Beeches and Bluebells

Badbury Clump, near Faringdon, Oxfordshire.

 

These pictures are as good an opportunity as any for me to attach some of my completely unpublishable fairy tale novellas for childish adults. One novella won't fit on a single image, so I'll have to attach it chapter by chapter. This novella is by far the quirkiest, so I'll start with it. There are others which are perhaps easier to follow on a first reading, but I was at my most mischievous here, I think...

 

HINGEFINKLE'S LOGBOOK (First instalment)

 

Part One: Gnomes and other Goodies; Goblins and other Baddies

 

The Grisly End of Gwydion

 

You will no doubt be delighted, my dear little Alias, to know that I, your adopted father Hingefinkle, modest expert on the taxonomy of monsters and collector of bardic lore, have decided that I am not getting any younger, and that if I am going to write my memoirs at all, then I had better start writing them now. I count my own humble life as being of trifling importance to the overall scheme of things; yet I have, I think you will agree, lived through some times and encountered some creatures which have been, to say the least, absolutely fascinating. It is for the sake of these momentous events and these extraordinary monstrosities that I now put pen to paper, knowing that you of all people, little Alias, will gladly assist in handing down their memory to posterity.

 

How old were you when you rendered the Four Branches of the Mabinogi into verse? I forget, but you cannot have been much older than five or six. What a clever little fellow you are! And how perceptively you wrote of Pwyll’s descent to the underworld, of the strange powers of the disembodied head of Bendigeidfran, of Llew Llaw Gyffes and the owl-woman Blodeuedd: tales spanning the past five centuries - and the later ones not entirely beyond my own experience. But of all the men and women of those times, it is Gwydion whose memory still brings a chill to my heart, and my blood runs cold when I hear those words of yours:

 

Hanner Hwych, Hanner Hob, Gwydion the mage

Bold Pryderi, Lord of Dyfed, hath incited unto rage.

 

My boy, even after all our travels, you cannot begin to imagine the horror of that evil deed, when Gwydion brought to dust the fairest and justest lord this land has known - and yet you wrote of Pryderi’s funeral as though you were there yourself among the mourners. Little Alias, how ever did you know?

 

Slow the drum beats for Pryderi

Slow they walk on either side

Of the coffin borne so lightly

Where Pryderi once did ride.

Slow the horses, slow the nobles,

Slow the ladies garbed in black.

At Maen Tyriawg, o’er Y Felenrhyd

Lowly Cigfa groans, “Alack!”

 

Of course, there was a man more powerful than Gwydion, as well you know. For in the days before his tragic decline, which you have witnessed with your own eyes, King Math, son of Mathonwy, alone was able to defeat Gwydion in a battle of wills. Old Math had a sense of humour too; I seem to remember he even turned Gwydion into a sow on one occasion. Such indignity! But what Gwydion lacked in magic, he made up for in deviousness, cruelty and duplicity, and he soon regained his privileged position in King Math’s court. And then there was all that to-do with Blodeuedd, after Math and Gwydion had combined their powers to make her out of flowers. Poor old Math really messed things up that time - what a silly thing that was for him to do; to combine his powers with that wily enchanter and necromancer! Perhaps Agrimony is right, and it was then that King Math really started to lose his marbles. He could hardly have expected anything but trouble...

 

*

 

“Codswallop!” roared Agrimony decisively, glaring defiantly at King Math. “I am a Druid, not a flipping conjurer! This whole proposal stinks, and you know it!” He pounded the table with his fist, and the King glared back at him unflinching. At his feet sat his faithful fool, Coxcold, rather mournful-looking for a jester. Coxcold nodded silently as Agrimony spoke, and muttered softly:

 

Flowers may be worn by lasses

To make them look more pretty,

Flowers may be chewn by asses

Though it would be a pity:

But to make a lass from bits of weed!

Why, that would take an ass indeed!

Good King, don’t sow destruction’s seed

But heed my little ditty!

