Timothy Ferguson's Blog, page 4

The Book of Beasts by Edith Nesbit

We had one of Edith Nesbit’s ghost stories last week, so this week one of her tales for children. This comes from The Book of Dragons, which I compulsively re-read in primary school. I waited for it to hit public domain in the United States, planning to grab it the first weekend it was available, but the day before I planned to start, Laurie Anne Walden claimed it and I didn’t want to record a duplicate. Fair play to her. Thanks to her for the recording.

***

He happened to be building a Palace when the news came, and he left all the bricks kicking about the floor for Nurse to clear up—but then the news was rather remarkable news. You see, there was a knock at the front door and voices talking downstairs, and Lionel thought it was the man come to see about the gas, which had not been allowed to be lighted since the day when Lionel made a swing by tying his skipping rope to the gas bracket.

And then, quite suddenly, Nurse came in and said, “Master Lionel, dear, they’ve come to fetch you to go and be King.”

Then she made haste to change his smock and to wash his face and hands and brush his hair, and all the time she was doing it Lionel kept wriggling and fidgeting and saying, “Oh, don’t, Nurse,” and, “I’m sure my ears are quite clean,” or, “Never mind my hair, it’s all right,” and, “That’ll do.”

“You’re going on as if you was going to be an eel instead of a King,” said Nurse.

The minute Nurse let go for a moment Lionel bolted off without waiting for his clean handkerchief, and in the drawing room there were two very grave-looking gentlemen in red robes with fur, and gold coronets with velvet sticking up out of the middle like the cream in the very expensive jam tarts.

They bowed low to Lionel, and the gravest one said: “Sire, your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, the[4] King of this country, is dead, and now you have got to come and be King.”

“Yes, please, sir,” said Lionel, “when does it begin?”

“You will be crowned this afternoon,” said the grave gentleman who was not quite so grave-looking as the other.

“Would you like me to bring Nurse, or what time would you like me to be fetched, and hadn’t I better put on my velvet suit with the lace collar?” said Lionel, who had often been out to tea.

“Your Nurse will be removed to the Palace later. No, never mind about changing your suit; the Royal robes will cover all that up.”

The grave gentlemen led the way to a coach with eight white horses, which was drawn up in front of the house where Lionel lived. It was No. 7, on the left-hand side of the street as you go up.

Lionel ran upstairs at the last minute, and he kissed Nurse and said: “Thank you for washing me. I wish I’d let you do the other ear. No—there’s no time now. Give me the hanky. Good-bye, Nurse.”

“Good-bye, ducky,” said Nurse. “Be a good little King now, and say ‘please’ and ‘thank you,’ and remember to pass the cake to the little girls, and don’t have more than two helps of anything.”

So off went Lionel to be made a King. He had never expected to be a King any more than you have, so it was all quite new to him—so new that he had never even thought of it. And as the coach went through the town he had to bite his tongue to be quite sure it was real, because if his tongue was real it showed he wasn’t dreaming. Half an hour before he had been building with bricks in the nursery; and now—the streets were all fluttering with flags; every window was crowded with people waving handkerchiefs and scattering flowers; there were scarlet soldiers everywhere along the pavements, and all the bells of all the churches were ringing like mad, and like a great song to the music of their ringing he heard thou[5]sands of people shouting, “Long live Lionel! Long live our little King!”

He was a little sorry at first that he had not put on his best clothes, but he soon forgot to think about that. If he had been a girl he would very likely have bothered about it the whole time.

As they went along, the grave gentlemen, who were the Chancellor and the Prime Minister, explained the things which Lionel did not understand.

“I thought we were a Republic,” said Lionel. “I’m sure there hasn’t been a King for some time.”

“Sire, your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather’s death happened when my grandfather was a little boy,” said the Prime Minister, “and since then your loyal people have been saving up to buy you a crown—so much a week, you know, according to people’s means—sixpence a week from those who have first-rate pocket money, down to a halfpenny a week from those who haven’t so much. You know it’s the rule that the crown must be paid for by the people.”

“But hadn’t my great-great-however-much-it-is-grandfather a crown?”

“Yes, but he sent it to be tinned over, for fear of vanity, and he had had all the jewels taken out, and sold them to buy books. He was a strange man; a very good King he was, but he had his faults—he was fond of books. Almost with his last breath he sent the crown to be tinned—and he never lived to pay the tinsmith’s bill.”

Here the Prime Minister wiped away a tear, and just then the carriage stopped and Lionel was taken out of the carriage to be crowned. Being crowned is much more tiring work than you would suppose, and by the time it was over, and Lionel had worn the Royal robes for an hour or two and had had his hand kissed by everybody whose business it was to do it, he was quite worn out, and was very glad to get into the Palace nursery.

Nurse was there, and tea was ready: seedy cake and plummy cake, and jam and hot buttered toast, and the prettiest china with red and gold and blue flowers on it, and real tea, and as many cups of it as you liked.

After tea Lionel said: “I think I should like a book. Will you get me one, Nurse?”

“Bless the child,” said Nurse. “You don’t suppose you’ve lost the use of your legs with just being a King? Run along, do, and get your books yourself.”

So Lionel went down into the library. The Prime Minister and the Chancellor were there, and when Lionel came in they bowed very low, and were beginning to ask Lionel most politely what on earth he was coming bothering for now—when Lionel cried out: “Oh, what a worldful of books! Are they yours?”

“They are yours, Your Majesty,” answered the Chancellor. “They were the property of the late King, your great-great—”

“Yes, I know,” Lionel interrupted. “Well, I shall read them all. I love to read. I am so glad I learned to read.”

“If I might venture to advise Your Majesty,” said the Prime Minister, “I should not read these books. Your great—”

“Yes?” said Lionel, quickly.

“He was a very good King—oh, yes, really a very superior King in his way, but he was a little—well, strange.”

“Mad?” asked Lionel, cheerfully.

“No, no”—both the gentlemen were sincerely shocked. “Not mad; but if I may express it so, he was—er—too clever by half. And I should not like a little King of mine to have anything to do with his books.”

Lionel looked puzzled.

“The fact is,” the Chancellor went on, twisting his red beard in an agitated way, “your great—”

“Go on,” said Lionel.

“—was called a wizard.”

“But he wasn’t?”

“Of course not—a most worthy King was your great—”

“I see.”

“But I wouldn’t touch his books.”

“Just this one,” cried Lionel, laying his hands on the cover of a great brown book that lay on the study table. It had gold patterns on the brown leather, and gold clasps with turquoises and rubies in the twists of them, and gold corners, so that the leather should not wear out too quickly.

“I must look at this one,” Lionel said, for on the back in big letters he read: The Book of Beasts.

The Chancellor said, “Don’t be a silly little King.”

But Lionel had got the gold clasps undone, and he opened the first page, and there was a beautiful Butterfly all red, and brown, and yellow, and blue, so beautifully painted that it looked as if it were alive.

“There,” said Lionel, “Isn’t that lovely? Why—”

But as he spoke the beautiful Butterfly fluttered its many-colored wings on the yellow old page of the book, and flew up and out of the window.

“Well!” said the Prime Minister, as soon as he could speak for the lump of wonder that had got into his throat and tried to choke him, “that’s magic, that is.”

But before he had spoken, the King had turned the next page, and there was a shining bird complete and beautiful in every blue feather of him. Under him was written, “Blue Bird of Paradise,” and while the King gazed enchanted at the charming picture the Blue Bird fluttered his wings on the yellow page and spread them and flew out of the book.

Then the Prime Minister snatched the book away from the King and shut it up on the blank page where the bird had been, and put it on a very high shelf. And the Chancellor gave the King a good shaking, and said: “You’re a naughty, disobedient little King!” and was very angry indeed.

“I don’t see that I’ve done any harm,” said Lionel. He hated being shaken, as all boys do; he would much rather have been slapped.

“No harm?” said the Chancellor. “Ah—but what do you know about it? That’s the question. How do you know what might have been on the next page—a snake or a worm, or a centipede or a revolutionist, or something like that.”

“Well, I’m sorry if I’ve vexed you,” said Lionel. “Come, let’s kiss and be friends.” So he kissed the Prime Minister, and they settled down for a nice quiet game of noughts and crosses while the Chancellor went to add up his accounts.

But when Lionel was in bed he could not sleep for thinking of the book, and when the full moon was shining with all her might and light he got up and crept down to the library and climbed up and got The Book of Beasts.

He took it outside to the terrace, where the moonlight was as bright as day, and he opened the book, and saw the empty pages with “Butterfly” and “Blue Bird of Paradise” underneath, and then he turned the next page. There was some sort of red thing sitting under a palm tree, and under it was written “Dragon.” The Dragon did not move, and the King shut up the book rather quickly and went back to bed.

But the next day he wanted another look, so he took the book out into the garden, and when he undid the clasps with the rubies and turquoises, the book opened all by itself at the picture with “Dragon” underneath, and the sun shone full on the page. And then, quite suddenly, a great Red Dragon came out of the book and spread vast scarlet wings and flew away across the garden to the far hills, and Lionel was left with the empty page before him, for the page was quite empty except for the green palm tree and the yellow desert, and the little streaks of red where the paintbrush had gone outside the pencil outline of the Red Dragon.

