though she was happy now to be alone, time was when she wanted so much to be normal and be accepted. How much deeper the pain when it was his own kind who rejected him. For once she didn’t play music.

. _____ .

It had been another blistering day, with tempers frayed. So Neve wasn’t surprised to see Nerys, skimpy t-shirt coffee-stained, tight-lipped as she stood in the dark open doorway. Neve knew why she was there. Waiting to pounce on her as soon as she returned from work.

“Tell that friend of yours to turn that music down else you’ll find the police at your door.”

Neve nodded. She’d heard the music even before she turned into South Grove.

“Raesan!” she yelled before she’d yet shut the door. “Turn it down!” But T Rex continued to boogie. Neve stomped up the stairs.

There was Raesan, sapphire silk shirt swinging around him, clean white jeans, far too tight-fitting, boogying. “Hey!” he said when he turned and saw her. “Grab yer glad-rags, Baby, don your duds. We’re going to party.”

She cut his power at the socket. Silence echoed.

“Neve,” he whined. “You’re no fun.”

“No, and nor would you be if you’d had that Crabby Cox down your ear all day, complaining that I’m slow putting the delivery away, and I’m to smile now matter how awkward the customer, and . . . and then I come home to this! I’ve told you, multiple times, to keep it down.”

He lumped onto the floor and folded his legs into perfect full-lotus. He hung his head. And now she felt bad at having shouted.

He looked up, eyes lonely-pup-pleading. “Lady, come clubbing with me tonight, yeh? It’ll do you oodles of good. When was the last time? Na, don’t tell me. Your last Christmas at school . . . male partners imported from the neighbouring boys’ school. Gangly youths jerking and jumping like puppets performing St. Vitas’s dance. Am I right? I am right. So come on, Lady, leave that computer of yours, forget about searching, and spend time with me – like you would with a friend.”

“I don’t do clubs, they’re crowded. And I don’t like music so loud I can’t hear. But no, you go.” An evening without his company, oh, that would be bliss.

“Yeh, okay,” he said. But then didn’t move.

Though she felt awkward, she left him with his hangdog expression while she changed from work-clothes into loose trousers and shirt. She heard no more from him. She cooked a pizza from the freezer and served it with salad. He didn’t join her. She was then washing up when she heard him descending the stairs. He stood on the bottom tread watching her.

“Please, don’t turn that computer on tonight, yeh.”

“And how do I find Edmund without it? You started it, telling me how important—”

“Yeh and it is, but . . . you don’t have to spend every ticky-tock looking. I want you to spend time with me. But you’re always at work or on that machine.”

“And what’s sharing your memories, if it’s not being with you?” She knew where this was leading, and she was not going clubbing with him. She could scream at the mere thought of it.

“I know!” He suddenly brightened, all animation. “Let’s go for a drive, yeh. Ha, that’s got your attention.”

It had. She wiped her hands dry while she considered it.

“Weather’s good for it,” he said. “And you’ve only been in my car the once.”

She remembered it well – particularly how loud the music. Besides, had he a licence? Indeed, had he ever taken the test? She doubted it. Yet, on consideration, he had seemed a careful driver, if a trifle erratic. No, impulsive might better describe it.

“I’ll take you out in the country. Trees. Green fields, yeh. I know that you miss them, and I won’t play the music. Please? You won’t have to do anything, just be with me, yeh? You can fully take ease. You’d like that.”

She looked out of the window. The back garden now was awash with blue and purple sweet-smelling flowers. The shrubs, the trees, all were in leaf. It was a green and pleasant place. But it wasn’t the countryside where all her life she had lived. That garden was tightly confined by fences. The countryside was wide open spaces.

. _____ .

She woke with a jolt. Music. “You said . . .”

“But you were asleep,” answered Raesan’s disembodied voice.

She craned round. Where was he? They were parked into a lay-by while he fussed over fastening the roof.