 

“Gwydion has earned our trust,” King Math replied, ignoring his fool. “If he wants to make a wife for his son Llew Llaw out of flowers, why should we stop him?”

“Ha!” snapped Agrimony, “But you don’t have to help him! Look! Flowers are flowers; people are people. People are not made out of flowers. It’s very simple. But if you want me to prove it, I will, with my microscope. Plant tissue has cell walls; animal tissue has cell membranes. They are different, that’s all there is to it! Hingefinkle agrees with me, don’t you? Good. I told you so.”

“But Gwydion -” began the King.

“But Gwydion my bellybutton!” roared Agrimony. “You make a woman out of flowers, and you’ll be defying nature. That’s not magic; it’s pseudo-magic, and I’ll have nothing to do with it! Quite frankly, Math, I can’t be bothered with standing around here arguing about it. Come on, Hingefinkle, we’re off!” He grabbed my cloak by the hood and dragged me from the throne-room before I even had a chance to tell King Math that I thought his idea was pure fiddlesticks too, and King Math bawled after him, “How dare you speak to royalty like that!”

Agrimony stomped furiously out the door, and just before he slammed it, he roared “Royalty schmoyalty!” in reply, his wizened face scarlet with rage.

 

Agrimony was right, of course. The whole thing was a perfectly atrocious disaster. Gwydion made Blodeuedd with oak-flowers and broom-flowers, and Math brought her to life with flowers of the meadowsweet. But she was unfaithful and treacherous to Gwydion’s son Llew-Llaw from the very beginning, and with the help of a callow, cowardly youth named Gronw, she conspired to have him killed. Llew Llaw turned himself into an eagle and flew away, and Gwydion had to ride out in search of him. When at last they returned, Gwydion’s fury knew no bounds, and he condemned Blodeuedd, his own creation, to spend the rest of her days as an owl. That was a cruel trick, when you think about it. Blodeuedd was made of flowers, and flowers like the daylight - but whenever she came out of hiding when the sun was still in the sky, the other birds would mob her and chase her mercilessly. And so she went to haunt the forest, hunting in the moonlight on silent, mournful wings, and all the while, she plotted her revenge.

 

Now it so happens that at that time, I had a certain interest in the taxonomy of birds of prey. You will be well aware, my dear Alias, that I am of the considered opinion - though I submit that it is not an opinion shared by Agrimony - that dragons are descended from birds and not from reptiles. There are good reasons for this: dragons are hot blooded, birds are warm-blooded; dragons can fly and so can birds, but reptiles are all cold blooded land-lubbers. Now, if my hypothesis were correct, then it would stand to reason that, of all the birds, the raptors must be the dragons’ closest living relatives. Why? Well, it’s a simple matter of rapaciousness - and besides, in recent years the harpy has once and for all been proven to exist: a missing link if ever there was one. The theory that harpies are half-human, half bird, pieced together as it had been from the garbled testimonies of the survivors of harpy-attacks, had long been discredited, and it seemed far more likely to me that here we had a transitional form between birds and dragons. But Agrimony would have none of this.

“Complete poppycock!” he said one day whilst I was visiting him at his hermitage. “Quite frankly, I don’t believe all this nonsense about harpies. And I won’t, either, not until I see a specimen myself. You are a stupid old codger, Hingefinkle! You are building a ridiculous edifice on flimsy foundations. First you say that dragons are descended from birds; a preposterous hypothesis which you now back up with a bit of hearsay about harpies. The ridiculous ardour with which you champion your theory of ornithological dracogenesis has borne fruit in the wholly unjustifiable credulity with which you choose to believe in harpies. Frankly, Hingefinkle, I can’t be bothered refuting such balderdash!”

“Fiddlesticks!” I replied. “You have no imagination Agrimony, and a fatal lack of drive. One of these days, I’ll prove you wrong - and since live specimens of Draco terribilis pyromanicus are wanting in these parts, I’ll just have to find you a harpy, dead or alive.”