And then Lionel felt that he had indeed done it. He had not been King twenty-four hours, and already he had let loose a Red Dragon to worry his faithful subjects’ lives out. And they had been saving up so long to buy him a crown, and everything!

Lionel began to cry.

 “The dragon flew away across the garden.”

The Chancellor and the Prime Minister and the Nurse all came running to see what was the matter. And when they saw the book they understood, and the Chancellor said: “You naughty little King! Put him to bed, Nurse, and let him think over what he’s done.”

“Perhaps, my Lord,” said the Prime Minister, “we’d better first find out just exactly what he has done.”

Then Lionel, in floods of tears, said: “It’s a Red Dragon, and it’s gone flying away to the hills, and I am so sorry, and, oh, do forgive me!”

But the Prime Minister and the Chancellor had other things to think of than forgiving Lionel. They hurried off to consult the police and see what could be done. Everyone did what they could. They sat on committees and stood on guard, and lay in wait for the Dragon, but he stayed up in the hills, and there was nothing more to be done. The faithful Nurse, meanwhile, did not neglect her duty. Perhaps she did more than anyone else, for she slapped the King and put him to bed without his tea, and when it got dark she would not give him a candle to read by.

“You are a naughty little King,” she said, “and nobody will love you.”

Next day the Dragon was still quiet, though the more poetic of Lionel’s subjects could see the redness of the Dragon shining through the green trees quite plainly. So Lionel put on his crown and sat on his throne and said he wanted to make some laws.

And I need hardly say that though the Prime Minister and the Chancellor and the Nurse might have the very poorest opinion of Lionel’s private judgement, and might even slap him and send him to bed, the minute he got on his throne and set his crown on his head, he became infallible—which means that everything he said was right, and that he couldn’t possibly make a mistake. So when he said: “There is to be a law forbidding people to open books in schools or elsewhere”—he had the support of at least half of his subjects, and the other half—the grown-up half—pretended to think he was quite right.

Then he made a law that everyone should always have[11] enough to eat. And this pleased everyone except the ones who had always had too much.

And when several other nice new laws were made and written down he went home and made mud-houses and was very happy. And he said to his Nurse: “People will love me now I’ve made such a lot of pretty new laws for them.”

But Nurse said: “Don’t count your chickens, my dear. You haven’t seen the last of that Dragon yet.”

Now, the next day was Saturday. And in the afternoon the Dragon suddenly swooped down upon the common in all his hideous redness, and carried off the Soccer Players, umpires, goal-posts, ball, and all.

Then the people were very angry indeed, and they said: “We might as well be a Republic. After saving up all these years to get his crown, and everything!”

And wise people shook their heads and foretold a decline in the National Love of Sport. And, indeed, soccer was not at all popular for some time afterward.

Lionel did his best to be a good King during the week, and the people were beginning to forgive him for letting the Dragon out of the book. “After all,” they said, “soccer is a dangerous game, and perhaps it is wise to discourage it.”

Popular opinion held that the Soccer Players, being tough and hard, had disagreed with the Dragon so much that he had gone away to some place where they only play cats’ cradle and games that do not make you hard and tough.

All the same, Parliament met on the Saturday afternoon, a convenient time, for most of the Members would be free to attend, to consider the Dragon. But unfortunately the Dragon, who had only been asleep, woke up because it was Saturday, and he considered the Parliament, and afterwards there were not any Members left, so they tried to make a new Parliament, but being a member of Parliament had somehow grown as unpopular as soccer playing, and no one would consent to be[12] elected, so they had to do without a Parliament. When the next Saturday came around everyone was a little nervous, but the Red Dragon was pretty quiet that day and only ate an Orphanage.

Lionel was very, very unhappy. He felt that it was his disobedience that had brought this trouble on the Parliament and the Orphanage and the Soccer Players, and he felt that it was his duty to try and do something. The question was, what?

The Blue Bird that had come out of the book used to sing very nicely in the Palace rose garden, and the Butterfly was very tame, and would perch on his shoulder when he walked among the tall lilies: so Lionel saw that all the creatures in The Book of Beasts could not be wicked, like the Dragon, and he thought: “Suppose I could get another beast out who would fight the Dragon?”

So he took The Book of Beasts out into the rose garden and opened the page next to the one where the Dragon had been just a tiny bit to see what the name was. He could only see “cora,” but he felt the middle of the page swelling up thick with the creature that was trying to come out, and it was only by putting the book down and sitting on it suddenly, very hard, that he managed to get it shut. Then he fastened the clasps with the rubies and turquoises in them and sent for the Chancellor, who had been ill since Saturday, and so had not been eaten with the rest of the Parliament, and he said: “What animal ends in ‘cora’?”

The Chancellor answered: “The Manticora, of course.”

“What is he like?” asked the King.

“He is the sworn foe of Dragons,” said the Chancellor. “He drinks their blood. He is yellow, with the body of a lion and the face of a man. I wish we had a few Manticoras here now. But the last died hundreds of years ago—worse luck!”

Then the King ran and opened the book at the page that had “cora” on it, and there was the picture—Manticora, all yellow, with a lion’s body and a man’s face, just as the Chancellor had said. And under the picture was written, “Manticora.”

In a few minutes the Manticora came sleepily out of the book, rubbing its eyes with its hands and mewing piteously. It seemed very stupid, and when Lionel gave it a push and said, “Go along and fight the Dragon, do,” it put its tail between its legs and fairly ran away. It went and hid behind the Town Hall, and at night when the people were asleep it went around and ate all the pussy-cats in the town. And then it mewed more than ever. And on the Saturday morning, when people were a little timid about going out, because the Dragon had no regular hour for calling, the Manticora went up and down the streets and drank all the milk that was left in the cans at the doors for people’s teas, and it ate the cans as well.

And just when it had finished the very last little halfpenny worth, which was short measure, because the milkman’s nerves were quite upset, the Red Dragon came down the street looking for the Manticora. It edged off when it saw him coming, for it was not at all the Dragon-fighting kind; and, seeing no other door open, the poor, hunted creature took refuge in the General Post Office, and there the Dragon found it, trying to conceal itself among the ten o’clock mail. The Dragon fell on the Manticora at once, and the mail was no defense. The mewings were heard all over the town. All the kitties and the milk the Manticora had had seemed to have strengthened its mew wonderfully. Then there was a sad silence, and presently the people whose windows looked that way saw the Dragon come walking down the steps of the General Post Office spitting fire and smoke, together with tufts of Manticora fur, and the fragments of the registered letters. Things were growing very serious. However popular the King might become during the week, the Dragon was sure to do something on Saturday to upset the people’s loyalty.[14]

 “The Manticora took refuge in the General Post Office.”

The Dragon was a perfect nuisance for the whole of Saturday, except during the hour of noon, and then he had to rest under a tree or he would have caught fire from the heat of the sun. You see, he was very hot to begin with.

At last came a Saturday when the Dragon actually walked into the Royal nursery and carried off the King’s own pet Rocking Horse. Then the King cried for six days, and on the seventh he was so tired that he had to stop. He heard the Blue Bird singing among the roses and saw the Butterfly fluttering among the lilies, and he said: “Nurse, wipe my face, please. I am not going to cry any more.”

Nurse washed his face, and told him not to be a silly little King. “Crying,” said she, “never did anyone any good yet.”

“I don’t know,” said the little King, “I seem to see better, and to hear better now that I’ve cried for a week. Now, Nurse, dear, I know I’m right, so kiss me in case I never come back. I must try to see if I can’t save the people.”

“Well, if you must, you must,” said Nurse, “but don’t tear your clothes or get your feet wet.”

So off he went.

The Blue Bird sang more sweetly than ever, and the Butterfly shone more brightly, as Lionel once more carried The Book of Beasts out into the rose garden, and opened it—very quickly, so that he might not be afraid and change his mind. The book fell open wide, almost in the middle, and there was written at the bottom of the page, “Hippogriff,” and before Lionel had time to see what the picture was, there was a fluttering of great wings and a stamping of hoofs, and a sweet, soft, friendly neighing; and there came out of the book a beautiful white horse with a long, long, white mane and a long, long, white tail, and he had great wings like swan’s wings, and the softest, kindest eyes in the world, and he stood there among the roses.

The Hippogriff rubbed its silky-soft, milky white nose against the little King’s shoulder, and the little King thought: “But for the wings you are very like my poor, dear lost Rocking Horse.” And the Blue Bird’s song was very loud and sweet.

Then suddenly the King saw coming through the sky the great straggling, sprawling, wicked shape of the Red Dragon. And he knew at once what he must do. He caught up The Book of Beasts and jumped on the back of the gentle, beautiful Hippogriff, and leaning down he whispered in the sharp, white ear: “Fly, dear Hippogriff, fly your very fastest to the Pebbly Waste.”