How tired she must have been to so-easily sleep. And it had been so exhilarating. The wind in her hair, and buffeting her face, the warm evening air, the greens of the trees and the fields and the meadows, and the birds and the cows and even the farmyard smells. But now the sun had set and what was left of the twilight was shredded by the cars streaming past. Where were they?

Raesan settled again into the car. “A nuisance, that hood. But it’s not as bad as the one before. That had to be lugged out of the boot, yeh, and manfully fitted.”

“How long ago was that?” she asked, despite she’d rather complain of the music. He had said no music.

“You expect me to count years? After 13,000, yeh? Na, but I’ve had this baby since, oh, ’67. Six hundred and forty quid – including purchase tax. A snip, hey.”

“Um, yea.” She knew nothing of cars, but the vehicle looked new, such immaculate condition.

“I put her into the garage once a month for a valet and service,” he said. “Have to look after my baby.” His baby responded to his touch with a purr of her engine.

“Are we heading for home now?”

He didn’t answer. The CD in the slot was a compilation. It was easy listening, she had to admit. Motoring music. It was acceptable. Then the track again changed. Her mouth fell.

“You like?” he asked.

“. . . is that Jeff Beck’s version?”

“You like Becky-Boy.” He sang along with it. Hi Ho Silver Lining.

She liked Beck as in the Yardbirds, not this. Though it wasn’t offensive unlike most of Raesan’s music, and it did seem to suit him – as long as he didn’t take his hands off the wheel and start waving his arms.

“So where are we?” Beyond the headlights all was black.

He still didn’t answer.

She peered out of the side window but all she could see was the verge rushing past. She wondered the time. She didn’t wear a wristwatch, another cause of Ms Cox’s complaints, and the clock on the dashboard was working only in as much as the second hand swept round the face. It showed half-past seven; that couldn’t be right. She didn’t even know in which direction they headed.

“I have to be home. I’ve work in the morning.”

“Your Crabby Cox thinks I’m a psycho-killer,” he said.

“She doesn’t like men.”

“Your Nerys next door, yeh, she thinks I’m a druggie.”

Neve couldn’t dispute that – neither Nerys’s assumption nor the grounds for it. Neve had smelled it more than once when passing his door.

“Where are we?” she asked.

Again, no answer.

They passed through a town. It didn’t look like a Norfolk town, but she couldn’t say why. Groups of young people staggered across the high street, arms flung round each other and calling. Well, that told her the time – though, was it pubs or clubs closing? Then they were through the town and onto a dual-carriage way which soon delivered them onto a motorway.

“Raesan!”

“You worry too much, yeh. This is my treat to you. Just let it be.”

She fretted. He wouldn’t answer her. Chilled music played. There was nothing she could do. She relaxed into the night. She was aware only when he turned off the motorway. Around them now were hills, but it was again too dark to see. In the distance, lights, like fairy glens. Then they disappeared.

“She’ll go ape at me,” Neve muttered as shapes started to emerge out of the dark. It soon would be dawn.

Raesan finally drew to a stop. “Out you get.”

She wouldn’t have, except he got out first. She didn’t trust him not to leave her stranded. He took her hand and led her over a verge of rough grass. From there the land fell away and, before her, eerily lit in the early dawn, lay a mist-shrouded plain.

“Where . . .?”

“Mists, Lady, yeh. Tells you what?”

She looked at him.

“Avalon, yeh, maybe, huh?” She could hear the grin in his words. “Just be here, Lady, and watch; you’ll like this.”

She was cold. Shivering. The grass was bedewed, her feet were wet. Yet as the sun rose it turned the plain below her to a magical vista. The rays caught the mist and turned it to gold, all filigreed through with silver threads. Trees standing as solitary sentinels suddenly blazed as if with fire while everything untouched turned to black. Then as she watched, from the blackness the greens began to emerge, and the creamy-whites and the reds of the houses beneath the tarnished bronze of thatches.

“But where are we?” she asked.

“Truly don’t know? This is my country, yeh, here and across the Channel. We stand on the Mendips, Lady. While over there . . .” he nodded to across the mist-filled Levels. “See?”