 

And so, I began my researches in earnest. Convinced as I was that harpies were merely a natural mutation of more common birds of prey, I decided to devote my immediate attention to the common raptors of the region. They were not in short supply: there were marsh harriers, ever seeking their prey in the Rancid Swamp; there were sparrowhawks galore (one of them liked to eat pigeons in my garden); there were kestrels, hovering vigilantly over the fields; and there was even the occasional buzzard, sitting squatly on a fence-post waiting for voles. But surpassing them by far, both in beauty and in rapaciousness, was the great white owl who hunted every dusk in and around the Bluebell Wood. I took to following her, deeper and deeper into the forest, and although I am sure that my attempts to hide my presence were entirely unsuccessful, she seemed quite unperturbed. It was because of her that I came to realise that the Bluebell Wood is but the beginning of an enormous forest, stretching far to the east and to the north, and even arching around to the west for more than fifty miles, beyond the mountains which border the Rancid Swamp.

 

I was so absorbed in my researches, and, as the white owl led me deeper into her territory day by day, so often apart from normal human intercourse, that I was not privy to the latest diplomatic developments in King Math’s court. What I write here therefore depends almost entirely upon Agrimony’s testimony as to what had occurred, related to me some months afterwards, when the memory of other terrible events had faded enough for me to speak of them. King Math had long been on hostile terms with Leartus, King of the East. Long had they argued over the precise borders of their territories, and, as the years had passed, the tears which had fallen were only outweighed by the blood which had been spilt in the struggle to define which tract of forest belonged to which kingdom, or which uninhabited mountain was under whose jurisdiction. Now, apparently, Leartus had grown old, and was weary of all the fighting, so he offered the hand of his daughter Catriona, a charming and radiant creature, to King Math’s belligerent son Edwardes, in the hope that their union would bring peace. But of course, my dear little Alias, you know about that as well as I do, for you immortalised the whole story in song:

 

Wise King Leartus, alas, was growing old;

Never had England possessed more subtle King,

Yet soon would his heart be standing still and cold,

And his daughter Catriona wore no wedding ring.

 

Nought was more dear to Leartus in old age

Than soft-hearted, sweet-lipped Catriona fair

No man in the kingdom would forego to engage

With so lovely a Princess - without fault nor care.

 

Leartus had an enemy, the King from the West -

The country between them was ravaged by their wars.

“Our fighting is fruitless,” Leartus does confess

He wrings his poor ageing hands: violence he abhors.

 

Leartus sends emissaries to his foe;

Pledges Catriona to Edwardes, Prince of Wales:

“Mayhap Prince and Princess will our strife forego,

And their happy union succeed where fighting fails.”

 

The Welsh King respondeth, “I’m weary of our strife:

Sooner such a union than take to arms anew!

My bold Prince Edwardes will take your lass for wife:

He’ll meet her on neutral lands with her retinue.

 

Fair Catriona restrains her bitter tears

Her father she kisses and smooths away his frown;

Leartus wrestles with fatherly fears;

His bony hand clutches his daughter’s wedding gown.

 

At last she departs for a crossroads to the south,

Woodland soon closes in on every side.

Voiceless prayers pass through her pretty mouth,

Her retinue their tears have bravely dried.

 

Prince Edwardes rides a stately mare,

His faithful fool Coxcold’s upon a stubborn ass,

They come to the crossroads, down the path they stare

Randy Edwardes is looking for his lass.

 

 

But you forgot to mention, my dear Alias, that there was one other person in Edwardes’s retinue, for in addition to the King’s fool Coxcold, the Prince was accompanied by Gwydion the Mage, riding a fine white stallion. I know it for a fact, my dear boy, for I saw him with my own eyes.