And when the Dragon saw them start, he turned and flew after them, with his great wings flapping like clouds at sunset, and the Hippogriff’s wide wings were snowy as clouds at moonrise.

When the people in the town saw the Dragon fly off after the Hippogriff and the King they all came out of their houses to look, and when they saw the two disappear they made up their minds to the worst, and began to think what they would wear for Court mourning.

But the Dragon could not catch the Hippogriff. The red wings were bigger than the white ones, but they were not so strong, and so the white-winged horse flew away and away and away, with the Dragon pursuing, till he reached the very middle of the Pebbly Waste.

Now, the Pebbly Waste is just like the parts of the seaside where there is no sand—all round, loose, shifting stones, and there is no grass there and no tree within a hundred miles of it.

Lionel jumped off the white horse’s back in the very middle of the Pebbly Waste, and he hurriedly unclasped The Book of Beasts and laid it open on the pebbles. Then he clattered among the pebbles in his haste to get back on to his white horse, and had just jumped on when up came the Dragon. He was flying very feebly, and looking around everywhere for a tree, for it was just on the stroke of twelve, the sun was shining like a gold guinea in the blue sky, and there was not a tree for a hundred miles.

The white-winged horse flew around and around the Dragon as he writhed on the dry pebbles. He was getting very hot: indeed, parts of him even had begun to smoke. He knew that he must certainly catch fire in another[17] minute unless he could get under a tree. He made a snatch with his red claws at the King and Hippogriff, but he was too feeble to reach them, and besides, he did not dare to overexert himself for fear he should get any hotter.

It was then that he saw The Book of Beasts lying on the pebbles, open at the page with “Dragon” written at the bottom. He looked and he hesitated, and he looked again, and then, with one last squirm of rage, the Dragon wriggled himself back into the picture and sat down under the palm tree, and the page was a little singed as he went in.

As soon as Lionel saw that the Dragon had really been obliged to go and sit under his own palm tree because it was the only tree there, he jumped off his horse and shut the book with a bang.

“Oh, hurrah!” he cried. “Now we really have done it.”

And he clasped the book very tightly with the turquoise and ruby clasps.

“Oh, my precious Hippogriff,” he cried. “You are the bravest, dearest, most beautiful—”

“Hush,” whispered the Hippogriff modestly. “Don’t you see that we are not alone?”

And indeed there was quite a crowd round them on the Pebbly Waste: the Prime Minister and the Parliament and the Soccer Players and the Orphanage and the Manticora and the Rocking Horse, and indeed everyone who had been eaten by the Dragon. You see, it was impossible for the Dragon to take them into the book with him—it was a tight fit even for one Dragon—so, of course, he had to leave them outside.

They all got home somehow, and all lived happy ever after.

When the King asked the Manticora where he would like to live he begged to be allowed to go back into the book. “I do not care for public life,” he said.

Of course he knew his way onto his own page, so there was no danger of his opening the book at the wrong page and letting out a Dragon or anything. So he got back into his picture and has never come out since: That is why you will never see a Manticora as long as you live, except in a picture-book. And of course he left the kitties outside, because there was no room for them in the book—and the milk cans too.

Then the Rocking Horse begged to be allowed to go and live on the Hippogriff’s page of the book. “I should like,” he said, “to live somewhere where Dragons can’t get at me.”

So the beautiful, white-winged Hippogriff showed him the way in, and there he stayed till the King had him taken out for his great-great-great-great-grandchildren to play with.

As for the Hippogriff, he accepted the position of the King’s Own Rocking Horse—a situation left vacant by the retirement of the wooden one. And the Blue Bird and the Butterfly sing and flutter among the lilies and roses of the Palace garden to this very day.

Man-size in Marble by Edith Nesbit

I’m still cleaning up after the Cyclone Alfred, so here’s a story I though I’d already written up for Ars Magica, but find that I have not . I haven’t put the stats here yet, but basically it’ll be a possessed statue from Lands of the Nile, with the difference that the possessing spirit will be Infernal and the statue will be stone not wood. It is by Edith Nesbit, who was a children’s author when not writing ghost stories. By way of comparison I’ll post one of her children’s stories next week, which also has a magic item and an lugubrious monster that eats tins of condensed milk, including the tins.

The reader is Peter Yearsley, an excellent Librivoxer. Thanks to him and his production team.

***

Although every word of this story is as true as despair, I do not expect people to believe it. Nowadays a “rational explanation” is required before belief is possible. Let me then, at once, offer the “rational explanation” which finds most favour among those who have heard the tale of my life’s tragedy. It is held that we were “under a delusion,” Laura and I, on that 31st of October; and that this supposition places the whole matter on a satisfactory and believable basis. The reader can judge, when he, too, has heard my story, how far this is an “explanation,” and in what sense it is “rational.” There were three who took part in this: Laura and I and another man. The other man still lives, and can speak to the truth of the least credible part of my story.

I never in my life knew what it was to have as much money as I required to supply the most ordinary needs–good colours, books, and cab-fares–and when we were married we knew quite well that we should only be able to live at all by “strict punctuality and attention to business.” I used to paint in those days, and Laura used to write, and we felt sure we could keep the pot at least simmering. Living in town was out of the question, so we went to look for a cottage in the country, which should be at once sanitary and picturesque. So rarely do these two qualities meet in one cottage that our search was for some time quite fruitless. We tried advertisements, but most of the desirable rural residences which we did look at proved to be lacking in both essentials, and when a cottage chanced to have drains it always had stucco as well and was shaped like a tea-caddy. And if we found a vine or rose-covered porch, corruption invariably lurked within. Our minds got so befogged by the eloquence of house-agents and the rival disadvantages of the fever-traps and outrages to beauty which we had seen and scorned, that I very much doubt whether either of us, on our wedding morning, knew the difference between a house and a haystack. But when we got away from friends and house-agents, on our honeymoon, our wits grew clear again, and we knew a pretty cottage when at last we saw one. It was at Brenzett–a little village set on a hill over against the southern marshes. We had gone there, from the seaside village where we were staying, to see the church, and two fields from the church we found this cottage. It stood quite by itself, about two miles from the village. It was a long, low building, with rooms sticking out in unexpected places. There was a bit of stone-work–ivy-covered and moss-grown, just two old rooms, all that was left of a big house that had once stood there–and round this stone-work the house had grown up. Stripped of its roses and jasmine it would have been hideous. As it stood it was charming, and after a brief examination we took it. It was absurdly cheap. The rest of our honeymoon we spent in grubbing about in second-hand shops in the county town, picking up bits of old oak and Chippendale chairs for our furnishing. We wound up with a run up to town and a visit to Liberty’s, and soon the low oak-beamed lattice-windowed rooms began to be home. There was a jolly old-fashioned garden, with grass paths, and no end of hollyhocks and sunflowers, and big lilies. From the window you could see the marsh-pastures, and beyond them the blue, thin line of the sea. We were as happy as the summer was glorious, and settled down into work sooner than we ourselves expected. I was never tired of sketching the view and the wonderful cloud effects from the open lattice, and Laura would sit at the table and write verses about them, in which I mostly played the part of foreground.

We got a tall old peasant woman to do for us. Her face and figure were good, though her cooking was of the homeliest; but she understood all about gardening, and told us all the old names of the coppices and cornfields, and the stories of the smugglers and highwaymen, and, better still, of the “things that walked,” and of the “sights” which met one in lonely glens of a starlight night. She was a great comfort to us, because Laura hated housekeeping as much as I loved folklore, and we soon came to leave all the domestic business to Mrs. Dorman, and to use her legends in little magazine stories which brought in the jingling guinea.

We had three months of married happiness, and did not have a single quarrel. One October evening I had been down to smoke a pipe with the doctor–our only neighbour–a pleasant young Irishman. Laura had stayed at home to finish a comic sketch of a village episode for the Monthly Marplot. I left her laughing over her own jokes, and came in to find her a crumpled heap of pale muslin weeping on the window seat.

“Good heavens, my darling, what’s the matter?” I cried, taking her in my arms. She leaned her little dark head against my shoulder and went on crying. I had never seen her cry before–we had always been so happy, you see–and I felt sure some frightful misfortune had happened.

“What is the matter? Do speak.”

“It’s Mrs. Dorman,” she sobbed.

“What has she done?” I inquired, immensely relieved.

“She says she must go before the end of the month, and she says her niece is ill; she’s gone down to see her now, but I don’t believe that’s the reason, because her niece is always ill. I believe someone has been setting her against us. Her manner was so queer—“

“Never mind, Pussy,” I said; “whatever you do, don’t cry, or I shall have to cry too, to keep you in countenance, and then you’ll never respect your man again!”

She dried her eyes obediently on my handkerchief, and even smiled faintly.

“But you see,” she went on, “it is really serious, because these village people are so sheepy, and if one won’t do a thing you may be quite sure none of the others will. And I shall have to cook the dinners, and wash up the hateful greasy plates; and you’ll have to carry cans of water about, and clean the boots and knives–and we shall never have any time for work, or earn any money, or anything. We shall have to work all day, and only be able to rest when we are waiting for the kettle to boil!”