She saw, a grin spreading her face. Completely painted in gold, a perfect cone of a hill floated as if rootless above the mist.

“Glastonbury? And you were the lord here?” She’d never imagined . . .

He laughed. “Na, that never was me. Freilsen, he was the lord here, and his lady Ardhea.”

Neve glanced at him. He had stumbled slightly on saying the name, as if there was pain connected there. Had he loved the lady? But she wouldn’t enquire and spoil his day.

“Back in the car, yeh. Can’t come this far without climbing the tor.”

She started to giggle at the thought. But stopped. “You’d best find me a phone box first.” She didn’t want to tell such a lie but the least she could do was to phone in sick.

. _____ .

Next episode, 18th June: Super-Warrior-Killing-Machine

Toli’s Tall Tales 2

Lo! Toli here, bringing you cheer, so wrap a mit around a mead and pull yourself a chair.

Not Homer, you say? So answer I, where is Homer? Here telling you tales? Na, this is Toli here, bringing you cheer, Toli’s Tall Tale Number Two.

And this tale, I swear, is all totally true – and did Homer ever say that? But I know this tale’s true cos my grandfa told me it, told it to me when I was no more than a chubby cheeked cub at his knee. And my grandfa, see, lived close by Maringtorp which place, you might know, was named for the pit in this tale.

The Mare’s Pit

Now, in the good days – before this present King Willie – there lived at Maringtorp two brothers, widow’s sons, Wit and Wat. And Wit and Wat were as different as two peas could be. See, Wit was tall while Wat was not. And Wit was thin while Wat was not. And Wit could swim while Wat could not. And Wat was clever though Wit thought him not. But what Wat and Wit both were together was ever keen-eyed for that extra edible thing. Now don’t you ill-judge them on that. Me, being a widow’s son too, I know how it was, though I had the fortune to have me a pa so I’ve ne’er been as keen-eyed as them.

Tale starts one late year, coming to winter, the yale-yard already stripped and looking unpromising. The widow having no work for them, Wit and Wat had oft to town and there had lurked along the lanes, hoping some cart or a wagon would wobble along and spill part of its wares. A quick scramble and into the pockets and gone, and there they’d have, maybe for a day or so, some what to eat. But the day’s take hadn’t happened, and Wat’s big belly was hollow and wanting.

“You know that pit across the moor?” Wat said, tentative-like cos he didn’t know if his brother would take it.

“Mare’s Pit?” Wit answered.

“That’ll be it, ay. Well I heard a tale of that, t’other day.”

Wit groaned all theatrical-like and yawned extra-loud. “You heard of the gold,” he said.

“Na, it’s no tale,” Wat said fast in defence. “I went there myself and I saw.”

Wit laughed. “What, you saw the gold? You’re taking me for a simple? Listen, Wat, you dithering duff-head, if gold was waiting down there at Pit’s bum, why hasn’t no other yet fetched it up?”

Wat thought about that before he answered. “Likely cos they’ve not got a Wit for a brother. See, Wit, I’ve been thinking on it while walking the lanes not getting hot. Come with me, I’ll show you.”

Now Mare’s Pit was far across the moor, not set aside their road to home. So Wit looked around, seeking a reason to refuse him.

“Come on,” Wat said and started to drag at his arm. “If we walk fresh we can be there and home before dark.”

“Best be,” Wit said. “Nasty things happen on that moor.”

It were not the time of year, this late of day, to go venturing there, and well Wit knew it. Yet he allowed Wat to push and to pull and cajole him along. “Might find some fool’s meat,” Wat said, meaning some mushrooms, for a fair few did grow there.

Wit stood between sun and pit and shivered while Wat pointed in. “See?” Wit didn’t want to edge closer yet he had to admit, down there, there was a glimmer that could have been gold. He stood upon tiptoes and stretched to peer over.

“Ay,” he agreed, gold was there. “But how’d we get it? T’were it easy, it’d long be gone.”

“Like I said,” Wat said, “no other has a brother named Wit. I reckon a ladder will do it.”