 

I shall never forget that terrible evening, and I hope that I shall never again have cause to so much regret having been proven right. The white owl led me deeper into the forest than ever before, and as the moon rose, it cast a mournful, dappled light on the forest floor, until at last the bird led me to a deserted crossroads, and then disappeared without a trace. I searched the forest for more than an hour, in the hope of finding the owl once more; twice I heard her hooting, but when I hurried in the direction of the sound, there would be nothing, only the leaves rustling in a faint, whispering breeze. And then I heard hoofbeats coming down the pathway, and hid behind a tree lest it be bandits or goblins, for there were all too many of both in those days. It was neither; for there, with armour glinting in the moonlight, sat a retinue of mounted knights, and, upon a milk-white mare, the most beautiful woman you could ever imagine, her hair raven-black, her fingers long and slender, her gentle lips moving silently with unuttered prayers. They stopped at the crossroads and waited, and presently, I heard the sound of more hooves, and a second retinue of knights rode forward and saluted the first.

 

And he was with them, his lip curled upwards at the corner, his piercing green eyes staring at the woman Catriona, his heavy, black cloak making him look for all the world like a giant bat, waiting to suck the lifeblood of anyone who failed to keep his guard. His horse pawed the ground with its hoof, and steam rose from its nostrils as it snorted. Coxcold was there too, plodding slowly along on his ass, but he kept his distance from Gwydion and the Prince Edwardes, so that it was Edwardes who saw Catriona first, dear Alias, as you rightly observe:

 

“Behold! Catriona and her company!”

Cries lusty Edwardes, spurring his steed.

Catriona’s radiant, her hair is blowing free;

Edwardes’ mare’s soft flank begins to bleed.

 

Coxcold looks upon the fair princess;

His heart is piercéd by her gentle eyes:

He falls to his knees - his love he must confess

Brazen the fool his master now defies:

 

“Forgive my folly, good Princess Pretty,

Compelled to address you upon my bended knee!

My master Edwardes is pompous and shitty!

Alack! By my troth I love you more than he!”

 

The fool prostrates himself among the leaves,

Fair Catriona dismounts her milk white mare,

Edwardes’ men pull swords from their sheaths,

She mops up the poor fool’s tears with her hair.

 

He touches her hand, she looks into his eye,

Raging Edwardes cries “Surely, Fool, you jest!”

He grits his teeth, hissing “Nonetheless you die!”

And aims his sword at quaking Coxcold’s chest.

 

Swift steps the Princess between sword and fool;

The Prince’s cold blade pierces to her heart.

Dying she lies now, in a bloody pool,

Coxcold feels life’s fabric torn apart.

 

With his bauble he beats upon his master’s head,

But strange songs fill the forest on all sides.

Edwardes leaves the Princess lying dead,

Mounts his horse and through the woodland rides.

 

And throughout the whole horrible incident, Gwydion sat on his stallion, gazing dispassionately into space, and as Edwardes began to ride away, leaving poor Coxcold weeping over Catriona, he proclaimed that he was bored and wished that King Math had not sent him out on such a fool’s errand. Even to a man like myself, so uninterested in the affairs of human beings, it was obvious what had happened. Gwydion had always been opposed to King Math making his peace with Leartus, for war is a profitable business if you know how to organise things properly. As they rode away, I crept up to the place where Coxcold knelt, Catriona’s head cradled in his lap, and realised with a start that he too was quite dead, whether from grief or from shock, or from less natural means, I do not know. But there was something else more disturbing, for the air was filled with that unaccountable tingling, as if the very atoms are jarring against each other: always the surest sign that a magical spell has been cast. I looked up toward where Gwydion, Edwardes and their men were disappearing down the path, and reflected that this was as dark a deed of enchantment as any he had ever performed.

 

It was then that the music started. It was quite pleasant, I suppose, in its way, but I prefer your fiddle any day, dear little Alias. Its effect on the figures I was watching was quite different however, for they all turned their horses towards the sound, and even Gwydion did not seem to be immune to its enchantment. So I followed them too, merely out of curiosity, and the rest of the story is told by your song:

 

The music is limpid, it carries him along

Winding it weaves a web within his brain,

He’s charmed and enticed by the lilting song,

Its notes traverse the gulf ‘twixt bliss and pain.