I represented to her that even if we had to perform these duties, the day would still present some margin for other toils and recreations. But she refused to see the matter in any but the greyest light. She was very unreasonable, my Laura, but I could not have loved her any more if she had been as reasonable as Whately.

“I’ll speak to Mrs. Dorman when she comes back, and see if I can’t come to terms with her,” I said. “Perhaps she wants a rise in her screw. It will be all right. Let’s walk up to the church.”

The church was a large and lonely one, and we loved to go there, especially upon bright nights. The path skirted a wood, cut through it once, and ran along the crest of the hill through two meadows, and round the churchyard wall, over which the old yews loomed in black masses of shadow. This path, which was partly paved, was called “the bier-balk,” for it had long been the way by which the corpses had been carried to burial. The churchyard was richly treed, and was shaded by great elms which stood just outside and stretched their majestic arms in benediction over the happy dead. A large, low porch let one into the building by a Norman doorway and a heavy oak door studded with iron. Inside, the arches rose into darkness, and between them the reticulated windows, which stood out white in the moonlight. In the chancel, the windows were of rich glass, which showed in faint light their noble colouring, and made the black oak of the choir pews hardly more solid than the shadows. But on each side of the altar lay a grey marble figure of a knight in full plate armour lying upon a low slab, with hands held up in everlasting prayer, and these figures, oddly enough, were always to be seen if there was any glimmer of light in the church. Their names were lost, but the peasants told of them that they had been fierce and wicked men, marauders by land and sea, who had been the scourge of their time, and had been guilty of deeds so foul that the house they had lived in–the big house, by the way, that had stood on the site of our cottage–had been stricken by lightning and the vengeance of Heaven. But for all that, the gold of their heirs had bought them a place in the church. Looking at the bad hard faces reproduced in the marble, this story was easily believed.

The church looked at its best and weirdest on that night, for the shadows of the yew trees fell through the windows upon the floor of the nave and touched the pillars with tattered shade. We sat down together without speaking, and watched the solemn beauty of the old church, with some of that awe which inspired its early builders. We walked to the chancel and looked at the sleeping warriors. Then we rested some time on the stone seat in the porch, looking out over the stretch of quiet moonlit meadows, feeling in every fibre of our being the peace of the night and of our happy love; and came away at last with a sense that even scrubbing and blackleading were but small troubles at their worst.

Mrs. Dorman had come back from the village, and I at once invited her to a tête-à-tête.

“Now, Mrs. Dorman,” I said, when I had got her into my painting room, “what’s all this about your not staying with us?”

“I should be glad to get away, sir, before the end of the month,” she answered, with her usual placid dignity.

“Have you any fault to find, Mrs. Dorman?”

“None at all, sir; you and your lady have always been most kind, I’m sure—“

“Well, what is it? Are your wages not high enough?”

“No, sir, I gets quite enough.”

“Then why not stay?”

“I’d rather not”–with some hesitation–“my niece is ill.”

“But your niece has been ill ever since we came.”

No answer. There was a long and awkward silence. I broke it.

“Can’t you stay for another month?” I asked.

“No, sir. I’m bound to go by Thursday.”

And this was Monday!

“Well, I must say, I think you might have let us know before. There’s no time now to get any one else, and your mistress is not fit to do heavy housework. Can’t you stay till next week?”

“I might be able to come back next week.”

I was now convinced that all she wanted was a brief holiday, which we should have been willing enough to let her have, as soon as we could get a substitute.

“But why must you go this week?” I persisted. “Come, out with it.”

Mrs. Dorman drew the little shawl, which she always wore, tightly across her bosom, as though she were cold. Then she said, with a sort of effort—

“They say, sir, as this was a big house in Catholic times, and there was a many deeds done here.”

The nature of the “deeds” might be vaguely inferred from the inflection of Mrs. Dorman’s voice–which was enough to make one’s blood run cold. I was glad that Laura was not in the room. She was always nervous, as highly-strung natures are, and I felt that these tales about our house, told by this old peasant woman, with her impressive manner and contagious credulity, might have made our home less dear to my wife.

“Tell me all about it, Mrs. Dorman,” I said; “you needn’t mind about telling me. I’m not like the young people who make fun of such things.”

Which was partly true.

“Well, sir”–she sank her voice–“you may have seen in the church, beside the altar, two shapes.”

“You mean the effigies of the knights in armour,” I said cheerfully.

“I mean them two bodies, drawed out man-size in marble,” she returned, and I had to admit that her description was a thousand times more graphic than mine, to say nothing of a certain weird force and uncanniness about the phrase “drawed out man-size in marble.”

“They do say, as on All Saints’ Eve them two bodies sits up on their slabs, and gets off of them, and then walks down the aisle, in their marble”–(another good phrase, Mrs. Dorman)–“and as the church clock strikes eleven they walks out of the church door, and over the graves, and along the bier-balk, and if it’s a wet night there’s the marks of their feet in the morning.”

“And where do they go?” I asked, rather fascinated.

“They comes back here to their home, sir, and if any one meets them—“

“Well, what then?” I asked.

But no–not another word could I get from her, save that her niece was ill and she must go. After what I had heard I scorned to discuss the niece, and tried to get from Mrs. Dorman more details of the legend. I could get nothing but warnings.

“Whatever you do, sir, lock the door early on All Saints’ Eve, and make the cross-sign over the doorstep and on the windows.”

“But has any one ever seen these things?” I persisted.

“That’s not for me to say. I know what I know, sir.”

“Well, who was here last year?”

“No one, sir; the lady as owned the house only stayed here in summer, and she always went to London a full month afore the night. And I’m sorry to inconvenience you and your lady, but my niece is ill and I must go on Thursday.”

I could have shaken her for her absurd reiteration of that obvious fiction, after she had told me her real reasons.

She was determined to go, nor could our united entreaties move her in the least.

I did not tell Laura the legend of the shapes that “walked in their marble,” partly because a legend concerning our house might perhaps trouble my wife, and partly, I think, from some more occult reason. This was not quite the same to me as any other story, and I did not want to talk about it till the day was over. I had very soon ceased to think of the legend, however. I was painting a portrait of Laura, against the lattice window, and I could not think of much else. I had got a splendid background of yellow and grey sunset, and was working away with enthusiasm at her lace. On Thursday Mrs. Dorman went. She relented, at parting, so far as to say—

“Don’t you put yourself about too much, ma’am, and if there’s any little thing I can do next week, I’m sure I shan’t mind.”

From which I inferred that she wished to come back to us after Hallowe’en. Up to the last she adhered to the fiction of the niece with touching fidelity.

Thursday passed off pretty well. Laura showed marked ability in the matter of steak and potatoes, and I confess that my knives, and the plates, which I insisted upon washing, were better done than I had dared to expect.

Friday came. It is about what happened on that Friday that this is written. I wonder if I should have believed it, if any one had told it to me. I will write the story of it as quickly and plainly as I can. Everything that happened on that day is burnt into my brain. I shall not forget anything, nor leave anything out.

I got up early, I remember, and lighted the kitchen fire, and had just achieved a smoky success, when my little wife came running down, as sunny and sweet as the clear October morning itself. We prepared breakfast together, and found it very good fun. The housework was soon done, and when brushes and brooms and pails were quiet again, the house was still indeed. It is wonderful what a difference one makes in a house. We really missed Mrs. Dorman, quite apart from considerations concerning pots and pans. We spent the day in dusting our books and putting them straight, and dined gaily on cold steak and coffee. Laura was, if possible, brighter and gayer and sweeter than usual, and I began to think that a little domestic toil was really good for her. We had never been so merry since we were married, and the walk we had that afternoon was, I think, the happiest time of all my life. When we had watched the deep scarlet clouds slowly pale into leaden grey against a pale-green sky, and saw the white mists curl up along the hedgerows in the distant marsh, we came back to the house, silently, hand in hand.

“You are sad, my darling,” I said, half-jestingly, as we sat down together in our little parlour. I expected a disclaimer, for my own silence had been the silence of complete happiness. To my surprise she said—

“Yes. I think I am sad, or rather I am uneasy. I don’t think I’m very well. I have shivered three or four times since we came in, and it is not cold, is it?”

“No,” I said, and hoped it was not a chill caught from the treacherous mists that roll up from the marshes in the dying light. No–she said, she did not think so. Then, after a silence, she spoke suddenly—

“Do you ever have presentiments of evil?”

“No,” I said, smiling, “and I shouldn’t believe in them if I had.”

“I do,” she went on; “the night my father died I knew it, though he was right away in the north of Scotland.” I did not answer in words.

She sat looking at the fire for some time in silence, gently stroking my hand. At last she sprang up, came behind me, and, drawing my head back, kissed me.

“There, it’s over now,” she said. “What a baby I am! Come, light the candles, and we’ll have some of these new Rubinstein duets.”

And we spent a happy hour or two at the piano.