“What, put the ladder in and climb down?” Wit didn’t like the sound of it.

“Na. Put the ladder across and then lean down.”

Wit had to concede, it weren’t a bad plan. “Tomorrow,” he said.

“At dawn,” agreed Wat. They could use Feggi’s ladder. The thatcher had left it by their house these two days-past while swiving their mother.

So dawn comes around and they’re out of the house, nabbed the ladder, and away to the moor. Gold’s still aglitter deep in that pit. They put basket down and lay ladder over.

“I’ll steady,” said Wat. “You lay a-ladder and stretch your arm down.”

This Wit did. And that water was foul and that water was cold. And, long though his arms, Wit’s fingers didn’t even touch upon gold.

“Get us a stick,” said Wit, which Wat did.

But stretch though he did with the stick in his hand, never did Wit with the wood touch gold.

“Fetch us the basket,” said Wit. They’d brought it for carrying home the gold. “Now tie it onto the stick.”

But even with this lengthening device, still Wit, stick and basket didn’t touch gold.

“I’m going in,” Wit said. He’d not be outdone, not now. “I’ll be daisy-bright, long as I keep one hand on the ladder.”

But though he slipped his body into the cold and dark water still Wit’s feet didn’t touch gold. So he lowered more of his body in. And more. Soon he’d lowered it all but his head which stuck out, his arms all atremble as he clutched to the ladder. But still Wit couldn’t touch gold.

“I’m making a dive for it,” Wit said and Wat rubbed his hands. Though Wit hadn’t known it, this had been part of Wat’s plan all along.

Wit upended like he was a duck and was gone. Wat waited, rubbing his hands though not to warm them.

Bubbles burbled, one after another. Wat waited, rubbing his hands though not to keep warm.

The bubbles stopped burping, no new ones appeared. Wat peered over, into the pit, filled with that dark foulsome water. But that water lay still. Where was his brother?

With uttermost care, Wat lay the length of the ladder the better to peer into the dark and cold water. But not even a hint of Wit was there.

Wat stretched his arm into the water, hoping to brush against his brother – and another’s hand grabbed him.

“Wit!” he had time to exclaim, all overcome with excitement, relief and – then fear.

Out of that dark foul water a woman appeared. Golden her hair, but green her skin – and blackened her teeth that glinted in the pale morning light, sharper than a cat’s sharpened by fight.

She cackled, throwing over her shoulder one very long breast while her claw-ended fingers raked into Wat’s flesh. “Two little brothers for me to eat. It’s been so long. A real Christmas treat.” And into the pit she pulled Wit’s brother Wat.

Down and down she dragged him while above the silent black waters closed over.

Painting by Wilhelm Kotabinski (1849-1921)
Sourced Wikipedia Commons; Public Domain

I hear by your silence you’re stunned. Likely you want to ask, as I asked of my grandfa when he told the tale, “What happened to Wit and Wat the brothers? How’d they get out?”

And I, like my grandfa, must answer. They did not.

Now I’ll leave you to think upon that.

Ploughman Ares

Ploughman Ares, morning proud
Leader of the battle crowd
Yelling cries that ring out loud

Ploughman Ares, never cold
Spilling blood in lands of old
Iron more precious than their gold

Ploughman Ares, never slowed
Humped his back but never bowed
Ploughman Ares, spring endowed

What More Of Spelan

In the previous episode of Feast Fables, Kerrid learned more about Spelan. She learned that he stopped the women from visiting her. She learned of the women’s reasons for fear. Worst and most horror-full, she learned what he did to the girls-almost-women. Two such girls, who had dared to visit her, died within three days.

Now she has gone to Serande and insisted she enters the Web. Only there are answers she needs, answers that will help her deal with Spelan. And though Wise Man Serande has been stalling, he finally agrees.

Join Kerrid now as she sets out to the place of entrancement, aware to the pit of her belly that while many may enter, few ever return - at least not with their wits. The next episods: A Glimmerless Pit.