 

Edwardes’ men, too, rally to the song,

And all the brave knights of Leartus’ household

Depart for the woods in one enchanted throng,

Leaving Catriona in the arms of poor Coxcold.

 

Edwardes rides to a clearing in the trees,

Five hideous harpies sing through rancid lips.

Edwardes dismounts, crawls forward on his knees,

The Prince’s clothes one harpy stoops and strips.

 

Screeching she beats his skull in with a bone

Two other harpies haggle for the meat,

Edwardes slumps limply forward with a groan

Their comrades lurk, the other knights to meet.

 

Blood runs fast and thick in woodland glade,

The harpies flap about and hiss with fetid breath.

Of all the retinue, not one knight has strayed

But all have wandered unerring unto death.

 

Now the harpies, hungry for the feast

Fight for the flesh, dispute the choicest fare

Soon their wrath has waxéd and increased

They scratch and screech and tear each other’s hair.

 

The Prince’s corpse the harpies attracts:

Each wants a morsel, each a sip of blood

Soon each harpy her sister attacks,

They tear one another to shreds in the wood.

 

They ate Gwydion too, before they turned on one-another. I would have run to help him - even him - but to do so would have been suicide, and besides, it was all over in less than a minute. When they had finished with him, there was nothing whatever left, for they carried his bones off into the forest and hid them. And then, not satisfied with their macabre feast, they started to eat each other, until not one of them was alive. When the danger was passed and I had recovered a little from the horror of it, I retrieved one of their talons, and carried it away with me. But before I left, as if enough extraordinary things had not happened already, the great white owl flew down from the canopy and perched on the ground where Gwydion had breathed his last. And then suddenly she was gone, and the forest floor was strewn with flowers.

 

*

 

My dear Alias, you can recount the rest with far more art than my poor, prosaic mind can manage:

 

Anxious Leartus waits upon his throne

For word of Catriona, his blesséd, gentle child.

The days roll onward, still he sits alone,

At last the old man rides into the wild.

 

He finds her at a crossroads, wound in her breast,

Weeps tears of rage that he sent her from his fold.

A dead man lies with her, blood upon his chest,

But no wound could they find on the body of Coxcold.

 

Love songs turn wise men raving mad

Love songs even make the foolish sad

Never heed a love song, succumbing to its force

Lest you trace the music to its source.

 

King Math might have recovered his former glory now that Gwydion was gone, yet it seemed that not even that one fragment of good could be extracted from the evil course of events. He was beside himself with grief for his poor fool Coxcold, and when another fool, an imbecile named Codpiece, was introduced to him, he misguidedly presumed that it was Coxcold come back from the dead. Thereafter, he hung on Codpiece’s every word, and Codpiece was hardly a distinguished advisor. The people of Cambria had much cause to wish for the days when Math, in full possession of his faculties, had not been able to do without a maiden at his feet; now, as a hopeless old widower with a simpleton among simpletons at his side, it was hardly surprising that Math’s worldly power was slowly usurped by Gwydion’s own son. To make matters worse, Leartus and Math held one-another responsible for the deaths of their children, and as a result, the war between East and West plumbed new depths of bloodiness and horror.

 

“But,” I hear you objecting, “surely there was one skerrick of good to be gained from the whole grisly story; you must have convinced Agrimony that harpies did exist after all.”

No such luck, I’m afraid. One night, when Agrimony seemed to be in a fairly good mood (his alchemical experiments were showing great promise), I broached the subject of the missing link between dragons and birds, and produced what I thought could only be regarded as irrefutable evidence.

“What?” roared Agrimony, hurling the specimen into the fire in a fit of indignation. “I tell you to bring me evidence that harpies exist, and the best you can do is to bring me a half-chewed eagle’s claw? Codswallop to that, I say!”

 

Done