At about half-past ten I began to long for the good-night pipe, but Laura looked so white that I felt it would be brutal of me to fill our sitting-room with the fumes of strong cavendish.

“I’ll take my pipe outside,” I said.

“Let me come, too.”

“No, sweetheart, not to-night; you’re much too tired. I shan’t be long. Get to bed, or I shall have an invalid to nurse to-morrow as well as the boots to clean.”

I kissed her and was turning to go, when she flung her arms round my neck, and held me as if she would never let me go again. I stroked her hair.

“Come, Pussy, you’re over-tired. The housework has been too much for you.”

She loosened her clasp a little and drew a deep breath.

“No. We’ve been very happy to-day, Jack, haven’t we? Don’t stay out too long.”

“I won’t, my dearie.”

I strolled out of the front door, leaving it unlatched. What a night it was! The jagged masses of heavy dark cloud were rolling at intervals from horizon to horizon, and thin white wreaths covered the stars. Through all the rush of the cloud river, the moon swam, breasting the waves and disappearing again in the darkness. When now and again her light reached the woodlands they seemed to be slowly and noiselessly waving in time to the swing of the clouds above them. There was a strange grey light over all the earth; the fields had that shadowy bloom over them which only comes from the marriage of dew and moonshine, or frost and starlight.

I walked up and down, drinking in the beauty of the quiet earth and the changing sky. The night was absolutely silent. Nothing seemed to be abroad. There was no skurrying of rabbits, or twitter of the half-asleep birds. And though the clouds went sailing across the sky, the wind that drove them never came low enough to rustle the dead leaves in the woodland paths. Across the meadows I could see the church tower standing out black and grey against the sky. I walked there thinking over our three months of happiness–and of my wife, her dear eyes, her loving ways. Oh, my little girl! my own little girl; what a vision came then of a long, glad life for you and me together!

I heard a bell-beat from the church. Eleven already! I turned to go in, but the night held me. I could not go back into our little warm rooms yet. I would go up to the church. I felt vaguely that it would be good to carry my love and thankfulness to the sanctuary whither so many loads of sorrow and gladness had been borne by the men and women of the dead years.

I looked in at the low window as I went by. Laura was half lying on her chair in front of the fire. I could not see her face, only her little head showed dark against the pale blue wall. She was quite still. Asleep, no doubt. My heart reached out to her, as I went on. There must be a God, I thought, and a God who was good. How otherwise could anything so sweet and dear as she have ever been imagined?

I walked slowly along the edge of the wood. A sound broke the stillness of the night, it was a rustling in the wood. I stopped and listened. The sound stopped too. I went on, and now distinctly heard another step than mine answer mine like an echo. It was a poacher or a wood-stealer, most likely, for these were not unknown in our Arcadian neighbourhood. But whoever it was, he was a fool not to step more lightly. I turned into the wood, and now the footstep seemed to come from the path I had just left. It must be an echo, I thought. The wood looked perfect in the moonlight. The large dying ferns and the brushwood showed where through thinning foliage the pale light came down. The tree trunks stood up like Gothic columns all around me. They reminded me of the church, and I turned into the bier-balk, and passed through the corpse-gate between the graves to the low porch. I paused for a moment on the stone seat where Laura and I had watched the fading landscape. Then I noticed that the door of the church was open, and I blamed myself for having left it unlatched the other night. We were the only people who ever cared to come to the church except on Sundays, and I was vexed to think that through our carelessness the damp autumn airs had had a chance of getting in and injuring the old fabric. I went in. It will seem strange, perhaps, that I should have gone half-way up the aisle before I remembered–with a sudden chill, followed by as sudden a rush of self-contempt–that this was the very day and hour when, according to tradition, the “shapes drawed out man-size in marble” began to walk.

Having thus remembered the legend, and remembered it with a shiver, of which I was ashamed, I could not do otherwise than walk up towards the altar, just to look at the figures–as I said to myself; really what I wanted was to assure myself, first, that I did not believe the legend, and, secondly, that it was not true. I was rather glad that I had come. I thought now I could tell Mrs. Dorman how vain her fancies were, and how peacefully the marble figures slept on through the ghastly hour. With my hands in my pockets I passed up the aisle. In the grey dim light the eastern end of the church looked larger than usual, and the arches above the two tombs looked larger too. The moon came out and showed me the reason. I stopped short, my heart gave a leap that nearly choked me, and then sank sickeningly.

The “bodies drawed out man-size” were gone, and their marble slabs lay wide and bare in the vague moonlight that slanted through the east window.

Were they really gone? or was I mad? Clenching my nerves, I stooped and passed my hand over the smooth slabs, and felt their flat unbroken surface. Had some one taken the things away? Was it some vile practical joke? I would make sure, anyway. In an instant I had made a torch of a newspaper, which happened to be in my pocket, and lighting it held it high above my head. Its yellow glare illumined the dark arches and those slabs. The figures were gone. And I was alone in the church; or was I alone?

And then a horror seized me, a horror indefinable and indescribable–an overwhelming certainty of supreme and accomplished calamity. I flung down the torch and tore along the aisle and out through the porch, biting my lips as I ran to keep myself from shrieking aloud. Oh, was I mad–or what was this that possessed me? I leaped the churchyard wall and took the straight cut across the fields, led by the light from our windows. Just as I got over the first stile, a dark figure seemed to spring out of the ground. Mad still with that certainty of misfortune, I made for the thing that stood in my path, shouting, “Get out of the way, can’t you!”

But my push met with a more vigorous resistance than I had expected. My arms were caught just above the elbow and held as in a vice, and the raw-boned Irish doctor actually shook me.

“Would ye?” he cried, in his own unmistakable accents–“would ye, then?”

“Let me go, you fool,” I gasped. “The marble figures have gone from the church; I tell you they’ve gone.”

He broke into a ringing laugh. “I’ll have to give ye a draught to-morrow, I see. Ye’ve bin smoking too much and listening to old wives’ tales.”

“I tell you, I’ve seen the bare slabs.”

“Well, come back with me. I’m going up to old Palmer’s–his daughter’s ill; we’ll look in at the church and let me see the bare slabs.”

“You go, if you like,” I said, a little less frantic for his laughter; “I’m going home to my wife.”

“Rubbish, man,” said he; “d’ye think I’ll permit of that? Are ye to go saying all yer life that ye’ve seen solid marble endowed with vitality, and me to go all me life saying ye were a coward? No, sir–ye shan’t do ut.”

The night air–a human voice–and I think also the physical contact with this six feet of solid common sense, brought me back a little to my ordinary self, and the word “coward” was a mental shower-bath.

“Come on, then,” I said sullenly; “perhaps you’re right.”

He still held my arm tightly. We got over the stile and back to the church. All was still as death. The place smelt very damp and earthy. We walked up the aisle. I am not ashamed to confess that I shut my eyes: I knew the figures would not be there. I heard Kelly strike a match.

“Here they are, ye see, right enough; ye’ve been dreaming or drinking, asking yer pardon for the imputation.”

I opened my eyes. By Kelly’s expiring vesta I saw two shapes lying “in their marble” on their slabs. I drew a deep breath, and caught his hand.

“I’m awfully indebted to you,” I said. “It must have been some trick of light, or I have been working rather hard, perhaps that’s it. Do you know, I was quite convinced they were gone.”

“I’m aware of that,” he answered rather grimly; “ye’ll have to be careful of that brain of yours, my friend, I assure ye.”

He was leaning over and looking at the right-hand figure, whose stony face was the most villainous and deadly in expression.

“By Jove,” he said, “something has been afoot here–this hand is broken.”

And so it was. I was certain that it had been perfect the last time Laura and I had been there.

“Perhaps some one has tried to remove them,” said the young doctor.

“That won’t account for my impression,” I objected.

“Too much painting and tobacco will account for that, well enough.”

“Come along,” I said, “or my wife will be getting anxious. You’ll come in and have a drop of whisky and drink confusion to ghosts and better sense to me.”

“I ought to go up to Palmer’s, but it’s so late now I’d best leave it till the morning,” he replied. “I was kept late at the Union, and I’ve had to see a lot of people since. All right, I’ll come back with ye.”

I think he fancied I needed him more than did Palmer’s girl, so, discussing how such an illusion could have been possible, and deducing from this experience large generalities concerning ghostly apparitions, we walked up to our cottage. We saw, as we walked up the garden-path, that bright light streamed out of the front door, and presently saw that the parlour door was open too. Had she gone out?

“Come in,” I said, and Dr. Kelly followed me into the parlour. It was all ablaze with candles, not only the wax ones, but at least a dozen guttering, glaring tallow dips, stuck in vases and ornaments in unlikely places. Light, I knew, was Laura’s remedy for nervousness. Poor child! Why had I left her? Brute that I was.

We glanced round the room, and at first we did not see her. The window was open, and the draught set all the candles flaring one way. Her chair was empty and her handkerchief and book lay on the floor. I turned to the window. There, in the recess of the window, I saw her. Oh, my child, my love, had she gone to that window to watch for me? And what had come into the room behind her? To what had she turned with that look of frantic fear and horror? Oh, my little one, had she thought that it was I whose step she heard, and turned to meet–what?

She had fallen back across a table in the window, and her body lay half on it and half on the window-seat, and her head hung down over the table, the brown hair loosened and fallen to the carpet. Her lips were drawn back, and her eyes wide, wide open. They saw nothing now. What had they seen last?

The doctor moved towards her, but I pushed him aside and sprang to her; caught her in my arms and cried—

“It’s all right, Laura! I’ve got you safe, wifie.”

She fell into my arms in a heap. I clasped her and kissed her, and called her by all her pet names, but I think I knew all the time that she was dead. Her hands were tightly clenched. In one of them she held something fast. When I was quite sure that she was dead, and that nothing mattered at all any more, I let him open her hand to see what she held.

It was a grey marble finger.

Offline for a little while

I’ll likely be offline for a few days. I’m fine, but my city is going to be hit by a cyclone tomorrow night, so I’m likely to lose power.

I know that sounds blasé, but I was raised in the north of my state so I’ve been doing cyclones since I was eight. This one’s not great in the sense that it is ridiculously far south so some of the infrastructure isn’t storm hardened, and it is moving quite slowly, so the volume of rain is likely to be high. That being said: I’ve prepped what I can prep and I’ll see you all on the other side.

Ghosts from Lancastrian Ballads: Sir Gualter and his lady

Our second ghostly visitant from Lanacastrian Ballads: this is a pair of ghosts, of which the unnamed lady is the more interesting. She’s linked to a lightning tree, which are sometimes sought out by magi as useful for enchantment. She may have powers related to the weather or may be strangely transformed into a dryad, sparking Original research.

As a note on names, the “Gu” formation changes over time into a “w”, so variants of this story call him by the more modern “Walter”.

Note that yew trees are associated with death in many parts of England. A supply of them was desired to make longbows, but their leaves are poisonous to sheep. In many areas people chose to grow yews in graveyards, because the walls protecting graves from defilement with animal manure also saved livestock from harm. Getting killed under a yew might have necromantic significance.

Thanks to Phil Benson and his Librivox production team. Stats when Mythic Europe Magazine is done.

***

Sir Gualter

At Northen, near Manchester, there was, till very recently, an ancient ferry across the river Mersey from Lancashire to Cheshire, called ” Northen Boat ;” the village of Northen, or Northenden, being in the latter county :

” Now ferry me o’er, thou good boatman !
I prithee, ferry me o’er !
That I may see my lady to-night,
Or I never may see her more.”

” The winds blow high, and the stream runs strong,
And I dare not ferry thee o’er ;
Thou canst not see thy lady to-night,
If thou never dost see her more.”

” I will see her to-night if my life be spared,
For I’ve heard the death-owl’s scream ;
Who has heard it once may not hear it twice,
She must hear my awful dream.”

” My boat is moor’d, and I will not cross ;
Sir Knight, thou may’st away ;
Or rest thee to-night till the morning’s light,
We will o’er at break of day.”

” Here’s gold in store, and thou shalt have more,
To venture across with me ;
If we die ere we reach the other bank,
A mass shall be said for thee.”

The boat is unmoor’d, and they both leap in,
And steer for the other side ;
Now swim thou swiftly, thou fearless boat,
Against the rushing tide.

Now, now for thy life, thou boatman, push,
For the stream runs swifter on ;
Another boat’s length, with all thy strength,
And the bank ye have safely won.

Tis past, ’tis past, they have reach’d the side,
And they both leap on the bank :
‘Tis well ! ’tis well ! with an eddying whirl
That boat hath swiftly sank.

Sir Gualter hath given the boatman gold,
Thence hastes to the trysting-tree ;
What a rueful sight for a gallant knight
Was there for him to see !

The Lady Isabel blacken’d and scorch’d
By the lightning blast of heaven ;
And that stately tree, where they oft had met,
Was leafless, and blasted, and riven !

He kneel’d him down o’er that lifeless form ;
And the death-owl o’er him flew,
And it scream’d as it pass’d on the rushing blast
Then his fate Sir Gualter knew.

Then he gather’d that form within his arms,
And rush’d to the river’s side ;
Then plunged from the bank, and both of them sank
In the darkly rolling tide.

There is a tradition in the neighbourhood that the spirits of the knight and the lady are still occasionally to be seen at midnight, especially in storms, beneath the aged yew, as if still bent on keeping their tryst, — love stronger than death itself!

A strange Ghostly Warder: Fair Ellen of Radcliffe

This week and the next, two ghost variants from a collection of Lancastrian Ballads by John Harland. Ghosts take many forms, but one of the more frightening ones is to appear with the wounds of their death upon them. In Fair Ellen’s case, this means she can appear as a large pie. She’s the guardian of a child with no education that is the heir to a large swath of land. He’d make a great NPC, then a tame nobleman, for a covenant. Radcliffe is a real town, but you can move the story anywhere Her bloody handprint appears in the kitchen where she was murdered, and might be a vis source..

Thanks to Phil Benson and his Librivox production team.

***

There was a lord of worthy fame,
And a hunting he would ride,
Attended by a noble traine
Of gentrye by his side.
And while he did in chase remaine
To see both sport and playe,
His lady went, as she did feigne,
Unto the church to praye.

This lord he had a daughter deare,
Whose beauty shone so bright,
She was beloved both far and neare
Of many a lord and knight.
Fair Ellen was this maiden call’d ;
A creature faire was she ;
She was her father’s only joye,
As you shall after see.

Therefore her cruel stepmother
Did envye her so muche,
That day by day she sought her life,
Her malice it was suche.
She bargain’d with the master-cook
To take her life awaye ;
And, taking of her daughter’s book,
She thus to her did saye :

” Go home, sweet daughter, I thee praye,
Go hasten presentlie ;
And tell unto the master-cook
These words that I tell thee :
” And bid him dress to dinner streight
That faire and milk-white doe
That in the parke doth shine so bright,
There’s none so faire to showe.”

This ladye, fearing of no harme,
Obey’d her mother’s will ;
And presently she hasted home
Her pleasure to fulfill.
She streight into the kitchen went
Her message for to tell
And there she spied the master-cook,
Who did with malice swell.

” Nowe, master-cook, it must be soe,
Do that which I thee tell
You needs must dresse the milk-white doe,
Which you do knowe full well.”
Then streight his cruell, bloody hands
He on the ladye laid,
Who quivering and shaking stands,
While thus to her he sayd :
” Thou art the doe that I must dresse ;
See here, behold my knife ;
For it is pointed, presentlye
To ridd thee of thy life.”

O then cried out the scullion-boye,
As loud as loud might bee,
” O, save her life, good master-cook,
And make your pyes of mee !
” For pitye’s sake do not destroye
My ladye with your knife ;
You knowe shee is her father’s joye ;
For Christe’s sake save her life.”
” I will not save her life,” he sayd, “
Nor make my pyes of thee ;

Yet, if thou dost this deed bewraye,
Thy butcher I will bee.”
Now when his lord he did come home
For to sit downe and eat,
He called for his daughter deare,
To come and carve his meat.

” Nowe sit you downe,” his ladye said,
” O sit you downe to meat
Into some nunnery she is gone :
Your daughter deare forget.”
Then solemnlye he made a vowe,
Before the companie,
That he would neither eat nor drinke
Until he did her see.
then bespake the scullion-boye
With a loud voice so hye
“If now you will your daughter see, My lord, cut up that pye,
” Wherein her flesh is minced small,

And parched with the fire ;
All caused by her stepmother,
Who did her death desire. “
And cursed bee the master-cook,
O cursed may he bee !
1 proffer’d him my own heart’s blood,
From death to set her free.”
Then all in blacke this lorde did mourne,
And, for his daughter’s sake,
He judged her cruel stepmother
To bee burnt at a stake.
Likewise he judg’d the master-cook
In boiling lead to stand ;
And made the simple scullion-boye
The heire of all his land.

Stats eventually: the new magazine is taking a lot of time. The first 60 pages are laid out so far.

Heather Ale by Robert Louis Stevenson

This poem contains a Herbam, or even Corpus, vis source created by a race of faeries that are being driven to extinction by the invading humans. Robert Louis Stevenson collected this story in Galloway, and added a note to make sure his readers knew this was an older, and false, historiography. The Picts were not faeries and they interbed with the Scots (who came from Ireland and colonised the west coast of modern Scotland). As Stevenson notes, it’s strange that the folklore of the descendants of the Picts is about how they killed the Picts. Versions of this story are found in both Scotland and Ireland. In Ireland the beer is from “Vikings” which is even stranger. The use of gruits in beer was covered a log time ago in episode 047.

The Picts, as presented here, are small earth faeries. For statistics see: Realms of Power: Faerie.

***

From the bonny bells of heather
   They brewed a drink long-syne,
Was sweeter far than honey,
   Was stronger far than wine.
They brewed it and they drank it,
   And lay in a blessed swound
For days and days together
   In their dwellings underground.

There rose a king in Scotland,
   A fell man to his foes,
He smote the Picts in battle,
   He hunted them like roes.
p. 124Over miles of the red mountain
   He hunted as they fled,
And strewed the dwarfish bodies
   Of the dying and the dead.

Summer came in the country,
   Red was the heather bell;
But the manner of the brewing
   Was none alive to tell.
In graves that were like children’s
   On many a mountain head,
The Brewsters of the Heather
   Lay numbered with the dead.

The king in the red moorland
   Rode on a summer’s day;
And the bees hummed, and the curlews
   Cried beside the way.
The king rode, and was angry,
   Black was his brow and pale,
p. 125To rule in a land of heather
   And lack the Heather Ale.

It fortuned that his vassals,
   Riding free on the heath,
Came on a stone that was fallen
   And vermin hid beneath.
Rudely plucked from their hiding,
   Never a word they spoke:
A son and his aged father—
   Last of the dwarfish folk.

The king sat high on his charger,
   He looked on the little men;
And the dwarfish and swarthy couple
   Looked at the king again.
Down by the shore he had them;
   And there on the giddy brink—
“I will give you life, ye vermin,
   For the secret of the drink.”

p. 126There stood the son and father
   And they looked high and low;
The heather was red around them,
   The sea rumbled below.
And up and spoke the father,
   Shrill was his voice to hear:
“I have a word in private,
   A word for the royal ear.

“Life is dear to the aged,
   And honour a little thing;
I would gladly sell the secret,”
   Quoth the Pict to the King.
His voice was small as a sparrow’s,
   And shrill and wonderful clear:
“I would gladly sell my secret,
   Only my son I fear.

“For life is a little matter,
   And death is nought to the young;
p. 127And I dare not sell my honour
   Under the eye of my son.
Take him, O king, and bind him,
   And cast him far in the deep;
And it’s I will tell the secret
   That I have sworn to keep.”

They took the son and bound him,
   Neck and heels in a thong,
And a lad took him and swung him,
   And flung him far and strong,
And the sea swallowed his body,
   Like that of a child of ten;—
And there on the cliff stood the father,
   Last of the dwarfish men.

“True was the word I told you:
   Only my son I feared;
For I doubt the sapling courage
   That goes without the beard.
p. 128But now in vain is the torture,
   Fire shall never avail:
Here dies in my bosom
   The secret of Heather Ale.”

Notes on the Lancashire Witches

This week a note on the Lancashire witches. In earlier episodes we’ve covered some of the folklore concerning the Lancashire Witch Trials, so when I heard that there was a ballad of the Lancashire witches I thought we would be going in for Tales spellcasting, familiars, trials, and late repentances. Instead I found a plot hook.

What I didn’t expect was a ballad saying that the most beautiful women in the world live in Lancashire, and that these are the witches. Some magi love ballads, House Jerbiton in particular, but anyone who has a pretention to nobility in Mythic Europe listens to new ballads as a mixture of news and entertainment.

If a redcap who is also a bard turns up at your covenant saying that he has a new lady friend and she’s one of the most beautiful women in the world because, obviously, she’s a witch from Lancashire, perhaps the player characters should get involved.

Thanks to the LibriVox production team for this recording.

***

In vain I attempt to describe
The charms of my favourite fair ;
She’s the sweetest of Mother Eve’s tribe,
With her there is none to compare.
She’s a pride of beauty so bright,
Her image my fancy enriches ;
My charmer’s the village delight,
And the pride of the Lancashire witches.

Then hurrah for the Lancashire witches,
Whose smile every bosom enriches ;
Oh, dearly I prize
The pretty blue eyes
Of the pride of the Lancashire witches.

They may talk of the dark eyes of Spain —
‘Tis useless to boast as they do —
They attempt to compare them in vain
With the Lancashire ladies of blue.
Only view the dear heavenly belles,
You’re soon seized with love’s sudden twitches,
Which none could create but the spells
From the eyes of the Lancashire witches.

Then hurrah for the Lancashire witches,
Whose smile every bosom enriches ;
Oh, dearly I prize
The pretty blue eyes
Of the pride of the Lancashire witches.

The Lancashire witches, believe me,
Are beautiful every one ;
But mine, or my fancy deceives me,
Is the prettiest under the sun.
If the wealth of the Indies, I swear,
Were mine, and I wallow’d in riches,
How gladly my fortune I’d share
With the pride of the Lancashire witches.

Then hurrah for the Lancashire witches,
Whose smile every bosom enriches ;
Oh, dearly I prize
The pretty blue eyes
Of the pride of the Lancashire witches.

Personal Vis Sources by Tom Nowell

For only the second time, Games From Folktales welcomes a guest author. Tom Nowell is one of the presenters for the other Ars Magica podcast, Arcane Connection. This article has been purchased for the new Mythic Europe Magazine, which is still accepting submissions. Before reading you Tom’s piece I want to flag a couple of clever things he’s done here that go against the general run of submissions for people wavering about writing.

Tom’s article is very short – just above the minimum cap. For the reader, that means there’s a minimum of waffle: you go in, get his information and go. As the person laying out the magazine, his piece is perfect to work with. It fits around the 5 000 word pieces other people are sending in because it’s either under a single page of text, a single page of text with a small illustration, or a double page spread with a large illustration. The guideline being 500 to 5000 words doesn’t meant a desirable piece’s length lands either halfway between them or at the far end of the range. Write to the length of your material and if you can get your point across in a short piece, that’s fantastic.

His article is about what is, in my estimation, the most common magus Virtue other than the Gift itself. It’s not an elaboration on a rule you need to be three books deep to find. Many experienced players have had some of the thoughts Tom presents here. For new players its a quick primer into the unspoken consensus of character building that’s developed in the community. It’s great to write down the things which are easy for experienced players but occluded from the view of the new people bought in by the Definitive Edition.

***

The core rules define a personal vis source as “you have exclusive access to a supply of raw vis.” How this takes form is up to the troupe, but here are some suggestions that you could use as inspiration.

Truly Personal Sources

Vis can arise from the magus’s own body, which makes sure they are the first to get it. This is particularly appropriate for Corpus vis. Someone could collect their tears as a source of Imaginem vis. As they cry the colour leaves their eyes, so they become extremely pale. You could gather up a magus’ bedding to extract the vis they have sweated out over a year. More unsavoury magi could collect the leavings of their chamberpot to extract vis from, or a maga could collect her menstrual blood. As a more abstract idea, vis could arise from a magus’ emotions, and the pillow they sleep on slowly fills with Mentem vis from their dreams.

Stories arise from unscrupulous wizards wanting to imprison hedge wizards and extract their vis, or claim potential apprentices who shows signs of having a personal vis source.

Secret Methods

A personal vis source could be collected by a method that only the magus knows. A Bjornaer might know how to nest upon a magic egg in their heartbeast such that it collects Animal Vis. A small box, passed down from a Merinita mentor, can only be opened once a year. If the holder uses the correct set of movements it opens to reveal vis. Secret sources can be passed on to other characters, which requires careful handling from the troupe to avoid excessive amounts of vis or resentment from players who didn’t inherit

These external items can be stolen or sold. Stories arise if someone attempts to learn their method of use. An enemy could interfere with the vis gathering out of spite. Organised groups, such as a Tremere Vexillation, may negotiate the purchase of secret vis sources.

Legal privileges

The Peripheral Code allows for vis sources to be registered to a particular covenant or magus – see the Public Vis Source Hook in Covenants p22. This can add to the covenant and tribunal background as you decide if this is a legacy passed down through Hermetic lineage or a gift arranged by a mentor. You own the source, but anyone wanting to cause trouble knows where to interfere, which creates stories. Enemies can pressure the Tribunal to transfer ownership of the source or reallocate its vis to another purpose.

The Method You Happen to Be Perfect For

Some vis sources could be only gathered by people who meet strict criteria, and your magus is a perfect match for one of these. There could be a vis source that can only be collected by the first person with the blood of the Merovingian kings who visits on All Saint’s Day. If you are the only person in your covenant with this ancestry you can collect it with no competition. A standing stone may give its vis to any red-headed man who speaks a phrase to it in the local dialect. The sheer number of dialects in Mythic Europe can rule out any other character in your troupe. Stories when other people who match the requirements turn up.

The Wolf-woman by Bassett Morgan

There doesn’t seem to be a clear, copyable text of the The Wolf Woman by Grace Morgan anywhere easily accessible, so here’s a link to a scan of the issue of Weird Tales magazine where it appeared. “Bassett” was her pen name, because, like many authors in her period, she hid her gender to make publishing easier. Please be aware that it contains period racism.

The monsters are a sort of ice-based vampire, her dire wolves, and a revenant mammoth. In a change from my usual policy of promising the stats at some future date, here they are now:

Ice Huntress

Faerie Might: 10+10 (Corpus)
Characteristics: Int –2, Per 0, Pre +5, Com 0, Str +3, Sta +2, Dex +1, Qik +3
Size: 0
Virtues and Flaws: Immunity to Cold, Negative Reaction; Faerie Speech*, Feast of the Dead, Humanoid Faerie, Increased Faerie Might x2, Greater Power, Lesser Powers; Incognizant, Traditional Ward** (religious symbols), Time of Power (+10 Might at night).
* Note this vampire has a low intelligence and is unlikely to engage in conversation.
** In these statistics her odd placement, frozen in a circle of her wolves, and her destruction by breaking a simulacrum, have been treated as magical effects practiced by ancient and modern shamans. Entrapment in ice and symbolic destruction might be added as Sovereign Wards.
Personality Traits: Hungry +3
Combat:
Teeth: Init +3, Attack +8 Defense +10, Damage +4. Note that she is willing to consume those who have died due to exposure, or have been torn apart by her wolves, so direct combat is rarely necessary, however enjoyable.
Soak: +2
Wound Penalties: –1 (1–5), –3 (6–10), –5 (11–15), Incapacitated (16–20), Dead (21+)
Pretenses: Animal Handling 9 (commanding wolves], Area Lore 3 (prey), Athletics 5 (flight), Brawl 5 (teeth), Charm 3 (heterosexual men), Stealth 5 (icy wilderness)
Powers:
Allure: ReMe 10, 1 point, Init –3, Mentem. R: Touch, D: Sun, T: Ind
This power causes the faerie to seem more attractive and pleasant than it really is, granting a +3 bonus on all rolls that involve impressing or convincing others.
Flight: ReCo 15, 2 points, constant, Corpus. R: Per, D: Sun, T: Ind
The vampire is capable of flight. Generally she swiftly floats across the surface of the ground, like a dancer. She may use the Athletics skill to simulate difficult maneuvers but may not engage in combat while flying incredibly swiftly. The faerie may not fly when heavily encumbered, or with a passenger of its Size or more.
(Base 4, +2 Sun, +1 constant. This base is deliberately lower than Hermetic magic might suggest.)
Sap the Life: PeCo 15, 3 points, Init Qik – 3, Corpus. R: Touch, D: Mom, T: Ind
Note that this particular ice vampire is driven by hunger and is not particularly intelligent, so it rarely uses the following power. This power causes the target to weaken and lose the vitality that sustains life. This is treated as a disease that initially inflicts a Light Wound; in addition, the victim loses two Fatigue levels which cannot be regained until the disease has abated. Every week, the afflicted character can make a Disease Recovery Roll; he must beat an Ease Factor of 12 to remain stable, and a 18 to improve. If you are using the disease rules of Art & Academe, this is a Serious disease of Severity 15. Either Faerie Lore or Medicine may be used to treat the effects.
Steal Judgement, ReMe15, 2 points, Init –4, Mentem. R: Eye, D: Sun, T: Ind
Makes the target believe almost any lie that the faerie tells, by diminishing his capacity for doubt. An Intelligence roll against an Ease Factor of 6 is permitted to resist, with easier rolls for truly incredible lies. This faerie is non-vocal, so it is used to boost her coquettish behavior with her victims.
Vis: 2 pawns of Auram, body
Appearance: A naked woman. She is described as blonde and pale skinned, which is ethnologically unlikely in her area.
Source: These statistics are loosely based on those for Human-like Vampires in Against the Dark (page 118).

Albino Wolves

Faerie Might: 10 (Animal)
Characteristics: Cun +2, Per 0, Pre –2, Com 0, Str +0, Sta +3, Dex +2, Qik +0
Size: +1
Virtues and Flaws: Immunity to Cold, Improved Characteristics (x2), Large [x2], Faerie Sight, Ferocity (when hungry) Sharp Ears, Traditional ward (Christian imagery)
Personality Traits: Obedient to the Ice Vampire +3, Hungry +1
Combat:
Teeth*: Init 0, Attack +9, Defense +9, Damage +5
* This pack fights as a trained group.
Soak: +7
Wound Penalties: –1 (1-6), –3 (7-12), –5 (13–18), Incapacitated (19–24), Dead (25+)
Pretenses: Athletics 5 (distance running), Awareness 3 (smell), Brawl 5 (teeth), Hunt 4 (track by smell), Survival 3 (winter)
Powers:
These wolves do not seem to have an supernatural powers, beyond their undead state.
Vis: 2 pawns Animal, eyes
Appearance: Seven albino wolves, each eleven feet long.
Source: These are a shrunk down version of the Valkyrie’s mount from Realms of Power: Faerie, page 80.

Revenant Mammoth

Faerie Might: 10 (Animal)
Characteristics: Cun -1, Per -1, Pre +1, Com –4, Str +13, Sta +3, Dex 0, Qik –5
Size: +6
Virtues and Flaws: Immunity to Cold, Improved Characteristics, Ferocity [humans), Traditional ward (Christian imagery*), Tough; Qualities: Aggressive, Amphibious, Crafty, Defensive Fighter, Extra Natural Weapons, Grapple, Imposing Appearance x2, Sharp Ears, Thick Skin, Tough Hide, Trunk, Overrun.
* Tramples a line of crosses one night, then is unable to repeat this when under the ice huntresses’s control.
New Qualities:
Trunk – The elephant’s trunk can be used to manipulate objects like a human hand, although tasks requiring two hands suffer a –3 penalty.
Overrun – This effect only applies if the creature has charged into combat, exerting itself into this attack. If the attack is successful, the opponent must make a Dexterity + Athletics stress roll against an Ease Factor equal to (Damage Total (before soak) + elephant’s Size – opponent’s Size). If the roll fails, the opponent lands on the ground a number of feet away equal to the elephant’s Size, taking falling damage in the process. He must spend his next action regaining his feet, although the creature normally follows up with a trample. Prone characters cannot parry, but must use Brawl to defend themselves.
Personality Traits: Obedient to the ice vampire +1
Combat:
Tusks (complete): Init –4, Attack +13, Defense +6, Damage +16
Tusks (trimmed): Init –3, Attack -2 Defense +6, Damage +5*
Stomp: Init –6, Attack+10, Defense +2, Damage +16
Trunk (grapple): Init –5, Attack +6, Defense +2, Damage n/a
*When I first read this story I thought this mammoth was the same one that has had its tusks sawn off by the ivory carver. I’m no longer sure that’s the case so there are two sets of tusk statistics given.
The creature’s tusks have been removed by an ivory harvester, but it is initially not aware of this and makes relatively ineffective attacks with the remaining nubs.
Soak: +12
Fatigue Levels: OK, 0/0, –1, –3/-3, –5, Unconscious
Wound Penalties: –1 (1–11), –3 (12–22), –5 (23–33), Incapacitated (34–44), Dead (45+)
Pretenses: Athletics 3 (running), Awareness 3 (humans), Brawl 5 (tusks), Survival 3 (tundra), Swim 4 (rivers).
Powers:
Has the powers of its undead state, but no additional powers.
Vis: 2 pawns Animal, eyes
Appearance: A huge, shaggy elephant with its tusks sawn off.
Source: Elephant from Itzhak Even’s Animals of Mythic Europe (https://drive.google.com/file/d/17dYx3Vw-OR7C0oan34gvyiUkgp_hxnOc/view) which is a reiteration of Lands of the Nile page 20.

Fragment Week: Unfinished Race

A note from Ambrose Bierce that seems to have a person falling into regio Thanks to the Librivox recorder and their production team.

***

James Burne Worson was a shoemaker who lived in Leamington, Warwickshire, England. He had a little shop in one of the by-ways leading off the road to Warwick. In his humble sphere he was esteemed an honest man, although like many of his class in English towns he was somewhat addicted to drink. When in liquor he would make foolish wagers. On one of these too frequent occasions he was boasting of his prowess as a pedestrian and athlete, and the outcome was a match against nature. For a stake of one sovereign he undertook to run all the way to Coventry and back, a distance of something more than forty miles. This was on the 3d day of September in 1873. He set out at once, the man with whom he had made the bet—whose name is not remembered—accompanied by Barham Wise, a linen draper, and Hamerson Burns, a photographer, I think, following in a light cart or wagon.

For several miles Worson went on very well, at an easy gait, without apparent fatigue, for he had really great powers of endurance and was not sufficiently intoxicated to enfeeble them. The three men in the wagon kept a short distance in the rear, giving him occasional friendly “chaff” or encouragement, as the spirit moved them. Suddenly—in the very middle of the roadway, not a dozen yards from them, and with their eyes full upon him—the man seemed to stumble, pitched headlong forward, uttered a terrible cry and vanished! He did not fall to the earth—he vanished before touching it. No trace of him was ever discovered.

After remaining at and about the spot for some time, with aimless irresolution, the three men returned to Leamington, told their astonishing story and were afterward taken into custody. But they were of good standing, had always been considered truthful, were sober at the time of the occurrence, and nothing ever transpired to discredit their sworn account of their extraordinary adventure, concerning the truth of which, nevertheless, public opinion was divided, throughout the United Kingdom. If they had something to conceal, their choice of means is certainly one of the most amazing ever made by sane human beings.